Chapter 10: VANESSA’S TRUE COLORS
Dominic
After the restaurant, I drove around the city for two hours before ending up at a bar I hadn't visited since college.
Three whiskeys in, my phone buzzed. Vanessa.
I almost ignored it. But something — masochism, probably — made me answer.
"Dominic, where are you? I've been texting for days!"
"What do you want, Vanessa?"
"What do I *want*? I want to know what's happening with us! The media is tearing you apart, you won't answer my calls, and now I'm hearing rumors that Harrison Holdings is appointing a new CEO for your—"
"It's not my company anymore."
Silence. Then: "What do you mean?"
"I mean it's over. The company. The position. It's gone."
More silence. Longer this time.
"So... what are you going to do?"
I almost laughed. "I don't know, Vanessa."
"Well." Her voice shifted — colder, more calculated. "Look, maybe we should... take a step back. From us. Just temporarily."
There it was. The real Vanessa. The one Ciara had tried to warn me about.
"A step back," I repeated flatly.
"I mean, the engagement was a public thing, and now with the bad press... My father is worried about the Blake brand being associated with—"
"With failure?"
"I didn't say that—"
"You didn't have to." I downed the rest of my whiskey. "We're done, Vanessa."
"Dominic—"
"I should have seen this months ago. You didn't want me. You wanted Ashford Enterprises. You wanted the CEO title, the penthouse, the gala photo-ops. And the second that disappeared, so did you."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" I laughed bitterly. "I threw away a woman who loved me for a woman who loved my bank account. Nothing about this is *fair*."
I hung up before she could respond.
The bartender slid another glass across the counter. I stared at the amber liquid and saw Ciara's face reflected in it — the way she looked at the restaurant. Composed. Beautiful. Sitting across from another man. A man who probably deserved her.
My chest caved.
I pulled out my phone and opened my gallery. Scrolled past months of photos until I found it — the one picture I had of Ciara from our marriage. She was asleep on the couch, a book open on her chest, afternoon light painting her face golden.
I'd taken it a year ago. Never told her.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
My phone buzzed again. A notification from a news app:
*"Ciara Harrison spotted at dinner with venture capitalist Lucas Grant. Source confirms: 'They looked very close.'"*
Below it was a photo — Ciara smiling at Lucas. A real smile. The kind she used to give me when she thought I wasn't watching.
I put my phone face-down on the bar.
Then I ordered another drink.
After the restaurant, I drove around the city for two hours before ending up at a bar I hadn't visited since college.
Three whiskeys in, my phone buzzed. Vanessa.
I almost ignored it. But something — masochism, probably — made me answer.
"Dominic, where are you? I've been texting for days!"
"What do you want, Vanessa?"
"What do I *want*? I want to know what's happening with us! The media is tearing you apart, you won't answer my calls, and now I'm hearing rumors that Harrison Holdings is appointing a new CEO for your—"
"It's not my company anymore."
Silence. Then: "What do you mean?"
"I mean it's over. The company. The position. It's gone."
More silence. Longer this time.
"So... what are you going to do?"
I almost laughed. "I don't know, Vanessa."
"Well." Her voice shifted — colder, more calculated. "Look, maybe we should... take a step back. From us. Just temporarily."
There it was. The real Vanessa. The one Ciara had tried to warn me about.
"A step back," I repeated flatly.
"I mean, the engagement was a public thing, and now with the bad press... My father is worried about the Blake brand being associated with—"
"With failure?"
"I didn't say that—"
"You didn't have to." I downed the rest of my whiskey. "We're done, Vanessa."
"Dominic—"
"I should have seen this months ago. You didn't want me. You wanted Ashford Enterprises. You wanted the CEO title, the penthouse, the gala photo-ops. And the second that disappeared, so did you."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" I laughed bitterly. "I threw away a woman who loved me for a woman who loved my bank account. Nothing about this is *fair*."
I hung up before she could respond.
The bartender slid another glass across the counter. I stared at the amber liquid and saw Ciara's face reflected in it — the way she looked at the restaurant. Composed. Beautiful. Sitting across from another man. A man who probably deserved her.
My chest caved.
I pulled out my phone and opened my gallery. Scrolled past months of photos until I found it — the one picture I had of Ciara from our marriage. She was asleep on the couch, a book open on her chest, afternoon light painting her face golden.
I'd taken it a year ago. Never told her.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
My phone buzzed again. A notification from a news app:
*"Ciara Harrison spotted at dinner with venture capitalist Lucas Grant. Source confirms: 'They looked very close.'"*
Below it was a photo — Ciara smiling at Lucas. A real smile. The kind she used to give me when she thought I wasn't watching.
I put my phone face-down on the bar.
Then I ordered another drink.