My Past

Viola McCoy

The next morning, I wake up around 6am. I turn my head. The space next to me is untouched, the sheets are still smooth. Julian didn’t bother coming upstairs last night. As usual.

I shrug, staring at the ceiling. My throat feels a bit sore and my eyelids are heavy. I should get more sleep before I get ready for the office. I still have an hour or so. But I can’t get myself to sleep.

Instead, I grab my laptop on the nightstand, sitting up on my bed. I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen for a while. Besides work, writing is the only thing that still belongs to me. The only thing Julian hasn’t controlled.

And that’s probably because he doesn’t know about it, nobody does. To the world, I’m a faceless writer with the name Shortstuff002 whose words have reached thousands. My readers love my stories, waiting for each new chapter as if I hold the answers to their own heartbreaks. And maybe, just maybe their positive comments have kept me going until now.

It’s ironic, really. Strangers cling to my words, yet the one man I vowed to spend my life with barely hears me at all.

I flex my fingers over the keyboard. My latest protagonist is a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, much like me. But unlike me, she’s brave. She’s planning her escape. I should make her leave. I should give her the ending I crave but don’t have the courage to take for myself.

But I won’t.

Because if I write her freedom, I’ll have to admit that I want my own. And I’m not ready for that. So instead, I keep her stuck. Just like me.

I exhale sharply and close my laptop. A few minutes have passed. I get on my feet and start to walk towards the bathroom. But then I stop when I notice something familiar on my dresser. A sleek, black gift bag with a crisp white ribbon.

My heart clenches. Julian did come upstairs.

But there’s no note on the gift. No apology. Just another expensive band-aid over a wound that refused to close. I grab it, pull out the tissue paper, and find a diamond bracelet inside.

Of course. Julian doesn’t know me well enough to know I don’t wear bracelets. They always leave a rash on my wrist.

I clench the box in my hand before setting it down.

I don’t cry. Instead, I shower, get dressed into a crisp white long sleeve shirt and slacks with a pair of heels, and leave the bracelet untouched as I grab my bag and make my way downstairs.

The penthouse is silent, Julian has probably left again. My phone buzzes and I pick it up, glancing at the caller ID.

Reynolds Publishing. Wait, my boss is calling? My heartbeat kicks up a notch as I accept the call. "Viola McCoy."

"Viola, I need you in the office," comes Linda Cartwright clipped voice from the other end of the line. She’s my mentor in the Editorial department. “There’s a situation with the Kensington deal. The author is threatening to pull out. We need you to handle it."

Shit, I stop myself from cursing under my breath. I’ve spent the last few months trying to close the Kensington deal, and this?

I force myself to smile to calm myself. On the bright side, this could be the perfect distraction for me.

"I’ll be there in thirty minutes."

I grab my keys and purse, slipping out of the penthouse like I’m escaping something. Maybe I am.

The drive to the office is a bit of a blur. I try to clear my head off everything that happened yesterday. Today is a new day and work’s calling.

By the time I arrive at Reynolds Publishing, I’m in my full professional mode. I pull up in my parking space and get out of my car. The lobby is vast as I walk across it, greeting the staffs with the brightest smile possible—they don’t need to see the cracks.

The elevator comes quickly and I ride the elevator with two other people—Mario and Diane from marketing, who are holding hands. They announced their engagement three

months ago, and I’m happy for them, since they make a good couple.

They grin at me, their eyes eager. It’s a little freaky. They’re whispering too and they’re so good at it that I can’t even catch a whiff of what they’re talking about. No wonder they make such a great couple.

I eventually hear Mario mention something about a big change coming. But I ignore him. It might just be one of their random gossips. The mirrored doors show my reflection, and I use the ride to make sure I look powerful and free even though I feel the opposite. My hair in a perfect French twist—check. Makeup—check. Outfit—check.

Since Diane and Mario are getting off on the seventh floor, the elevator stops for them. And just as they’re about to step out, I hear it.

“I still cannot believe Logan Reynolds is in the building.” Diana’s chirpy finally reaches my ear.

My knees go weak and I have to grip the wall to steady myself. I’m sure my heart just did a cartwheel. It’s racing. Logan is in the building? Since when was he even back? On impulse, I step out of the elevator and almost call out to Diane.

But I stop myself and take deep breaths. Logan might be back but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I wipe the drop of sweat running down my forehead and turn back. The elevator is gone so I have to wait for another one.

With shaky hands, I press the eighth floor button and wait for the elevator to come again. I could take the stairs but I don’t think my legs are strong enough for it. As I wait, I hear footsteps. Sharp, fast—definitely dress shoes, but not high heels.

I gulp as the steps close in. The brushed stainless finish on the elevator doors reveals nothing, not even a faint reflection to let me know who this tall, broad-shouldered stranger standing behind me is.

“You still hold your breath when you’re nervous, Vi?” a male voice comes from behind me.

My blood runs cold as a chill runs down my spine. Vi. Only one person calls me that. I know that voice too. I remember how happy I used to feel whenever that voice would whisper “Vi” against my ears.

My stomach drops with realization as the scent of his cologne envelopes me. Cinnamon and citrus. He still wears that cologne. The one I’d picked out for him on our first relationship anniversary.

But I tell myself it’s not him. I tell my racing heart it’s not Logan Reynolds standing behind me right now.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Without so much as a look beside me, I step into the elevator, and

when I turn around, there he is.

Those sharp, deep-set gray eyes, sculpted cheekbones and full, firm lips that stole my first kiss.

I freeze, my breath catching. My grip tightens around my bag. The man who had left me behind. The man I’ve spent years trying to forget. He’s back and is standing in my world like he belonged there.