I try to open the messages again, but there is nothing. Her profile has vanished. But I still have the number, which I promised myself I would never use after my drunk text.
I’m only keeping it for emergencies, since I’ll never contact her again.
I told myself this tens of thousands of times.
So, of course, the first message I type is just as miserable as I am.
Azrael: Victoria!
No answer, so I double down.
Azrael: This isn’t over.
I wait for a reply, but it doesn’t show up.
I feel something inside me breaking.
Calling her would be too desperate, so I don’t do it once or twice, but nineteen fucking times, just to prove that point. And every single time, I’m met by the disconnected signal. No callback. No acknowledgment. Not even the courtesy of a decline.
I continue pacing for two hours, and when waiting becomes unbearable, I start tearing the apartment apart, destroying every object that is still intact. I punch the walls and slash the furniture until regardless of the way you’re looking at it, there is a visual proof of my mental state.
She’s mocking me. That’s how I can explain it. She is mocking me and seeing how far I will go. I can basically visualize her, in her apartment, with a full glass of wine, laughing at my stupid attempts.
“Oh, love. You want to play? Let me show you the hell you’ve created in your absence.”
I take a shower and put on clean clothes, then grab my keys along with my obsession and rush out of the house. After breaking two or forty traffic laws and almost destroying my car from jumping out of it without fully stopping, I’m finally in front of her building. But unlike last time, I’m not waiting.
I just take a moment to check her apartment window, but there’s still no light, no movement in sight. Yet something tells me she’s inside. I can feel her.
I go straight to the top floor, pacing in the elevator like a lunatic. The elevator doors barely open, and I’m already ringing her bell.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
“Open the fucking door,” I shout, knowing she won’t. Knowing she couldn’t. And still?—
I say it again.
I try the handle, but it’s locked. Like a fucking lock would ever stop me. I step back, forcing all my strength and balance on one leg, then kicking the door with all the force I’m capable of.
Once.
Twice.
CRACK. The door gives.
I don’t wait for an invitation to step inside. I’m fully prepared to see everything and nothing at all. My eyes are still adjusting to the lack of light when I see it.
“Missed me, love?”
CHAPTER 18
VICTORIA