A Blind Fall

chapter twenty six

A frustrated growl emanated from his gut as he smashed the phone he'd just but used against the mantle of the fireplace. Muttering a string of indecent choice words, he stormed to the home bar in the living room and procured a bottle of scotch. Trashing glassware etiquette, he unscrewed the cork and gobbled the scorching liquid directly from the bottle, utterly unperturbed at how it set his throat aflame.

The encroachment of a devastating migraine in his head continued to torture him, denying him peace. Perhaps from unyielding weeks of trying to locate one woman he was starting to doubt was even worth it. The debate proved difficult to conclude, despite knowing that in the depth of his heart, he'd die if he lost her.

Gabrielle Oliver. The mere thought of her brought him inexplicable, almost surreal tranquility. He longed for her soothing presence and entrancing smile. There wasn't a bone in him that didn't ache in despair over the vacuum that was his life at her prolonged absence.

No bottle of liquor offered enough consolation nor the reassurance he craved that in due time, he'd at least have a glimpse of her. However, since the genesis of his relentless search, there hadn't been a trace of her. The days turned into three, miserably lived weeks that he feared would only extend.

Again, like a fool, a woman had lured him into the illusion of possible affections, only to turn around and mock his vulnerability. To think he'd began to love her, serve her his heart on a silver platter to do with it as she pleased. And while the notion of her novelty inclined him to believe she genuinely cared, her disappearance contradicted his believe. She wasn't any different after all. Gabrielle was just another woman who'd played her cards right that he hadn't suspected an ounce of oncoming treachery.

He was beginning to think he was a brainless, idiot who never learned. And while he prided himself in being a strong man, the injuries of the heart he couldn't withstand. Maybe he'd done it before. But he'd been young and resilient in his justified fury motivating his determination to forget his cruel, first love. But then he hadn't known the difference of love and infatuation and that he'd just commenced in his desire for the opposite sex, later he deduced it might as well have been lust that he'd felt.

But he wasn't hopeful this time. Despite his hesitation to, he'd opened his heart again. He could have sworn the feeling was mutual. For heaven's sake they'd made such titillating love. She was even envious of those imaginary women she'd thought contended her. Notably, he'd been her first and as such, he was certain of the purity of her heart. It all wavered now. He couldn't begin to know what to believe.

His scotch in hand, he sunk to the floor, his torturous pain getting the best of him. It hurt so bad, he doubted his survival. When and how the little woman had snuck into his heart, built a permanent fortress for herself he couldn't comprehend. How could it be that she'd just up and leave? Three weeks and it was like she'd never existed. Not in Paris, not in the hotel, not at the company. Not even there, beside him where she ought to have been!

When he smashed the bottle against the glassy wall, crashing the whole thing, he knew for a reputed composed man, he was ridiculing himself. The lump on his throat and the burning tears pooling in his eyelids, evidence of his further misery.

He was so ensnared by the heartache, he barely heard when the panicky woman entered and knelt beside him. "Mr Sylvester!"

"Gabby," he drawled drunkenly, bloodshot eyes struggling to place the blurry shadow before him. His hands limply cupped her face. "Please don't leave again." He slurred.

Although his vision was vague and his focus misplaced, his heart continued beating normally. Gabrielle made it pummel, hard, fast and loud. Even in his alcohol-induced drowsiness, he could distinctly tell between general women and his special one. And the one embracing him now wasn't her. She wasn't Gabrielle.