Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,87

for a short time, and he’s already turned me inside out. I’ve never cried over either of my two boyfriends—nor, come to think of it, any other man.

And that’s the crux of it, I realize with a twisting pain.

Marcus isn’t like any other man I’ve known. With my exes, I’d been able to keep a certain distance, to give a portion of myself while holding back the rest. Not with him, though. In just a couple of dates and one mindfuck of a weekend, he’d decimated all of my defenses, bulldozing straight into my heart.

Even knowing that what we had was temporary, I fell for him—and I fell hard.

The realization is like a wrecking ball into my stomach.

I’m in love with him.

With Marcus.

That’s why it’s hurting so much.

Shaken, I sit down on the bed, letting Cottonball climb into my lap as I stare blankly at my phone.

I’m in love with Marcus. Not the handsome billionaire who gave me more orgasms than I can count, but the man who talked with naked gratitude about his second-grade teacher and answered my grandparents’ questions with calm patience and respect.

The man who told me that I’m nothing like my mother before sharing about his own painful past.

My phone dings three times, the screen lighting up with incoming texts.

What do you mean, goodbye?

Did you hang up on me?

Emma, call me back, right now. I can explain.

Each word is like a blade puncturing my lungs, stealing my breath with every blow.

Because I want to call him back.

I want it more than anything.

But if I do—if I give in again—the next time he walks away, I’ll be left in pieces.

And there will be a next time… because I’m not Emmeline.

I’m not the perfect wife candidate he needs.

52

Marcus

I stare at my phone, my heart thudding with mingled chagrin and fury.

She hung up on me.

Cut off my apology with a “goodbye” and hung up.

I call back, in case it was a bad connection, but I get voicemail right away.

Swearing under my breath, I fire off three texts and wait.

Nothing.

No moving dots to tell me she’s in the process of responding, nothing to give any indication of her intent.

Drawing on every ounce of my patience, I call again.

Voicemail.

Straight to fucking voicemail.

She’s either turned off her phone, or she’s rejecting my calls.

The phone in my hand feels like a bomb ready to explode—or maybe that’s the ball of fury in my chest. Twice she’s done this to me now.

Twice she’s tried to make me go away.

And the last time, I went. Like a fucking idiot, I walked away, almost letting her ruin what we have.

Well, not this time.

She’s not getting on the plane until she takes back that fucking “goodbye.”

I’ve cooled down slightly by the time Wilson gets me through the freshly plowed streets to Brooklyn. In hindsight, maybe not contacting Emma since Sunday wasn’t well done of me. It might’ve been only three days, but if she feels our connection as intensely as I do, it would’ve seemed infinitely longer.

I’m still pissed she hung up on me, but I can understand it.

In any case, as the car pulls up to the piles of snow left on the curb by the snowplow, I’m fully prepared to grovel. In addition to explaining just how crazy things were at work, I’m going to offer my most sincere apology and swear never to ghost her again. Not that I did—I just held off on contacting her for a bit—but that’s how she must’ve perceived it.

It’s the only explanation for that out-of-nowhere “goodbye.”

I’m wearing my waterproof boots, but snow gets in through the leg openings as I wade through the thigh-high piles on the way to Emma’s door. Ignoring the icy wetness soaking my feet, I ring the doorbell.

Nothing.

No response.

I give it a couple of minutes, then ring the doorbell again.

Still nothing.

Frustrated, I tromp over to the basement window around the corner. As expected, it’s covered with snow, so I bend down and begin brushing it away with my bare hands.

She’s not freezing me out this easily.

I won’t let her.

“Excuse me. What are you doing?”

Startled by the shrill voice, I look up.

A thin older woman bundled in a puffy jacket is standing a few feet away, her gray-blond perm forming a frizzy halo around her head.

“Well?” she demands with a scowl. “You’re trespassing on my property. Explain yourself, or I’ll call the police.”

She must be Emma’s landlady.

I stand up, brushing the snow off my palms on my coat. “Sorry about that. I’m looking for Emma.