Page 122 of The Kiss of Deception

“She’s a goddamned journalist! How could you tell her something like this?” I recognize the voice. Charlie Cox, the manager. Is he… Is he accusing me of outing Miles? Of possibly ruining his career, his reputation?

“She is my girlfriend.” Every word is spoken clearly, enunciated with purpose and punctuated with finality.

I’m the subject of the conversation. But I can’t understand the words they’re saying.

I stare at the wall. It’s only white paint, completely blank in the dim hallway.

“She’s not home. She’s not answering your calls or texts, only radio silence. What more proof do you need?” Charlie’s accusations grow bolder with the lack of objection. “Of course, it was her. Who else would leak this?”

Silence.

One, two, three, four seconds of silence.

My heart thunders in my ears against the tangent void of response.

They think I exposed Miles’s secret. They think I told the press about Miles’s controversial, impending transfer to the rival team.

But does Miles believe that, too?

Does he think I stabbed him in the back? Does he truly believe I would betray him?

Before the past few months, it would have been a fair assumption. Before all these weeks, I would have been my own main suspect.

But that was before us. Before everything we lived, shared, promised, dreamed.

Even then, I dad sworn secrecy. It’s true, I had threatened him, but all of those were empty threats. Every time, he disregarded them with a blink, and I was sure he knew they were all false, all attempts to mess with him.

A pulsing chill crawls up my spine, clinging heavily to every slope and every indentation of my body with every second the silence stretches.

Say something. Please say something, Miles.

But he doesn’t. His silence says all the things he won't voice.

My heart pounds violently in my ears, trying to drown the silence and all its meanings, only to worsen the throbbing in my head. The pain metastasizes, eating away at all my softest parts.

He blames me.

Oxygen stumbles in my airways, and my breath hiccups loudly. I slap a hand over my mouth to cover it.

Too late.

My heart slams into my already bruised chest, crawls to my crowded throat, wanting to leave my body to bleed out at his feet, beg for his trust and forgiveness and love.

The chill consumes me, threatening to transform my skin to stone and trap my bones inside—a statue to adorn my unlit hallway.

But is it my hallway?

My castles are built of sand, and the tide has risen at last, with the force of the full moon.

I move one foot.

I take one step.

Then, I run.

Chapter Thirty-One

Miles

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