Ravaged By Passion

Jeanie

My apartment feels barren.

I stand in the middle, looking around at the mess. It’s still a wreck from Benedict’s visit. The trash smells and the pantry probably has mice. I should’ve cleaned it up but I never had time and it just never seemed important.

Now I wish I had.

I head into my room and start packing. Most of my best clothes are still left at the villa, but there are old things leftover at the bottom of the drawers and shoved into the closet. Gavino’s words ring in my head. Gavino’s dead stare is like a dagger in my heart.

It didn’t matter what I said. No explanation would’ve been enough. I could’ve personally shoved a knife into Malcolm’s chest and left him there to bleed and die, and Gavino still would’ve called me a traitor.

I understand why. Sonia hurt him and now he finds it hard to trust. I should’ve told him straight up and from the start who I am, but the deeper I got, the harder it was to say the words. Now though, I wish I’d just done the hard thing and told him the truth.

I feel drained as I pack a bag. I have money in my accounts, but not a lot. I shove my laptop into a backpack and make sure I have enough stuff to last me a few days. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll do, but I know I’ve got to get out of here before Gavino finds me and finishes me off.

Not like it matters. I’m as good as dead and I don’t have a reason to be here anymore.

I hate my father. I’ve hated my father for so long it’s like the oldest memory I have. My mother always thought Malcolm would come through one day and do the right thing, but the bastard continually surprised her by being just impeccably awful. My own father could’ve given us a decent life, nothing crazy, nothing lavish, but a life, and it wouldn’t have mattered to him in the long run. Instead, he refused to acknowledge that I exist and went to more trouble and spent more money fighting us than he would’ve if he’d just made the child support payments from the start. He did it out of spite.

That’s what hurts the most. How petty and hateful he is.

I thought he’d spot me right away when I got that job in the mailroom. I changed my name a year after my mother died and I spent a big chunk of her life insurance bribing a clerk to delete most of my records so nothing showed up that would connect me back to my old self. I erased Jolene from the face of the earth. Still, I assumed Malcolm would recognize his own daughter.

Week after week, I delivered mail to his office. I ran into him in the halls. He smiled and said hello. He looked me in the eye and was cordial.

He never realized I was the girl he’d spent so long ignoring.

That got me. I was so beneath him, so worthless to him, that he didn’t even recognize me when I stood in front of his face.

I hate Malcolm Strafford so much it’s like a bug eating my heart.

And yet there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Gavino will never believe me.

That’s the worst part of all this.

Nothing changed. I still feel the same way—I want Gavino and wish we were together—but he thinks I’m a traitor.

I should’ve told him from the start.

It takes me most of the day to get my things together. There’s not much around and I’m still at a loss for where to go. When I’m packed, I linger in the living room and stare at a smear of blood on the floor.

My blood from the night Benedict cut my face.

I order an Uber around dinnertime and lug my bags downstairs to wait in the heat. I’m sweating by the time a black Hyundai parks out front and the guy gets out to help. He’s older, gray hair, with a nice smile. “Headed to the airport, huh? You got a long flight?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit as I get into the back.

“Well, let me know if you want to change the radio.” He pulls into traffic and keeps the AC blasting.

I stare out the window, watching Phoenix flit past.

Where am I going to go? I don’t know anything but this city. I’ve never been anywhere else—my mother couldn’t afford vacations and I’ve only lived here. This is my home, my entire world. Everyone I know and love is here. And now I’m expected to pick up my things and leave and somehow still manage to live.

With no education and no experience. No real record to speak of. I’m practically a ghost by design. Getting that mailroom job was a stroke of luck, and I’ll never be qualified for anything better.

I close my eyes and try not to cry.