Read His Wicked Games: A Billionaire Romance (The Cunningham Family #1) Page 30
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It's a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've been using to help me sleep.
Dearest Ms. Frazer,
I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.
As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread the situation.
Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.
Sincerely,
Calder Cunningham
There's no lawyer's signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.
I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?
The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. There's no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. There’s no mention of our argument in the garden, either. Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn't at fault for this entire situation?
I'll admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Calder told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesn't relieve him of his mistakes.
Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. It's my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn’t lessen the sting. And there’s the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I did feel something when I was with him.
I don't want to admit it, but I've been waiting for him to contact me. I've always thought myself a very logical, reasonable person, but even though I know it's ridiculous, I've been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies. Every day that's gone by without word from him has been a torture.
But when did I become one of those women who agonizes over the fact that a man hasn't called? Calder and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We're not dating. We're certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldn't, but that's my own fault. I can't expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I can't seem to control my own.
It's a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that he's in as much agony as I am, that he's just as disturbed by the fact that I haven't called him.
I’m pathetic, that’s what I am.
Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue. Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. I'll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again.
Life goes on, I tell myself.
I'm not done with my tea yet, but I don't care. I open the trash can once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.