Chapter 11
The Breaking Point
Jenna
The following week is brutal. Ian keeps his demands high, driving me hard when I’m at his place, keeping me until late in the evenings.
“Can I please have a day off?” I ask on Thursday night when I’m in the entryway, about to leave. Exhaustion is about to get the better of me. I can barely stand up straight.
Ian grabs my chin, and there’s that rush again.
A desire so strong that tears brim in my eyes.
I’ve been feeling so out of sorts lately that I need his steady touch to calm me.
But I only get it in fleeting moments like these.
I have to settle for his sharp authority instead.
It steadies me as long as it’s there, but the moment he’s gone, I’m drifting again, unable to find my footing in anything.
He studies me with a hard expression. “Do you want this?”
“I do.” So, so much.
He makes a clipped nod and releases me. “Come here straight after work tomorrow.”
Defeat and relief war in my sleep-deprived mind as I walk to the bus. I’m not sure I can take one more night. But I also don’t know if I can stand another day away from Ian.
At work the next day, I’m exhausted and unfocused. I spill coffee on a customer, drop a plate full of food, and almost fall asleep in the bathroom.
“You need to up your game,” my manager says, taking me aside when my shift is over. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. Whatever it is, you need to fix it, or I’ll have to let you go.”
My chest constricts, and that latent sense of terror that has been eating at me ever since I saw Killian again roars to life.
When I’m sitting on the bus early in the evening, I can barely breathe, and when I get off and walk up to the gate in front of the big white house, my vision is blurry, the world closing in around me.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Ian asks when he lets me in.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling well.”
He lowers his voice to a warning tone. “Do you need to go home?”
“No, no. I just need to sit for a moment. Please.” That last word comes naturally. Even though I feel physically ill, my mind in a state of emergency, the need to please him remains strong as ever.
Pressing a hand to the small of my back, he leads me down the corridor, into the music room.
It takes everything I have not to lean further into him and collapse against his strong body.
He has all the confident stability and strength I’m lacking.
But he can’t be that person. I can’t risk this opportunity by crossing a line and letting him see just how badly I want him.
“Sit,” he says, leading me to the couch instead of the piano. He leaves the room and returns a minute later with a glass of orange juice and a bowl of chocolate squares that he sets on the coffee table. “You need some sugar.”
I drink and eat in silence while he stands before me, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like a hawk. It’s unnerving but also oddly reassuring.
“Thank you,” I say when I’m done and my head has cleared somewhat. “I’m really sorry about this. It’s just…” I trail off. He’s not interested in my problems.
“What happened?” he insists.
“It’s nothing. Just personal issues.” Shame twists my stomach at the thought of all my failures. I can’t even keep a simple waitress job.
“What happened?” he repeats, sharpening his tone.
Averting my gaze, I clear my throat and draw a deep sigh. “My boss threatened to fire me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I glance up, and everything inside me withers at the sight of his hard expression—even more severe than before, I realize as I notice the tense muscles in his jaw.
Is he mad?
I think he is when he points at the piano and gives me a clipped, “Play.”
His indifference hurts more than I care to admit, and for the next hour, I’m fighting off tears as he pushes me hard at the piano.
My playing hasn’t been very good lately. If anything, it seems like I’m regressing despite all the lessons and practice. No matter how hard I try, I can’t do better. I’m just too sleep-deprived. It’s embarrassing, and I’m wondering why he hasn’t already written me off.
When he ends the lesson abruptly, I think that’s what’s about to happen.
“Go home,” he says, interrupting my playing in the middle of a passage.
I shake my head in utter desperation, my lips quivering.
“Seven thirty tomorrow morning,” he says.
The relief of that last addition barely helps.
I don’t know if I can make it through another full day of practice.
When I get home, I’m so sick with worry that I can’t sleep.
But even knowing I’m headed straight for failure, I also can’t give up.
If Ian gives me another chance, I’ll quit my job myself.
I might end up on the streets, but I can’t go back now that I’ve finally regained some hope.