Chapter 148

Chapter 148
Gordon's POV
When I finally opened my eyes, I was in my own bed.
Olive was standing over me, her expression carefully arranged into something that looked like concern. "Gordon, do you know how long you've been out? Three full days. You came back from the yacht and just—crashed. We couldn't wake you up no matter what we tried." She paused. "How are you feeling?"
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
Three days. I'd been unconscious for three days.
I remembered everything. The yacht. Tanner's men swarming the deck. The way Nydia had looked when they'd dragged her away from me.
"Three days?" I threw back the covers and sat up, the words coming out before I could stop them. "How could I have slept for three days? Nydia is still out there. Nydia needs me, and I've been lying here for three days—"
"You were exhausted," Olive said. "And you'd been drinking heavily. Your body just gave out."
I shook my head—and the moment I did, a sharp, splitting pain detonated at the base of my skull. And that was when I remembered.
I hadn't passed out from drinking.
"Someone knocked me out." I pressed a hand to the back of my head, the memory sharpening. "Someone came up behind me and hit me. I was trying to find a speedboat—I went to Lima, his guys told me to wait off to the side, and then—" I turned to look at her. "Someone blindsided me. Hard. I went down immediately."
Olive stared at me with the expression of someone trying very hard to be patient. "Gordon... no one hit you. I found you on the floor myself. There was no one around. I assumed you'd had too much to drink and passed out. I had someone carry you back." She tilted her head. "Is it possible you're mixing things up? You were in pretty rough shape that night."
"I'm not mixing anything up."
She gave a small, conceding sigh. "Okay. If it matters to you, we can look into it later."
But it was that word—later—that snapped me back to what actually mattered.
Nydia.
I shoved off the bed and realized I was barely dressed. I started pulling on the first clothes I could find, not caring what I looked like, not caring about anything except the next step.
"I'm going to find her," I said, pulling on my shirt without looking at Olive. "Don't try to talk me out of it. I'm going whether you say anything or not."
I meant it as a warning. I fully expected her to argue.
But she didn't.
The silence made me turn around.
Olive was standing very still, her expression doing something I couldn't quite read—hesitation, maybe. Or reluctance. Like she was working herself up to say something she didn't want to say.
My stomach dropped before she even opened her mouth.
"What?" My voice came out quieter than I intended. "Why aren't you saying anything?"
"Gordon." She cleared her throat softly. "While you were unconscious, we got some news."
"What kind of news?"
"About Nydia."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"They found a body," Olive said. "Yesterday. A woman's body was brought in to the police station—they're saying it might be her. They contacted her parents—Eileen and Frank—and asked them to come in and identify it."
Each word landed like a separate blow.
I stood there, completely still, and felt the room tilt. My legs weren't working right. I sat back down on the edge of the bed without fully deciding to, the mattress catching me.
There was something stuck in my throat. I couldn't swallow it and I couldn't speak around it.
"Did they go?" I finally managed, and my voice didn't sound like mine. "Did Eileen and Frank—did they go identify her?"
Olive shook her head slowly. "No. They couldn't bring themselves to go. Same as you—they don't believe it."
"She's not dead," I said. The words came out steady, almost robotic. "Nydia isn't dead. Get out. Just—get out."
"Why are you yelling at me? I didn't do anything—"
"Because you wanted this." Something inside me cracked open and I couldn't stop it. "Don't pretend you didn't. Don't stand there with that look on your face and pretend you're sad. You've wanted this from the beginning."
Something shifted in her expression. The careful performance fell away, and what was underneath it was worse.
"You know what?" She smiled. Slowly. Like she'd finally decided she was done pretending. "You're right. I did. I've wanted her gone since the day I understood what she was to you. And if she's really dead—" She let out a short, sharp laugh. "Then yes, Gordon, I'm thrilled. Happy enough to scream."
I stared at her.
"And here's what makes it even better," she continued, her voice rising, the words spilling out with a kind of frenzied satisfaction. "She was taken by Tanner—Vincent's worst enemy. A man who hates everything Vincent loves. You really think he was going to be gentle with her? She suffered. She had to have suffered. And then—" Another laugh, uglier this time. "Then he threw her away. Just tossed her out when he was done. She finally got exactly what she deserved."
I don't remember crossing the room.
I just remember the crack of my palm against her face, and then she was coming back at me, fingers clawing, screaming something I couldn't hear over the roaring in my ears. I grabbed her by the arm and shoved her through the bedroom door, hard enough that she stumbled out into the hallway.
I slammed it shut behind her.
The room was quiet.
I stood in the middle of it, breathing hard, hands shaking. The back of my skull was still screaming. My chest felt hollowed out.
Nydia is dead.
The thought moved through me like a slow, cold current. I couldn't make myself believe it. But I also couldn't push it all the way out.
What's the point? The thought was quiet, dangerous, almost gentle in the way it arrived. If she's gone—what is any of this for?
The bedroom door shook as Olive pounded on it from the other side.
"Gordon! Open this door! Everyone knows we're getting married—it's public. We have to have a wedding. Do you understand me? My reputation is on the line here!"
I let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
Nydia was gone—maybe—and Olive was out there worrying about her social standing.
I pulled open the door.
She stumbled back slightly, startled. Her cheek was red. Her eyes were furious.
I looked at her for one long moment, and then I reached into my back pocket and threw a credit card at her. It bounced off her chest and hit the floor.
"Plan whatever you want," I said flatly. "Do it yourself."
She opened her mouth.
I grabbed my wallet off the dresser, pulled out every card in it, and dropped them all at her feet. Cards scattered across the hardwood—black, gold, one by one.
"That should cover it," I said. "Isn't that what this was always about?"
I didn't wait for her answer.
I closed the door again.
And stood alone in the silence.