Xavier~
"Can I come to meet you at your hotel tomorrow?" I received her message on my phone at midnight. My mind was already overflowing with numerous thoughts, making it difficult for me to sleep, and the strange message she sent me only heightened my anxiety. Why would she want to meet me at a hotel? Why is she still awake?
I wanted to talk to her right away, but thinking about her husband stopped me from calling. I drank whisky to help calm the intense feelings of humiliation, remorse, and dread. But one bottle wasn't enough to dull the overwhelming thoughts swirling in my mind. Why does she always push me away when I try to keep her safe? I know she's moved on with her life, but I can't stop trying to protect her.
Today, I followed her car not just out of curiosity but also because it was the only way I knew to ensure her safety. For a brief moment, she leaned on me. That feeling of having her trust, even if it was fleeting, made me feel complete. But then, like always, she ran away.
The TV was still on, replaying the scene outside the courtroom. I was defending her from the reporters, shielding her from their questions. We do look perfect together.
"Veronica Luis is Xavier Thompson's ex-wife." The news headline taunted me, stirring up old emotions, even though I knew better than to hope. Her husband must have seen this broadcast by now. What must he be thinking? The realization sobered me up, but the bitterness I felt made the whisky taste even sweeter.
Before I knew it, I had downed another bottle, and the floor of my hotel room became my bed. I had no idea how long I'd slept there, but the constant ringing of the doorbell snapped me back to reality. Groggy, I rubbed my eyes and opened the door, expecting the cleaner. But my heart nearly stopped when I saw Bella.
"Bella... No... Miss Luis, what are you doing here?" I stammered, taken aback by her early arrival. She was standing in the hallway, her expression unreadable.
"Can I come in?" Her cold, analytical glance was enough to jolt me fully awake.
"Of course." I opened the door wide but immediately felt ashamed when I saw the mess—the empty whisky bottles and clothes scattered everywhere.
"Sorry about the mess." I scratched my neck awkwardly as I noticed her eyes sweeping over the room, scowling slightly at the bottles.
"Can we discuss the case? I have some fresh ideas on how to gather evidence," she said as she cleared my clothes off the couch and made space to sit. There was something different about her today—gone was the vulnerability I had seen before. She was confident and composed, like the incident yesterday hadn't even phased her.
I couldn't help but marvel at her resilience. "Miss Luis, can you give me 20 minutes to freshen up?" Her business attire only heightened my sense of inadequacy as I stood there in pajamas, still reeling from the effects of last night.
"Yes, please. The smell of alcohol is already making me feel nauseous." She glanced at me, her tone sharp enough to make me stifle a smile. But I quickly suppressed it when I saw her icy stare.
With her permission, I hurried to the bathroom. Just as I stepped inside, I heard her say, "And don't forget to bring your clothes this time, Mr. Thompson. I'm not interested in watching a supermodel show this early in the morning." Her voice had a playful edge that surprised me, but I quickly gathered my clothes and hurried inside, concealing my grin.
After coming out of the washroom, freshly dressed, my stomach grumbled.
"Would you like to have breakfast?" I asked, feeling oddly nervous.
"Yes, I'll have an omelet with black coffee." For the first time, she didn't try to decline the offer. There was something different about today—she wasn't as guarded and wasn't as distant.
While we ate breakfast, she laid out her next plan of action for gathering evidence. I listened intently but couldn't shake the thought gnawing at me—why was she suddenly so calm? She wasn't trying to distance herself; she wasn't using "Mr. Thompson" like a weapon to remind me of our boundaries. I wanted to ask her about last night—about her husband, the news—but I didn't want to ruin this rare moment of peace.
"Why don't you stay in your own house?" Her sudden question pulled me out of my thoughts.
"I couldn't stand to live there after Alicia's death. It feels suffocating," I admitted, my voice low. I hadn't been back there since the day we retrieved the old case files.
"That means you haven't been back to the house since her murder, except for that one day?" she pressed, her gaze locked on mine. She pressed, her eyes locked on mine.
"You're right," I confirmed, wondering where this was leading.
"That's great. We need to visit the place right now." I watched as her face lit up with excitement, a rare joy.
"What? What could we possibly find there?" I questioned, puzzled. "It's been closed for months. I doubt anything's left to discover." I gave her a confused look.
"Are you coming or not?" She posed a challenge, raising her laptop as though she had already made up her mind.
Bella's dominance today threw me off. She wasn't calling me "Mr. Thompson" to create distance. She seemed... more relaxed, even pleasant. And for the first time, I couldn't help but wonder—why? What changed? Was it the court session? Did something happen at home? I wanted to inquire, but I couldn't risk spoiling the moment by bringing up her husband or yesterday's drama.
As we walked past the hotel reception, the staff whispered to us. I looked at Bella, waiting for a reaction, but she ignored them. She was laser-focused on the task ahead.
"Let me drive," she demanded, extending her hand for the car keys as I reached the driver's seat.
"All right." I handed them over without a word.
She stayed focused on the road, her mood unreadable, while my mind buzzed with questions. I hesitated, then spoke up.
"You know, I've been thinking..." But before I could finish, Alan's call appeared on her screen. She put it on speaker, and I watched in stunned silence as she calmly told Alan she was heading to my house with me. No panic, no anxiety. It was as if she had made peace with something overnight.
In a daze, I opened my mouth to speak again but stopped, the words catching in my throat. Why had she changed so much in just a day? Before I could ask, I caught myself doing something I hadn't dared to do before: hoping she would finally be my friend.