Page 58 of For Wrath and Redemption
No. That’s not true. He may have handed me the match, but I’m the one who struck it and set everything ablaze.
The realization only makes my stomach roil. It only makes everything worse. My throat burns. My teeth ache. My bones and limbs grow heavy, and I feel everything I worked for slipping away.
I never should have stopped seeing my therapist.
I never should have?—
“You okay?”
I shake my head and whip my attention toward Jonah. His eyes are on me, assessing me as if peeling back my carefully constructed layers and seeing every flaw underneath.
“Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
“You’ve been off since dinner.”
I look away and busy myself with kicking off my shoes and pulling my hair from the ponytail.
“I’m not feeling well. I’m going to get ready for bed.”
He hums, his stare never leaving me, and I feel like he knows I’m lying. When I walk into the bedroom to gather my toiletries and pajamas, he follows, and I can feel his gaze on my back.
“I’m sorry I didn’t take any pictures today,” I say into my suitcase. “I forgot it was supposed to be a photo op.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and when I stand and look at him, he’s still staring at me. His eyes are narrowed in thought, and he’s picking at his thumb again.
“It’s fine,” he says finally. “I didn’t do it as a PR stunt, anyway.”
The soft smile that forms on my lips is an honest one. It momentarily quiets the screaming in my head.
“Thank you again, Jonah. I really, really enjoyed today.”
He nods, then moves toward his side of the room. He waits until he disappears behind the partition before he answers.
“So did I.”
I watch his shadow as he changes. His arms rise as he pulls off his shirt. His back bows as he kicks off his jeans. I can hear the clothing fall to the floor, and I swear the jangle of his belt echoes through the otherwise quiet room. When he finally drops into bed, I turn and walk calmly into the bathroom.
I go through the motions of my nightly routine. I change into pajamas. I carry out my six-step skincare regimen. The whole time, I work to keep my eyes on the sink until they’re pulled to the mirror, and I spend too long staring at my reflection. I focus on the way my face has filled out, but instead of cringing, I tell myself it’s a good thing. It’s what I wanted. My eyes are brighter. My hair is fuller. I look healthy. I haven’t ruined that. Yet.
My attention falls to the curls at my hairline. Out of curiosity, I reach up and finger one. I tug on it, pulling it straight and letting it bounce back. My lips curl into a small smile.
I love how it does that.
Jonah’s voice echoes in my head once more as I walk to my bed. I pull back the duvet and climb onto the soft mattress, then I do what I always do. I grab my phone, log into my social media, and go to my ex-best-friend’s profile. There’s nothing new, so I go to my brother’s profile. I know he never posts, but I’m still disappointed when I find nothing.
I decide to check the follower count on Jonah’s profile. It’s been growing by the thousands every day. He’ll be to one million soon if it keeps going this route. When his profile appears on my screen, though, my eyes don’t go to the follower count. They go straight to the most recent photo. It’s not one I scheduled, and it makes my entire body tingle.
I click on the picture to enlarge it and blink several times before I’m convinced it’s real. There’s no caption, but it’s time-stamped only fifteen minutes ago. He must have posted it when I was in the bathroom.
The photo is of me on the roof of Belém Tower. I’m not tagged, and my back is to the camera as I look out toward the ocean. You can’t see my face, just my curly hair in the ponytail and Jonah’s large leather jacket draped over my shoulders. The like count just keeps rising. Thousands and thousands of likes, and I’m grateful that the comments are turned off. I don’t know how this will affect my PR campaign, but in this moment, I don’t care.
I’m just...warm. Warm and blushing, and trying like hell to stifle a laugh.
I close my eyes and drop my phone onto the bed beside me. It means nothing. It’s just a picture. But...
I slap my hand over my face and swallow back a groan.
Butfuck.
