Passion's Crossfire

Chapter 63

Adam

The bitter aroma of coffee wafts through the air, mingling with the heavy weight of regret that clings to the room. I sit alone, the warmth of the cup doing little to thaw the ice that's settled in my veins. I can't escape the relentless loop of blame that coils around my thoughts. If only I hadn't taken that trip home. Maybe if I were here, Mallory would be here, safe with me. The haunting "what-ifs" twist my insides into knots, and each sip of coffee brings no solace, only bitter regret.

The doorbell jingles, a sharp interruption to the deafening silence. I set the mug down with a heavy sigh, the weight of the world settling on my shoulders. The door creaks open, revealing my mother on the other side.

"We need to talk, Adam," she says, her tone a mix of entitlement and authority.

"Mom, I can't deal with this right now," I protest, my patience hanging by a thread.

She breezes past me, entering the apartment with a casual inspection of the surroundings. "Quaint place you've got here, Adam," she comments, a touch of disdain lacing her words.

I roll my eyes, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. "What do you want, Mom?" I ask, my tone edged with annoyance.

She turns to face me, her expression expectant. "You were rude to my guests, Adam. That's not how we behave."

I scoff, unable to contain my irritation. "I was also a guest, Mom. And you were rude to me, remember?"

Her disapproval lingers in the air as she dismisses my argument. "You're not just a guest, Adam. You're my son. You should be making an effort to get to know Eleanor. She's a wonderful young lady."

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "I have no doubt she's wonderful, but I don't want to get to know her."

She squints at me, as if trying to decipher the reason behind my resistance. "Adam, stop being stubborn. Eleanor would make a great wife. You could use some stability in your life."

I shoot her a look of incredulity, my patience wearing thin. "I don't need a wife, and I certainly don't need your interference. Just leave."

Her eyes narrow, and she retorts, "You're not a child anymore, Adam. It's time you start thinking about your future."

I lose my composure, the frustration boiling over into a shout, "I am thinking about my future! But it doesn't involve Eleanor or any forced relationships. I want to marry a woman that I love, not play your matchmaking games."

My mother's gaze narrows, disappointment etched across her face. "Adam, you need to be realistic. Eleanor is a catch. She comes from a good family, and she's successful. You should consider the benefits of such a match."

I feel a surge of frustration, the pressure building up within me. "I'm not interested in your idea of a perfect match, Mom. I want to make my own choices."

She sighs, as if dealing with an unruly child. "Adam, it's time to grow up. You can't always follow your heart. Practicality matters in life."

My jaw tightens, resisting the urge to snap back. "I'm not living my life for the sake of practicality. I want something genuine and real."

She shakes her head, her disapproval lingering in the air. "You're being idealistic. Life isn't a fairy tale, Adam. You need to face reality."

Anger courses through me, but I fight to keep my voice steady. "I am facing reality, Mom. Your version of it just doesn't align with mine."

"Adam, you're making a mistake," she warns, her voice edged with frustration.

"Maybe. But it'll be my mistake to make," I assert, the finality in my tone cutting through the lingering tension. "I need you to leave. Now."

She glares at me for a moment longer, a silent exchange of resentment, before turning to the door. With a parting scowl, she exits, leaving me alone in the apartment.

I take a deep breath, attempting to calm the storm of emotions that my mother's visit has stirred within me. The nerve of that woman, trying to dictate my life as if it were a business deal. She doesn't care about my happiness; it's all about merging two vast fortunes. But I've never cared about any of that.

Frustration courses through my veins as I return to the kitchen, my refuge. I grab the coffee mug, seeking solace in the bitter warmth. My mind involuntarily drifts back to Mallory. I pray she's not hurt, that she'll come back to me soon. Pinching my eyes closed, I try to push away the suffocating worry that threatens to consume me. I have to stay sane; I have to find Mallory.

But every lead has been a dead end. The detective told me that Matt used his credit card at a convenience store at the highway a couple of days ago, but by the time they arrived, he had disappeared. The frustration builds within me like a pressure cooker ready to explode. I can't lose hope; I won't lose hope.

Sipping the coffee, I pace back and forth, my mind racing through the myriad of possibilities. Where is Mallory? Why can't I find her? I hope that Matt stays in jail for a long time. He deserves the worst for what he's done.

The kitchen feels claustrophobic, the walls closing in on me. I step out to the balcony, seeking refuge in the open air. Leaning on the railing, I let my gaze wander over the cityscape. The sun bathes everything in a warm glow, but the weight on my shoulders remains. When Mallory comes back, I promise myself, I'll do anything to make her happy. Whatever it takes, whatever she wants. I'll rebuild the world around her until it feels like home.

The doorbell interrupts my thoughts once again. I rub my hands over my face in exasperation. Is it my mother again? What does she want now? Why can't she leave me alone?

With a heavy sigh, I walk to the door, bracing myself for another confrontation. I swing it open, and my irritation morphs into surprise. It's not my mother. It's Nick. "Can we talk?" he asks, his expression carrying a weight of its own.

Nick steps into the apartment, glancing around as if sizing up the surroundings. I close the door behind him, and my eyes lock onto his face, searching for any hints of what brought him here. "What's up?" I ask, my voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Nick runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic that catches my attention. He takes a deep breath before meeting my gaze. "I'm not sure, Adam, but I think I know where Matt is keeping Mallory."

My heart skips a beat, and a surge of hope courses through me. "What? Are you serious?" I ask, the words tumbling out in a rush. The possibility, however faint, that there might be a lead on Mallory's whereabouts fills the room with a charged energy.

Nick nods, his expression grave. "I think I've got a location."