Page 15 of Atlas
He launches into another story about business in Dubai, something about investors and property andmaximising market volatility. I nod along, but my brain tunes out. My gaze drifts to the couples around us—the flicker of candlelight, laughter, fingers brushing over white tablecloths.
I try to picture Atlas here.
He’d hate it. Probably insult the wine list and order a beer they don’t stock. He’d sit too close, say something crude, smirk like he knew I’d soak through my knickers when he whispered what he’d do to me under the table.
And I would.
“Nita?” I blink, pulled sharply back. Anthony is watching me, head tilted. “You looked miles away.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Just a long day.”
He smiles like he understands. He doesn’t. “You know . . . I was thinking. We should go away for a weekend. Somewhere calm. Tuscany, maybe.”
Tuscany.
I try to imagine it. I see the rolling hills, the wine, the silence. And me, sitting in a silk robe on a balcony with a man I don’t want, wondering if Atlas will show up just to ruin it.
“I’d like that,” I lie.
Because that’s what I do—I choose the path with the least resistance. The one that earns the approval of people who never had to fight to be respected.
Anthony reaches over and brushes his fingers against my wrist. The gesture is meant to be romantic.
It makes my stomach turn.
He’s not dangerous. He’s not possessive. He’s not grabbing my waist like he owns it. He’s not Atlas.
And that’s thewholefucking point.
Anthony pulls up outside my building in a car so sleek it looks like it doesn’t touch the road. Silent. Sculpted. Soulless.
The engine hums as he cuts it. “Is this you?” he asks, glancing up at the apartment block.
I nod.
His expression doesn’t shift much, but I see it—that faint wrinkle of disapproval. Like he’s trying to make sense of a designer bag hanging in a discount store window.
“It’s . . . modern,” he says diplomatically.
“It’s central,” I reply.
And it is. It’s expensive, minimalist, high-end by most standards. But nothis. Not guarded-gate-and-private-lift enough.
It’s only the third date and I can see it clearly, the pressure to be something else, something better. The subtle nudges, the reshaping. It took months of therapy to see the signs, the same ones I went through with Damian. And even though I see them clearly, I’m still here, smiling politely, wanting him to pick me.Pathetic.
He opens the door before the valet can move and walks me to the entrance like he’s guiding a guest. His hand finds the small of my back again, gentle, possessive in that soft, acceptable way.
My stomach coils as we pause by the steps.
“I enjoyed tonight,” he says. “I feel like we’ve really connected.”
I smile, automatic. “Me too.”
He leans in. And I let him. His lips brush mine. They’re soft, dry, careful. He kisses like someone following a tutorial. Exactly the right pressure. Exactly the right pause. It doesn’t make my heart race. It doesn’t make my knees weak.
It doesn’t make me feel anything.
When he pulls back, he’s smiling like we’ve sealed a deal.
