Page 64 of Barbarian

“Goodbye, Bartholomew.”

When I entered my apartment, I felt sick to my stomach, and not just because I’d lost the love of my life. Painful memories washed over me, the echoes of my screams, flashbacks from a horror movie.

I looked at the pile of boxes I’d have to unpack.

But I didn’t have the energy.

I walked into my bedroom, seeing the remains of that moment, pee stains on the sheets.

I shut the door and walked to the couch—and went straight to sleep.

I did that on and off for days, never unpacking, never stepping into that bedroom. I raided the cabinets in search of food during the rare times I had an appetite. Life passed with painstaking slowness. There wasn’t anything to look forward to in life—except feeling better.

A knock sounded on the door.

I didn’t expect it to be Bartholomew. He would never change his mind—not now, not ever—because nothing was more important than his power and money.

Not even me.

I looked through the peephole and saw a man I didn’t know. I decided not to answer it.

“Bartholomew sent me.” He must have seen my shadow under the door or heard my breaths. “Wanted me to give you something.”

I opened the door and came face-to-face with the messenger, not caring that I looked like hell with unwashed hair and old clothes.

He gave me a large envelope, the kind that contained full-page documents. I took it from him and opened it at the kitchen counter.

A set of keys fell out.

The envelope held a bunch of documents—and I quickly realized it was a deed to property in my name.

I read the note he’d included.

Laura,

You deserve a better apartment. You deserve a better family. You deserve a better man than me. Start a new life. Fall in love with a good man. Have a family. Have everything that I’m unable to give you—and forget about me.

The address was written below his signature.

I read his letter again, and it hurt as much the second time as the first. When we’d broken up the first time, I’d always believed there was a chance we would get back together. My heart still beat for him, hoping, dreaming…

But not this time.

This time…it was really over.

It was an apartment I could never afford, not if I worked thirty years and saved every single cent. It was in a prime location in Paris, with a doorman out front, a private parking garage, and it was two stories with at least three thousand square feet. And it was fully furnished, with chic decorations and high-end furniture.

The place had to be worth five million…at least.

In the note, he’d explained the property taxes would be covered indefinitely, so I never had to worry about a bill I wouldn’t be able to pay.

I shouldn’t accept such a ridiculous gift, but I couldn’t live in my old apartment anymore. I couldn’t sleep on the couch and keepthe bedroom door closed. I couldn’t be haunted by the horrible things that had happened there…and the good things too.

I needed a fresh start, a place that hadn’t been infected by Bartholomew’s presence, a place that would be free of his ghost.

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BARTHOLOMEW