140
Two months later, I had a new job.
Waitressing at a bar in Brooklyn. It was easy work, the tips were decent, and best of all, I was alone.
Sure, I was still empty, still hollow. Even more so now. But I was comfortable, and that was all that mattered at that point. I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach. I didn’t have a baby crying at night, needing me, reminding me of what I had lost.
Until Caldwell walked into my workplace and turned my world upside down.
Within weeks, my life changed. The life of a pauper was behind me. Money was no longer an issue. I could afford the luxuries I had once taken for granted. I had everything I needed, yet something gnawed at me.
I thought about going back for my child.
But I didn’t.
I told myself it was for the best. They had a family now. A good one. One that could give them everything I couldn’t. I told myself that dragging them back into my life would be selfish, cruel.
So instead, I ran.
I changed my name. I erased my past.
And I began exploring the world.
No relationships. No attachments.
Hookups? Sure.
In Amsterdam, there was the American backpacker with sun-kissed skin and a lazy smile. He tasted like cheap beer and freedom, and for a night, I let him make me forget. His hands were eager, his kisses rough, but I never let him hold me afterward.
In Athens, it was the Greek sailor who took me to a hidden cove by the sea, his hands skimming over my skin as the waves crashed around us. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, but even as he whispered in my ear, I knew I’d be gone by sunrise.
In Buenos Aires, it was the tango dancer with dark eyes and a sinful mouth. He fucked me like he danced—passionate, intense, like every moment mattered. But when the music stopped and the sweat cooled on our skin, he was just another face in a city I would leave behind.
In Bangkok, there was the tattooed street fighter who smelled like smoke and spice. He reminded me of Dominic in the way he moved, in the way his fingers tightened around my throat as he whispered filthy things against my lips. But when it was over, when I was alone in the dark, I knew it wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
Fifteen countries in five years.
Paris, where I stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower, staring down at the city of love, feeling nothing but numbness. Where I let a French banker whisper sweet nothings in my ear before taking me back to his penthouse, his hands firm on my hips, his lips hungry against mine. He had Dominic’s smirk, the kind that made my stomach flutter. But when he was inside me, thrusting deep, murmuring my name against my skin, I kept my eyes closed. He wasn’t Dominic. He would never be Dominic.
Milan, where an Italian artist painted me naked on a balcony after we spent hours tangled in bed, his fingers tracing every curve of my body as if memorizing me. His touch was gentle, tender, nothing like the way Dominic used to grab me, own me, make me beg. It was good, it was satisfying—but it wasn’t what I wanted.
Tokyo, where a businessman twice my age fucked me in a hotel suite overlooking the city, his hands rough, his voice deep and commanding. He had Dominic’s intensity, the kind that made my blood rush hot. But after, when he rolled away and fell asleep, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, feeling more alone than ever.
Dubai, where a Russian fighter with scars on his knuckles and a mouth that tasted like vodka made me scream his name against silk sheets. He had Dominic’s fire, the way he pushed me to the edge, the way he played with pleasure and pain. But when it was over, when I was gasping for breath and he was kissing my shoulder, I felt nothing.
I was always searching.
For a fragment of him.
For the way he used to touch me, claim me, make me feel like I belonged to him.
But no one ever came close.
And no one ever would.
After six years of wandering, the void inside me was as relentless as ever. I thought I could outrun it, fill it with fleeting pleasures, but it clung to me like a shadow, growing darker with each passing year.
One sleepless night in Bali, with the ocean crashing against the cliffs outside my villa, I decided on a whim to enroll in college. I wasn’t searching for meaning, I didn’t even know what I was searching for anymore. But I was bored, and for the first time in years, I needed something that didn’t involve running or forgetting.
I picked a course that had no relevance to my life, something utterly disconnected from the world I knew. Archaeology. It was absurd, really, me, digging through ancient ruins when I barely had the patience to sit through a lecture. But I was drawn to the idea of uncovering things buried and forgotten, as though by unearthing the past, I might somehow make sense of my own.
