Page 60 of Their Arrangement
“I know.”
“She’s ruining you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “She’s waking something up.”
That made me pause.
Not because it was wrong.
But because he said it like it scared him too.
I turned to leave.
“Do whatever you want with her,” I said. “But don’t pretend like you haven’t already started.”
And then I left.
Left him standing in the silence he built.
Now infected with her name.
I didn’t go home.
I went to the penthouse gym.
Turned off the lights.
Wrapped my hands.
Punched until my knuckles burned and the pads split.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t breathe.
Every time I blinked, I saw her.
Rainwater on her cheeks. That fucking photo at Camille’s grave.
And worse?
The look on her face when I shoved her.
Like she deserved it.
Like she wanted it.
When the fourth bag split, I stood in the dark, soaked insweat, fists slick and red. Then I walked into the locker room and stripped off everything that clung.
I stepped into the industrial-grade shower. Let the water hit me until my skin went numb. Until my pulse stopped fighting. Until I didn’t feel like I was drowning in her perfume anymore.
I dried off in silence.
Dressed in silence.
Poured whiskey into a coffee mug and sat on the armrest of my own leather chair like I didn’t deserve the seat.
And stared out at the city.
