“She’d laugh if she knew how I really felt,” I murmur, pacing up and down the floor to ceiling windows of my penthouse apartment, the city twinkling in the night at me.
My body is sore from the gym. I’ve probably been overdoing it lately, but the ache in my muscles makes it easier not to think about her.
Hell, not easier, but at least it’s a welcome distraction, meaning I don’t have to be held captive by my Gen.
If she knew how badly I wanted to claim her, to own her, she probably would’ve deleted her account instead of the other way around.
I face the glass, my focus adjusting as I stare at my reflection, not the city.
I’m wearing gym shorts, my chest bare, sweat beaded on my chest, and sliding down my abs. I haven’t shaved in a few days, silver dust across my square jaw. And my eyes are like ice, filled with pain and anger and sadness.
Shit, I hope I don’t look like this when I’m at work. I hope I’m hiding it.
What am I supposed to say, if someone asks me what’s wrong?
You know our video game, Star Search, well I met a young woman on there and she’s refusing to meet with me in real life. And the thing is, I need this woman. I want to be with her forever. I want to start a family.
Growling, I turn away from the window and walk across the open plan apartment, dropping onto the couch I stare up at the dark ceiling.
Sleep has become more and more difficult lately. I didn’t realize how accustomed I’d become to hanging out with Gen in the evenings, going on our make-believe adventures into the digital world.
Without her, it’s like there’s a gap in my schedule.
And a hole in my chest.
I ache for her, really ache, for this fictional princess I never knew.
Sighing, I leap to my feet and return to the window, looking down on the city. I know she’s on the East Coast because we use the same server to connect to the game, but that doesn’t mean she’s necessarily close.
Still, I can’t stop myself from imagining her somewhere, nineteen years old and beautiful, no matter what she says.
I know how kind she is, how dedicated she is to her passion. I know how badly she wants to succeed, how empathetic and gorgeous and mine she is.
Massaging my head, I let out a groan.
Is this what a mental breakdown feels like, pining after a woman who should, by any reasonable standards, be a stranger to me?
Perhaps I should’ve just told her who I was. But when she asked it, an alarm screeched through me, telling me not to risk it. If I told her over the game, I’d never know how she really felt.
I need to meet her in person, look into her eyes and see for myself if there’s anything real there.
And yet, why am I so sure I’d know?
Because she belongs to me. I’ll be able to read her as easily as I can read the code for Star Search.
I bite down, angry with myself. What the fuck am I doing?
I gave up before I properly fought for her. I logged off when she wasn’t even there.
If the price I have to pay is sharing my name, is that really so bad?
Even if I promised myself I wouldn’t, I march across my apartment into my large computer room, sitting half-naked on the chair and quickly hammering in my details.
Making a new character doesn’t take long at all, and quickly I search her name.
“Fuck.”
I say it quietly at first, then louder.
I waited too long.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
She’s deleted her account.
I sleepwalk into my office the next morning, feeling like I’m hardly present at all. All I can think about is what a goddamn idiot I was for deleting my account, throwing a hissy fit like a little kid.
In the business world, I always manage to keep a cool head, always remember my MMA training. The fury and the mayhem of sparring are nothing compared to looking a man in the eye and making a deal.
But with Gen, I lost my composure and let my fear get the better of me.
And now she’s lost to me.
Or is she.
I know it’s Steve at my office door from the way he knocks, two loud hammering blows. I’m not a hard-ass CEO by any means, but no one else smashes their hand into my door like that. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Since we came up together, I’ve always felt like Steve treats me more like a regular person than anyone else.
“Yep,” I call.
He strides into my office, a manilla envelope in his hand, walking with his lopsided gait reminds me of how large this business has become. And, oddly, it reminds me of my deceased avatar, Smolder, the way he would crab-walk everywhere.