Stained Glass Shards

28.

A marathon of sex throughout the night left me exhausted in the morning. Ritter had to leave at seven a.m., looking as refreshed as he could after a lack of restful sleep. His town car took him to the airport for the shuttle back to New York City.

I instantly missed him.

My heart hurt. For long stretches of time, I cried intensely, sobbing until my lungs, chest, and throat ached. My eyes and cheeks remained red and puffy for hours, and the delicate skin was sensitive and raw from wiping and rubbing.

I used to cry like that for Griffin.

At the time, it had taken days for me to get over the pain and emptiness felt from Griffin's absence. And it would take weeks or months for him to return. Just when I'd gotten over the emptiness, Griffin would return to reopen those wounds.

Ritter's assurances that he would return on Saturday morning allowed me to somewhat function the rest of the day. I wrote in my journal about our reconciliation, pouring my emotions into my only method of emotional release. Flashes of our night together invaded my mind, making me smile and squeal with delight.

I'm in love.

For almost a decade I had only loved one man, and now I was in love with another who'd given me hope. There was finally a future for me. And I remained optimistic that we could work through all the horrible obstacles.

After I ate some canned soup, I took a long nap, re-energizing myself for an evening of work.

I added chapters to my outline for the new book, ignoring the nagging feeling that I might never be published again. Ritter had warned me that my publisher might break our contract for cause. The executives were analyzing how the press of my affair with Griffin would affect sales, returns, and demands for reimbursement.

My book could no longer be considered a work of fiction, instead becoming an autobiography of my life. And an unauthorized, semi-biography of Griffin.

I left a message for Bruna, seeking information about how she was faring on her end.

Burying myself in my work, I managed to write my prescribed word count. This book was proving to be significantly more romantic than dark. There was no shortage of inspiration after my passion-filled night with Ritter. The emotions I wrote were authentic now that I'd finally felt love for someone who could love me in return.

My phone rang, and I hoped it was Ritter, checking in on me.

Griffin!

How dare he call me?

I pressed ignore. Soon after, a tone signified a voicemail. I pressed delete. Hearing his voice would create a lot of problems for me.

I was angry.

Disgusted by the way he'd tried to ruin Ritter's business as a means of depriving my happiness. He no longer held a vital place in my life.

Griffin didn't love me. Love didn't mean destroying a person's chance at happiness. I was to blame for writing the book and selling the rights to our story, but Ritter was innocent. All the people associated with Ritter could have been a casualty of Griffin's jealousy. I wanted no part of a man who thought he could use his celebrity, power, and influence on others to win me back. I had never been interested in wealth. If I had, I would've accepted the trust fund my brother set up for me. While my parents accepted theirs, I wanted to separate myself from that lifestyle. It wasn't me.

I'd seen and read all the stories about the rich and famous. My brother had intermittently been in the tabloids. I was delusional to have ever thought I wanted to live that life with Griffin. My short time in California awakened me from my dream and sent me spiraling into a nightmare.

Well, I'm conscious now.