Page 59 of Degrading Her

Finally, he put a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“She’s a good candidate,” he said. My eyes widened, my body shuddering at his blunt truth. His smile softened. “But you need to give yourself a break.”

Those words shot through me. Was he making an excuse? Being sympathetic to me?

“A break?” I asked.

“She’s not going to school right now. You are.”

“A lot of good it’s doing me.”

“She’s not dealing with a hardass distant family memberwho keeps her on her toes. Or a game-playing rival who’s determined to make her lose. She’s dealing with a boss, plain and simple. When it comes to me, you’ve got the pain.”

Was he taking responsibility?

“Give yourself a break,” he said. Those words made me weak, like someone was finally seeing me in all of my vulnerability.

He pulled me up by my hand, and a warm rush ran through me. “Pack your things,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“I’m taking you out.”

“You want to take me out?”

He was already at the staff exit. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Once I had my giant purse together, I followed him out. His driver took us to The Culinary Exhibit in the financial district. It was early—almost six o’clock—but there was always a waiting list for the place.

“How did you?—”

Sawyer shuffled me in front of him as the server led us through the restaurant. The white walls were decorated with spotlights, hung with minimalist art resembling food. We followed the server through a door to a similarly decorated, large private room.

Once we had ordered our meals, I grabbed a bread roll, trying to be casual.

“Are we still playing the game?” I asked. I took a sip of water, trying to hide behind the glass.

“Why?” he grinned. “Are you still losing?”

“That would imply that you’re winning.”

“I always win, Fiona.”

My insides burned. He was so confident in himself, in his abilities, and it was maddening. Why were we at dinnertogether when he knew he was going to win? Why even play this game with me?

I rubbed my face, trying to steel myself. “Why did you take me here?” I asked.

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why are you pretending like you want me?” I asked, frustration burning my throat. “You don’t have to pretend. I know you’re just messing with me.”

“Why would I mess with you?”

Those words came out with such sincerity that my jaw hung open. “Because you like playing games with me?”

He smirked to himself. “My interest in you isn’t reliant on whether or not we’re playing a game.”

“What is it dependent on, then?”

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