For two years, I sat in dusty classrooms and read textbooks filled with ancient history. I went on field trips to sites in the Middle East, where I stood under the blistering sun, dirt under my nails, sweat dripping down my back. I uncovered fragments of pottery, shattered remnants of lives long gone. There was something soothing in it, but it didn’t fix me. It didn’t even come close.
So, I turned to something more immediate.
I picked up skydiving first. The rush of free-falling from thousands of feet was exhilarating, but on one jump, a miscalculated landing had me hurtling toward a rocky ravine. My instructor yanked me back just in time, saving me from what could have been a fatal crash.
After that, I tried bungee jumping off the Victoria Falls Bridge, the roaring water below daring me to let go. Then there was cave diving in Mexico, where I narrowly avoided getting trapped in an underwater tunnel, my oxygen tank nearly running out as I clawed my way back to the surface. In the Himalayas, I attempted mountaineering, only to be caught in a sudden blizzard that left me stranded overnight with frostbite nipping at my fingers.
I dabbled in wingsuit flying, paragliding over volcanic craters, and even motorcycle racing on dangerous, twisting tracks in the Alps. Each brush with death gave me a fleeting sense of purpose, a reminder that I was still alive. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.
Somewhere along the way, I ventured into the world of business. It wasn’t out of necessity, I was already a billionaire thanks to Caldwell’s investments. But I thought that building something tangible, something I could see grow, might give me the satisfaction I craved.
I invested in tech startups, biotech firms, and renewable energy companies. I struck lucrative deals in Silicon Valley, partnering with visionaries who promised to change the world. I dabbled in luxury real estate, buying and flipping properties in prime locations. I even acquired a chain of boutique hotels, redesigning them to cater to the ultra-wealthy.
The profits poured in, doubling, tripling my already vast wealth. But the more I gained, the emptier I felt. Business wasn’t my thing, it never had been. The spreadsheets, the boardrooms, the endless meetings, it all blurred together in a haze of monotony.
So, I pivoted again.
This time, I started buying houses. Not for profit, but for the sheer indulgence of it. Some, I bought impulsively, barely glancing at the listings before wiring the money. Others, I chose for their charm, their stories, their promise of escape.
There was the penthouse in Manhattan, overlooking Central Park, with floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the space in golden light. It cost me $30 million, and every time I stepped inside, I was reminded of the life I once had, the luxury I used to take for granted.
In Paris, I bought a Haussmannian apartment on the Left Bank for $12 million. The parquet floors creaked underfoot, the crystal chandeliers glittered in the sunlight, and the ornate fireplace reminded me of the fleeting romances I had indulged in within that city.
In Kyoto, I acquired a traditional ryokan nestled in the mountains, its tatami rooms and steaming onsen offering a serenity I rarely found elsewhere. It cost $5 million, but the peace it brought, however temporary, was worth every penny.
There was the villa in Tuscany, surrounded by rolling vineyards, where the scent of lavender wafted through the air. It was $20 million, a small fortune for a place I rarely visited, but it reminded me of simpler times, of dreams that once seemed attainable.
In Cape Town, I bought a modernist masterpiece perched on a cliff, its glass walls framing endless views of the Atlantic. It cost $15 million, and every time I stood on its terrace, the wind whipping through my hair, I felt a fleeting sense of freedom.
Dubai, Sydney, Rio de Janeiro: I lost count of how many properties I owned. Some were palatial, adorned with marble and gold. Others were minimalist, their stark interiors reflecting the void inside me. A few, I couldn’t even remember the locations of. They were just markers on a map, scattered pieces of a life I was trying to rebuild.
But no matter where I went, no matter how many places I called home, the emptiness followed me. It was a constant companion, a silent reminder that I could run as far as I wanted, but I could never truly escape.
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