Page 97 of Cruel Hearts

The dining room is too cold, and the sweat on my back turns icy.

Zane has chosen to sit in the corner where the floor-to-ceiling windows intersect.

He’s playing for an audience just like I was supposed to be, only, it felt too real to be a performance.

I wave off the hostess who approaches me, and ignoring her scowl, walk to his table alone. Instead of standing and pulling out my chair, he kicks it, and it pitches away from the table a couple of inches. This isn’t that kind of place, and a few of the patrons stare at him, appalled.

I pull the chair out the rest of the way and sit

“I got your message,” he says, his voice flat. “What do you want?”

A server stops at our table. Without asking, he orders me a glass of champagne and a glass of scotch for himself. She nods and walks away, used to being invisible.

Anger flashes in Zane’s eyes, exactly like when we met in my apartment. They’re filled with hate and my own fill with tears again. Is this how he felt when he thought Sergio and I ran away together? How betrayed and devastated he must have been, believing I’d left him for another man so soon after losing his parents. How alone he’d been these past five years with Zarah hidden away at Quiet Meadows.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

He leans away to give the server space to set our drinks on the table. She asks if we want to order a meal, and impatiently, Zane brushes her off.

We won’t be here long enough for that.

“I’m sorry.” Lost in the technicalities of the evening, we didn’t practice a script, and his fury surprises me. I didn’t expect him to sound so real. Like he’s gone back to the old Zane and he’s still Ash’s best friend and despises me.

I reach across the table to touch his hand, but he stops me, squeezing my wrist until I flinch.

“You think I give a shit?” Zane whispers, rage darkening his features. “You think after you’ve spent the last five years fucking Cardello I would ever care about you again? That I would still love you? Now what? You and he had a fight, or he found someone else, and you’re broke? Don’t have a place to go? I heard he’s in some financial trouble. Can’t get him to pay up, huh? So you go back to the next best thing. Well, fuck you,” he says, flinging my arm away. He downs his drink in one swig and slams the glass onto the table. “You’re nothing to me. Less than nothing. The minute you left me was the minute I stopped thinking about you.” Smoothing his tie, he stands and says, “We’re done here.”

I sit, stunned. Consumed by the game. It feels too real, and my body won’t move.

Photographers stand outside the window filming us arguing. I look through the glass. It’s not a conscious decision, letting them get a look at my face. I can’t meet Zane’s eyes a second longer.

He wraps his hand around my upper arm. “Get. Up.”

Zane wrenches me off the chair, his fingers digging into my skin.

I can’t stop the tears that are running down my cheeks. He’s hurting me, and I’m swept up in the pretense, the malice in his eyes. There isn’t compassion or sympathy, not one brief flicker he’s playing, and I try to push back the panic when I think our lovemaking this morning was a lie.

That the promises he made to me were lies.

My senses are overloaded, and the world spins. He drags me out of the restaurant and I stumble in my heels.

We stop on the sidewalk, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

The sun set, and streetlights begin to blink on, lighting the walkway. Cars clog the narrow avenue. Someone honks, the sharp sound jarring, and I tremble, my nerves strung too tight.

A gallery showing lets out across the street and the artist steps onto the sidewalk. A burst of applause jerks my attention away from Zane.

At ten-thirty at night, King’s Crossing is teeming with life, and pedestrians, dressed like we are for a night on the town, flow around us, looking for the next bar, the next party.

“You’re a fucking bitch.” His voice is loud enough a couple walking past us stops and the man says, “Hey, buddy, that’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“She’s no lady. Mind your own fucking business,” Zane snaps, and the man opens his mouth to defend me until he realizes this is Zane Maddox, one of the richest men in the country, and no one crosses him.

“Come on,” he says to his date, wrapping his arm around her, and they disappear in the stream of people.

A car runs a red light and tires squeal as the oncoming vehicle screeches to a stop. The blood fizzes in my veins. I feel like my skin is too tight, like my body is about to split open. We’ve been on the sidewalk for only a few seconds, but it feels too long.

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