Chapter 111

Drew’s POV

The pounding started before my eyes even opened.

It came like a heavy, relentless throb that sat behind my temples and echoed through my entire skull. My throat was dry, my stomach unsettled and my body was stiff like I had been dragged through the night instead of sleeping in it. The faint morning light cutting through the blinds felt sharper than knives, spearing into the room and forcing me to squint.

I groaned and pressed a hand against my forehead, trying to will the pain away. But nothing helped. The whiskey from last night had left its mark, and it wasn’t just in my head.

Slowly, I rolled onto my side, the sheets twisted around me like restraints. The air in the penthouse was stale and it tinged faintly with the smell of alcohol from the untouched glass still sitting on my nightstand. For a moment, I stared at it, my chest tightening then I turned away.

The memories from the previous night were already rushing back, whether I wanted them to or not. Everything was crystal clear, everything I said and her voice calm and steady.

Everything came in details from me picking up my phone to her name glowing on the screen, my hand pressing dial and her voice answering.

And then came my unhinged confession with my voice low, unsteady and stripped bare.

I miss you.

The words hit harder in the cold clarity of morning. I had not imagined any of these things neither did I just dream about them. I had said them, I let down my walls and said those out loud to her.

I sat up abruptly, my head swimming and my breath catching in my chest. My hands gripped the edge of the mattress until the dizziness passed. But it was not the hangover that made my pulse race, it was the memory of her silence. The pause on the other end of the line before I had slipped into sleep.

What had she thought when she heard those words? Did they mean anything to her? Or had she dismissed them as nothing more than a drunk man’s ramblings?

What if she was done with me for good? Did she even miss me or want to be around me?

Am I even deserving of her? Ever since I met her all I have done is cause her pain instead of accepting what i truly felt. I thought acting cold towards her would blur out the pull I felt towards her but instead it felt like I was fighting against gravity pull and now I have been torn apart from fighting it too much.

These thoughts carved through me like a blade.

I dragged myself to my feet, the cool floor biting into my skin. My body felt heavy and sluggish, but I forced it into motion. Anything to shake the fog. Anything to silence the questions screaming inside my head.

In the bathroom, the harsh white light was almost unbearable. I braced my hands on the sink and stared at my reflection. Hollow eyes, jaw clenched tight and beards rougher than I usually allowed.

I looked like hell.

I turned on the tap, letting the water run cold before splashing it against my face. The shock made me gasp and my skin tingled. Droplets slid down my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt, but I did not care.

I needed to feel something real.

I fumbled through the cabinet, found the painkillers, and shook two tablets into my palm. They clinked against my teeth as I swallowed them with a gulp of water, the taste metallic. I sank onto the edge of the tub, elbows on my knees, waiting for them to dull the pounding in my head.

But no pill could numb the storm in my chest.

I leaned back, dragging a hand over my face. I had told her I missed her. That much was undeniable. But I was sure she would be wondering why now? Why like this? Why after weeks of silence, weeks of pretending I did not care?

The answer was I did care. More than I wanted to admit and more than I could ignore.

The alcohol had ripped the walls down, and in the wreckage it laid down the truth I had been running from.

Another truth was that this feeling terrified me, the one and only time I ever felt this was I was broken beyond repair but now even before anything could begin I was already broken. I know that I compared her to Kimberley but deep down I knew she was nothing like her.

Lila was different and special even though she didn't know it herself. She probably thought she was just basic but there was no way she could capture my attention if she wasn't more.

Now I hated myself, I didn't think about this before but Lila had to go through the early stages of pregnancy alone while enduring so much pain from me and from co workers who didn't like her. And even after all that I pushed her away with my child.

What if she didn’t miss me? What if she had already moved on, already closed that door? What if my words had been nothing but salt in a wound she no longer wanted me near? I would not blame her if she was already done with me but I did not want her to be done with me.

I pushed to my feet again, restless. The walls of the penthouse felt too close, too sterile. I needed distraction, work maybe. That was always the answer but I also couldn't go to the office looking like a mess.

I strode back into the bedroom, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and scrolled to my secretary’s number. She picked up on the second ring, her voice brisk and professional.

“Good morning Mr. Sinclair. What can I do for you?”

“I won’t be coming in today,” I said, my voice rough, betraying too much. I cleared my throat. “Any work that requires immediate attention, forward it to my email. I will handle it from here.”

There was a pause. “Understood, sir. Shall I reschedule your meetings?”

“Yes.”

Her silence stretched a moment longer, then her tone softened. “Sir… is everything alright?”

The question cut sharper than I expected. Not because she asked, but because of how she asked it. Careful and concerned. As though she already knew something was wrong.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, too harsh. “Just do as I said.”

Another pause. Then, clipped and professional again: “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

I ended the call before she could say more. The phone dropped heavily onto the bed. My hands lingered on the fabric, clenching until my knuckles whitened.

Is everything alright?

No. Nothing was alright. And I hated that she could probably hear it in my voice. That anyone could.

I paced the room, the quiet pressing in on me. Each step felt heavier than the last, my thoughts circling the same endless loop.

Her voice on the line. My words. The silence that followed.

Was she angry? Confused? Did she believe me? Did she care?

I could not live like this, not knowing what to expect, guessing what would happen next and drowning in the weight of silence.

The realization hit like lightning.

I needed to see her.

Not to call again, not to imagine, not to torture myself with the endless what ifs. I needed to see her, face to face. To know where I stood. To hear the truth, even if it destroyed me. And most importantly to see if there was anything I could do to redeem what I had lost.

I moved back to the nightstand, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through my contacts until I reached the name I had ignored for weeks. The private investigator.

I pressed dial. He answered quickly, his voice steady. “Mr. Sinclair.”

“I need details.,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. “Give me all the information you have gathered, where she is staying, who she is with. Do not miss out any detail”

There was a pause. “You mean Lila?”

“Yes.” The word came out firm and final. “Send me the report. Tonight.”

“Understood, sir.”

I ended the call, lowering the phone slowly. My chest rose and fell hard, my pulse hammering in my ears.

It was reckless, maybe even pathetic. But I did not care.

Because I could not keep living like this, half in shadows, half in denial.

If this was madness, then she was the cure.

And I was willing to risk everything just to see her again.