Page 97 of A Win-Win Situation

Tears well up in my eyes as a result of my own hurtful choices. I turn away from him, not wanting him to see me cry as I run a hand through my hair.

His hand grabs my arm. "Leora, is that a bruise?" I frown at him, but Lucas's gaze is fixated on my wrist, where a faint mark from John's grip lingers.

Caught off guard, I quickly try to pull my hand away but Lucas's grip tightens on my arm. His touch is unyielding as he forcefully pulls down my blazer to reveal the full bruise on my wrist. His eyes widen in shock, transforming into a storm of fury and his brows furrow with an intensity that seems to radiate palpable anger, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

His voice carries a note of urgency as he lets go of my arm. "Leora, who did this to you?" There's a fire in his eyes—a fierceness that I've never witnessed before. It's evident that he won't let this slide, that he's prepared to fight for me and confront the source of my pain.

"It's nothing," I mumble, but he doesn't back down.

"Who did this?"

"No one did. Please just let it go." I hadn't expected him to see the bruise, and now there’s no way I can tell him the truth. From the look of it, he’ll ruin John if he ever finds out.

His voice, though strained, remains firm as he replies, "Leora, I can't just let it go. Tell me!"

"Stop pretending like you care."

"Are you serious? Of course I care! I can't stand the idea of anyone hurting you. I care about you." His voice is raspy with a hint of desperation behind it, as if he's pleading for me to understand his perspective.

I'm experiencing a mix of conflicting emotions—fear, shame, and confusion. Why is he pushing me, why does he care this much?

Because we’re friends.

Yeah, friends.Onlyfriends, and we will stay that way until we divorce and I go back home.

Alone.

"I hit my hand, okay. I was clumsy."

"No, you didn’t."

"Yes, I did."

"Leora, I know you're lying. I can see the finger marks clearly, so quit lying and tell me the truth, so I can find the person who did this to you." Lucas's voice rises, matching the power of our argument.

I keep quiet, not giving him an answer.

His jaw tightens, his voice edged with anger. "You think shutting me out and pushing me away will make it better? Like you’ve done for the past few days."

"I’m not pushing you away."

"Yes, you are. You’ve been doing it since that stunt you pulled in Paris." He almost spits out the words.

That stunt you pulled in Paris.

Is that what he thinks of it as? Is that what he thinks of me being vulnerable and putting myself out there? Of me wanting him? That it was all a stunt?

I was already humiliated, and now he's throwing it back at me. The hurt and frustration fuels me, pushing me to retaliate.

"Fuck you, Lucas."

"Last time I checked, that's exactly what you were begging me for," he says through gritted teeth, his words like a slap to the face.

The heated exchange hangs in the air, filling it with tension and raw emotions. A flicker of regret dances on his face, likea passing storm cloud momentarily casting a shadow on his features. His brows are slightly furrowed and there’s a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, as if he's just realized the depth of his hurtful words. It's a fleeting moment, one that doesn’t seal the open wound he left behind.

His lips part as if he wants to speak, to take back the hurt he inflicted. But he hesitates, I watch as his jaw tenses and then relaxes, a visible struggle playing out on his face. His shoulders slump slightly, as if the weight of his regret is physically beating down on him.

Say something.

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