Page 93 of Atlas
Not groggy. Not confused.
Awake.
And watching me.
His eyes burn into mine, dark, steady, unreadable. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask why. He justlooksat me, like he’s trying to read every thought I’ve ever had.
My breath catches, frozen between apology and panic.
Then slowly, gently, he releases me.
I stand there a beat too long, my skin tingling where he touched me.
Without a word, I turn and slip into the bathroom, clutching the edge of the sink as I try to catch my breath.
My heart is racing.What did I just do?He wasn’t meant to know. To catch me. I groan. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. “You have to get a grip,” I whisper at myself.
By the time I step back into the bedroom, he’s gone. The chair is empty with the blanket draped neatly over the back, like he was never there.
I should be happy he left without a word. But I can’t deny the ache burning deeper in my heart.
Anita
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the clink of cutlery and low restaurant chatter. We’re seated by the window, too exposed, too bright. My palms are already damp.
“We’re laying our cards on the table,” Tom replies, calm and unmoved as ever. “Giving him a chance to back out of the battle.”
I glance towards the door, and my stomach knots. “What if he’s got something worse on me?”
Tom doesn’t flinch. “Like?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I don’tknow. That’s the worst part. With Damien, the truth is elastic. He bends it until it strangles you.
“He’s been known to make stuff up,” I mutter.
“I’ve requested a female judge,” Tom says, folding his napkin with irritating precision. “She’s new but sharp. Not the type to be bribed or bullied. She’ll stick to the evidence.”
“So, why are we doing this?” I ask.
He turns to me fully, his gaze direct. “Because if he’s bluffing, this is where he’ll flinch.”
I don’t get a chance to respond before a voice cuts through the air.
“Anita.”
I jolt, head snapping up.
He’s early.
“Damien,” I manage, trying to sound neutral. My spine stiffens as he slides into the chair opposite me, dressed like he’s walked out of a boardroom—clean, controlled, poisonous.
A waitress materialises beside him. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” he says without looking at her. “I won’t be staying long.”
The second she disappears, his eyes fix on mine. He doesn’t even glance at Tom.
“What do you want?” he asks, crisp and cold like a slap.
