Page 60 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
I grab another photo — from that summer when we went to visit his parents. It was a rare break from all the work we were doing, and at the time it was one of the best weeks of my life, getting to enjoy the closeness of his family, the way they accepted me like I was one of them.
Was it all a lie? Was Oscar always this calculating, this ruthless? Did he just keep it all under wraps? Is he some kind of sociopath?
I don't know anymore. And that uncertainty hurts almost as much as the betrayal itself.
The smoke from the pot grows thicker, and I realize I should probably open a window. But as I turn to do so, a loud knock at the front door startles me.
I glance at the clock — it's after nine. Who would be visiting this late?
Another insistent knock. "Alice! Hey, it’s me!"
Sydney. I'd forgotten she was coming over. She texted earlier, something about bringing hugs and junk food, but in my wine-soaked misery, it slipped my mind.
I hurry to the door and open it to find Sydney standing with a sympathetic look and a tote bag of goodies.
"How you holding up?” she asks.
"Poorly. I’m sorry, Syd. I’m so sorry about your job. I have news, though, and I can–”
She sniffs the air. "Is something burning?"
My eyes widen as I suddenly remember the pot. "Shit!"
We both rush toward the kitchen just as the smoke detector starts its ear-splitting wail. The smoke from the pot has turned from thin wisps to thick clouds, and to my horror, the hand towels hanging on the microwave handle and dangling over the counter have caught fire, flames licking upward toward the wooden cabinets.
"Oh my God!" Sydney shrieks. "Fire extinguisher?"
"Under the sink!" I shout.
She emerges with it, fumbling with the pin as I grab a pot lid to try to smother the flames in the ceramic pot. The towels are still burning, and panic rises in my throat as the flames climb higher.
Sydney finally gets the extinguisher working and directs a spray of white foam at the burning towels. The chemical smell mixes with the smoke, making me cough as I back away from the stove.
It takes only seconds for the foam to extinguish the flames, but it feels like hours. When it's over, we stand in my kitchen, panting, surrounded by smoke and the white residue of the fire extinguisher covering every surface.
The smoke detector continues its persistent beeping until Sydney grabs a broom and pokes at it to make it stop. The sudden silence is almost as jarring as the noise.
"What," Sydney says, setting down the extinguisher, "the actual hell, Alice?"
“I know. I can’t believe I didn’t think about the dish towels. I’m a mess.”
I stare at the chaos — the half-burned photos still visible in the pot, the charred remains of my kitchen towels, the white foam dripping from my cabinets onto the floor — and something inside me breaks.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, high-pitched and edging on hysterical. "I was— I was trying to burn photos of Oscar," I manage between gasps of laughter that quickly morph into sobs. "And I almost burned down my kitchen instead."
"Oh, honey." Sydney's arms are around me in an instant, and I collapse into her embrace, tears flowing freely now.
"I'm a disaster," I sob against her shoulder. "A complete and utter disaster."
"You're not a disaster," she says, stroking my hair. "You're just having a very bad day. Week. Whatever."
“Life,” I correct.
She guides me back to the living room and sits me down on the couch, then disappears into the kitchen. I hear the sound of windows opening, water running, the clatter of something being moved. A few minutes later, she returns with a glass of water and hands it to me.
"Drink this. You're dehydrated from all that wine."
“I didn’t drink that…” I notice the wine bottle, emptier than I thought it was, and close my mouth.
