Her Soulmate Are they meant to be

Damian Garcia tipped his head up and tracked the winking light of a jet above him. That could, for all he knew, be Zach Harrison’s Jet carrying Claire away from him. The image of Claire curled up in Zach’s lap, him comforting her as she cried, because hell if anyone deserved to cry it was Claire Bridgewater. Flashed on his retina, and his grip tightened on the crystal tumbler in his hand. He heard a sharp palm under the wristband of his watch.

Damian opened his hand and looked at the cracked glass and its sharp shards. Surprisingly, there was no blood. Transferring the broken glass from his hand to the coffee table on the balcony, he shook the droplets of his Manhattan cocktail off his hand before reaching for his pocket square and wiping the liquid away.

Well, that was a waste of good booze. Damian looked back into the luxurious Presidential Suite of Mirage a hotel and saw his friend George Alan pacing the area between the designer sofas and the dining table. George was pissed and had a right to be. His gala evening was ruined and would be long remembered for all the wrong reasons.

And it was all Claire’s fault. Well, not her fault exactly, she hadn't known her brother would show up and ruin months of work, but as the event planner, the buck stopped with her.

Would her company recover from this? He doubted it. Would she? Claire was tough but she'd had a couple of hard knocks lately. When George asked her to leave the retreat immediately, taking her brother with her, Claire knew that her reputation was about to take another beating, and Damian understood why she felt the need to run. Why would she want to stay and witness the pitying looks, the cruel smirks, hear the caustic comments?

She also wanted to run from him. And that, he understood most of all.

Seeing movement in the room behind him, Damian turned his head to watch Jane approach George, her eyes on her man. George was still on his phone but he held out his hand and Nadia tucked herself into the side, her arms encircling his waist. George dropped a kiss on her head before continuing his conversation. Damian’s stomach was cramped with what he thought might be jealousy. He'd never believed in true love, hadn't been exposed to it growing up but maybe it did exist; maybe it was just as rare as hell. George has found his Holly Gail in Jane but Damian isn't naive enough to believe that everybody, most especially him, would be that lucky.

Love, he was convinced, wasn't for him.

George threw his phone into the sofa behind him and pulled his wife into his body, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Although Jane was a foot shorter than Goerge, Damian knew that he was sucking strength from her, that George was leaning in her. They were a unit, taking turns to lead and to follow, to give and receive strength. They were two trees growing together, sharing soil and water, their branches and roots intermingling.

It struck him that he and Claire were two separate line trees planted in a regimented row. They both stood tall, took the wind, and never bent. They'd been planted too far apart and too much had happened between them and to them–to bridge the gap to be able to even start to explore anything deeper than flashpoint sex.

Damian turned away and walked to the edge of the balcony, gripping the balustrade with tight fingers. Maybe Claire’s leaving, her breaking it off for good, was as she'd said, what was best for her, him, Garcia Corporation. For everybody involved.

And if that was true then why did he feel like week-old crap?

Hearing George’s footsteps he turned his head and saw George approaching him, a bottle of bourbon in his hand. George raised his eyebrows at the broken glass and, without words, handed Damian the bottle. Damian took a hefty sip before dropping the bottle to his side, holding it in a loose grip. By the time Dawn broke, he was going to be best buds with this bottle.

“Where’s Jane?”

George leaned his butt against the railing and rolled his head from his side to release the knots in his neck. Damian didn't bother; his knots were now permanent residents. “She went to bed,” George replied. He glanced at his watch. “It is almost three in the morning.”

“It was a hell of a night.” Damian took another hit from the bottle, ignoring his still-sticky hand. He glanced up, saw another jet, and forced himself to meet George’s eyes. “I feel like I should apologize.”

“For what?” George asked, his eyes and time weary. “You didn't cause Claire’s brother to ruin my gala evening.”

“Neither did Claire,” Damian responded, needing to defend her.