Page 13 of Glass Jawed
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The patio is surprisingly quiet for a weekday. Industrial lights strung above the space throw a warm yellow glow over wooden tables. My iced whiskey and tonic is sweating in front of me. Untouched.
Lucian’s beer is nearly gone. He hasn’t stopped watching me since we sat down.
Not ogling.
Not admiring.
Studying.
Like he’s trying to reverse engineer my insides from the outside.
I tap my fingers against the glass. My brain’s already spiraling, trying to guess what this is. Some kind of public humiliation re-enactment? A guilt trip? A slow burn revenge?
Screw it.
I set the glass down, lean back in the chair, and say, flatly, “You remember me.”
It’s not a question.
He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his brow like he was waiting for me to start it.
“Yeah,” he says.
I nod. “Right.”
A pause. Then I add, just as flat, “I didn’t know he was yours. I asked. He lied.”
Lucian lets out a breath through his nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“And if he had told you?”
“I would’ve left.”
He nods, like he accepts that. Or like it doesn’t matter anymore. Then tilts his head slightly.
“You always that calm about being humiliated?”
I blink once. “Are you always that proud of doing it?”
That gets him.
It’s subtle, but I see it. The small flinch in his expression. Like I took a swing and it landed harder than he expected.
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t proud.”
“No?” I say, quiet. “Because you called me a slut. You looked at me like I was garbage. And then said I didn’t even look like a woman.”
His grip tightens on the glass. He says nothing at first.
I go on, because why stop now.
“I wasn’t angry at you that night. I was embarrassed. And confused. But I didn’t blame you. Not until you made it clear that I should blame myself.”
Lucian looks away then—just briefly—but when he turns back, his eyes are darker.
“I know what I said.”
