Chapter 106 The Reckoning
Fred sat heavily on his bed edge, his skin feeling rough against the navy blue t-shirt.
Even though there was silence in the room, he strains his ears in an attempt to hear something coming from the corridor below.
He heard the door slam shut some minutes later. He was unsure whether the noise indicated that Carson had left or that Annabel had opened the door for him.
The latch’s heavy straightforward click had sealed his doom but kept him from getting the response he required.
He was exhausted but not from lack of sleep but from a deep bone-weary exhaustion.
It was weariness from all the defense.
With a steady, excruciating burn on his knuckles he lowered his head into his hands.
He kept thinking about the picture of Carson's hand extended toward Annabel filled with sincere regret and need.
A voice whispered in his mind “He is being honest with his feelings and you are not . He may put a scene at risk. But you're clearly putting everything at risk.”
Glancing up at the immaculate white ceiling, he withdrew his hands.
The cold pressure of the truth hit him: he had pushed her away to keep her safe but in doing so he had led her back to the one man who could give her the peace he was unable to.
“Did she let him in?”He wondered.
The moment when she laughed yesterday morning and where he burned his hand a few hours ago slipped through his mind.
Are they seated in the living room now?
His stomach knotted with a new and completely pointless anger at the thought of them together—Carson, the gregarious frank billionaire and Annabel, the fervent injured creator.
His anger was unjustified.
The boundary was drawn by him. The decision had been made by him alone. But beneath his skin, the rage was a living thing.
Rising, he started to walk around the room. The window is two steps away and the door is two steps back. Two steps, two steps.
A recognizable cadence, a mental tempo designed to bring order to a mind that is about to descend into chaos.
He had to go. He had to leave the apartment, take a walk, do something.
His assignment served as a disguise, a responsibility and a safeguard for his secrets.
However, the task was unsuccessful. It had brought him near a woman who could see right through his armor and who felt essential to his regimented life.
After going to the closet, he took out a clean ironed white shirt. He moved slowly and deliberately, projecting a calm that he had practiced on top of a chaotic inner state.
Beginning at the waist and moving up he buttoned the shirt. His throat felt stiff against the clean collar.
He asked himself “What will I say?I feel like I've lost control of everything because I have developed an unprofessional attachment to a lady, a lady I am supposed to be protecting and now her ex-boyfriend or boyfriend is downstairs.”
He combed his short hair with his fingers. Nothing but a man in a well-tailored shirt prepared for the financial district and worry-free was visible in his reflection in the mirror.
The lie was so thorough that it was nearly convincing.
He retrieved his keys and wallet from the dresser. He was in need of air. He needed the city's noise to overpower the apartment’s quiet.
He needed time away.
But he was unable to go. He couldn't leave Annabel by herself with Carson if he was still there.
Although Carson posed no threat to the mission, he did pose a risk to the tenuous unwritten truce that Fred and Annabel had to uphold.
He returned to the bed and took a seat once more gazing at the bedroom door that was closed.
A shout was not as loud as the silence.
“Is she speaking to him?” he asked.
The final thought struck him like a physical blow.
Did he console her in a way that I was unable to?
Did she tell him about the kiss?
Did she tell him about my coldness this morning?
They felt as though they had to share the dizzying, intoxicating moment in the library with a man who could provide what he couldn't: a future which made it seem less valuable.
He thought of the financial report, the jumble of useless numbers he had left behind the previous day.
Returning to the library would be an option. He could open his laptop and he could act as though he was working. He could bide his time until she came down to inform him that Carson had gone, that she was okay and that she was prepared to start their cold war again.
Restlessness pushed him to his feet.
He moved slowly in one step in the direction of the door.
A new sound shot out as his hand extended for the brass knob. It wasn't the main door's resounding, forceful click. It was a closer lighter sound.
It sounded like wood on wood. A Knock.
The noise was abrupt and sharp. It was a knock on his own bedroom door. Not the front door. Not the library. His door.
Immediately, Fred's body became rigid.
After dropping his hand, he abruptly turned his head and fixed his gaze on the wall separating him from the hallway.
After that there was complete silence.
Could it be Carson wanting to talk to him? Or Anabelle coming to tell him that she had forgiven Carson and she was ready to move back in with him?
His heart kept thumping his ribs.
Or it could be Annabel telling him something different. Was Carson brought up here by her or had he left?
Waiting for the next sound, he gazed at the wood. His body was coiled ready to spring and his eyes were wide.
Adrenaline which was painful and searing took the place of his tiredness. A second sound even softer came: a tentative brief tap-tap.
He remained silent.
He merely kept an eye on the door. Waiting for a voice, it could be either Anabelle’s or Carson's.