Chapter 16
Sixteen
Dagen
There’s a crying woman in my arms and I don’t know exactly what to do about it, but I do know something about panic attacks.
I spent a sizable portion of my teenage years fighting them before I learned the proper coping mechanisms for me.
I don’t know what will work for Ava, but I can try my best to help.
This isn’t the time to be losing our heads, even if I don’t blame her for it.
She’s made it this far. She had the courage to bring me into her situation, and honestly, this little game we’re playing is fun for me.
Well. . . not this part. I could do without the sobbing.
She’d been on the floor already when I came in, water staining her outfit, her arm red and raw from scrubbing where I can only assume he must have grabbed her.
Her coworkers are outside, worried for her, emotions that only heightened when I’d told them to wait outside while I took care of this.
The women had nearly bludgeoned me when I suggested I come in to help, saying another man wouldn’t make the situation any better.
I’d had to promise I wasn’t here to hurt Ava.
That I was here to make things better. Still, they’d given me five minutes before they were coming in behind me.
“Breathe in for me,” I say as I hold her against my chest. She’s practically in my lap now as we sit on the floor of the ladies’ bathroom in a small restaurant I’ve never been to.
It’s nothing fancy, just some burrito place, but at least the restroom is clean.
“Good,” I encourage when she starts trying to follow my directions. “Hold it. Now let it out. Again.”
I repeat my words, breathing with her, forcing her heart rate to slow until she’s coherent enough that her tears start to dry up.
“We’re sitting on the floor,” she sniffs.
“We are,” I nod, still holding her.
“You’re going to ruin your suit.”
“Nothing dry cleaning won’t fix,” I reassure her. “Now, I need you to take in another deep breath for me. Five counts. Then let it out for five counts. Ready?”
She nods and together, we breathe in and out, in and out, until she’s calm enough to pull away and give me space.
Part of me. . . dislikes it. I’d grown comfortable holding her, but the distance she puts between us reminds me that we’re business partners, that I’m essentially her boss.
We shouldn’t be wrapped around each other.
“Oh no,” she rasps, taking in the tears all over my suit, not to mention the wet spots from the water she’d practically bathed in and the smears of makeup. “I’ve definitely ruined that. It probably costs so much. . .”
“Don’t worry about the suit, Ava,” I remind her. “It’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry,” she croaks. “This is terribly unprofessional—”
“We’re far past professional, I think,” I answer before getting to my feet. I reach down and help her up behind me, steading her when she wobbles on her feet. “Panic attacks are relatively common, especially with those who have PTSD.”
“I don’t have PTSD,” she counters, glancing at herself in the mirror before a distressed look stretches across her face. She immediately tries to fix her disheveled hair and her makeup.
“You mean you’ve never been diagnosed with PTSD,” I point out. “You most assuredly do. It’s common after extended contact with a narcissist.”
She glances at me in the mirror as if remembering what I’d said about my mother. “Did you have panic attacks?” she whispers.
I could lie. It’s not information I’ve ever told anyone, but for some reason, I nod as I reach for a paper towel and wet it. I step up to her and start wiping at the smeared mascara running down her cheeks. She freezes as I do so, stricken by my attention, her eyes on mine.
“My anxiety was so bad at one point, I was having at least one panic attack a day. Turns out, there are coping mechanisms.”
“Such as?” she asks, her pretty eyes watching mine carefully. Despite the episode she’d just had, despite the fear I’d heard in her voice when she called, there’s no wobble now. This is a strong woman. This is a woman determined to survive.
“Repeat the things you know are true, and before your mind runs away with scenarios, you stop the attack in its tracks. It takes practice, but it’s possible. Healing is a long journey, and sometimes, you take two steps back when you take one step forward, but it’s worth it to try.”
I finish cleaning the mascara off her face and toss the napkin in the trash before washing my hands in the sink.
She watches me the entire time, her gaze cutting right through me.
I can’t tell if I like it or not. It feels like she’s dissecting me, and I can’t stand to be perceived. Being a mystery is easier.
“You know,” she whispers, “I didn’t realize billionaires could be so. . . human.”
I pause because her words are so. . . surprised.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. In this moment, I could crack a joke.
I could remind her that this is just business, that I’m just trying to entertain myself.
I could lie through my teeth, lie to myself, say that I don’t find Ava interesting, that I don’t find her intriguing.
I was right. We’ve long passed the time for professionalism.
We passed that when she asked me to help her get revenge on her husband, but that doesn’t mean I should go sprinting even further in the wrong direction.
I’ve never been great at refusing things I want.
And right now, I really fucking want Ava.
I shouldn’t. I’m no less ruthless than the man she is running from.
But she doesn’t know that. And despite her splotchy face and disheveled clothes, she’s still beautiful, even in this fluorescent lighting.
What the hell is wrong with me that I want to be the reason her face is splotchy?
Why is it I want to change her perception of pain?
“We all bleed red,” I finally answer, before drying my hands and looking away from her tantalizing eyes. Before I do something she’ll regret.