Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

—Duncan—

It starts with a whisper.

A passing remark at a private dinner in London. I wasn’t listening, not really. My mind was still wrapped around the last text she sent.

Aphrodite: Do you think of me when you’re with anyone else?

The answer was yes, but there hadn’t been anyone else.

Not since her.

Not after her.

There never will be.

I didn’t answer. I was still crafting the perfect reply when a name I hadn’t heard in years floated across the room.

“Kravitz. Yeah. The crypto guy? Aphrodite had him worshipping her like a goddamn priest. Man lost his mind. Sold his company. Moved to Bali. Paints nudes now. Hers. Only hers.”

My head snapped toward the voice. But they’d already moved on.

Laughed. Another name.

“Carter Thorne, the gallerist. He bought her a penthouse in Paris. She lived in it for three weeks, then disappeared. The guy didn’t speak to anyone for months. He turned a wing of his gallery into an exhibit of her portraits. Called it: She Let Me Bleed.”

I wanted to laugh.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because I knew it wasn’t a joke.

Because I was already halfway there.

---

When I returned to New York, I had the urge to dig. To know. I’d always had access—PIs, hackers, contacts. I could pull up any detail I wanted.

But I didn’t want to know.

Not really.

I wanted to believe the lie.

That I was different.

That what she gave me—those soft mornings, the way she looked at me like I mattered, the way she whispered mine before she came—that it was real.

That I wasn’t just another name.

Another ruin.

Another man who’d kneel and burn and thank her for the privilege.

---

But I couldn’t stop the whispers.

They followed me.

In elevators.

On the floor of my building.

At the club, a man I didn’t even know leaned in and said, “She made you beg yet?”

I didn’t answer.

He smirked. “Yeah. She does that.”

Then walked away.

Like it was nothing.

Like I was just next in line.

---

I should have been furious.

Should have pulled back.

Should have told her off the moment she appeared again—three days later, no warning, no apology, just a soft knock and a silk robe.

But I didn’t.

Because I opened the door and saw her.

Hair messy.

Eyes soft.

Lips pouty.

Like she’d been dreaming of me.

She stepped inside, cupped my face, and kissed me once—gently, like she missed me.

Then whispered: “I need you.”

And just like that, everything shattered again.

I dropped to my knees before she asked.

I held her thighs and kissed her stomach.

Worshipped her body with my mouth, my hands, my voice.

“I love you,” I murmured.

She smiled.

And said nothing.

---

The next morning, she was sweet.

We made breakfast.

She wore one of my shirts.

She laughed. Held my hand. Told me my coffee was better than hers.

I wanted to believe we were normal.

That we could be normal.

She asked about my business.

She touched my wrist during conversation.

She called me baby.

My chest ached from how badly I wanted it to be real.

So when she left with a kiss and a “see you soon,” I clung to it.

Like a fool.

Like a man about to be gutted.

---

She didn’t come back.

Not that day.

Not the next.

When I called, she didn’t answer.

When I texted, she left me on read.

But she posted a photo—black and white, her sitting on a rooftop, hair blowing across her face, cigarette smoke curling like poetry.

The caption: Men are ruins I like to walk barefoot through.

A joke?

A confession?

I didn’t know.

But the comments were worse.

“You’ve done it again.”

“Another one bites the dust.”

“This one looks extra broken.”

They were talking about me.

And I hated how right they were.

---

I started seeing her in places she wasn’t.

I’d catch a glimpse of blonde hair in a crowd and my breath would hitch.

A voice in an elevator would sound like hers and I’d spin around.

Even my bed started to hallucinate her.

I’d wake up at 3 a.m., sheets soaked in sweat, convinced I felt her legs around mine.

Sometimes I thought I heard her whisper.

“Mine.”

But it was never her.

It was just the absence.

It has a voice now.

And it speaks in her name.

---

The worst part is—she knew what she was doing.

She always did.

She gave me just enough.

A touch. A sigh. A kiss on the temple.

A look that made me believe.

Then silence.

A knife.

A disappearance.

And I kept crawling back.

---

One night, I tried to see someone else.

A model. Stunning. Tall. Perfect on paper.

We met for drinks. She laughed at all the right moments.

Touched my hand.

I brought her home.

And the moment she touched my chest, I flinched.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I lied. Nodded.

She kissed me.

I closed my eyes and pictured Aphrodite.

But it didn’t work.

Not my cock.

Not my heart.

Not even my fucking lies.

I stopped her. Apologized.

And then did something I’ve never done in my life.

I cried in front of another woman.

A stranger.

Because I couldn’t make her Aphrodite.

Because no one could.

---

Later that night, I texted her.

Me: You win.

She responded instantly.

Aphrodite: I always do.

---

She came over at 2:41 a.m.

Said nothing.

Just walked in, climbed into my bed, and curled around me like I was safety.

She didn’t kiss me.

She didn’t touch me.

She just held me.

And for some reason, that broke me more than anything else she’s ever done.

---

Now I don’t know who I am anymore.

I check my phone like it’s a rosary.

I light candles that smell like her.

I wear the shirt she once said made her want to fuck me just to see if it’ll summon her.

I dream of her voice, her skin, her laugh.

I dream of her leaving.

I wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that I’ve become nothing but a memory she’ll paint over.

---

She’s ruined stronger men than me.

That’s what they say.

That’s what I now believe.

But I still kneel.

Still ache.

Still whisper her name into empty rooms.

Because I’d rather be destroyed by her than forget her.

Because she’s not just in my blood now.

She is the blood.

And I will worship her until I bleed dry.