Chapter 8 #2
Which only makes it worse. Because I do understand. I understand exactly what this is doing to me. And I hate that he can see it. I hate that he’s watching it happen.
I hate that he’s still standing there like he’s already won something I haven’t agreed to give him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I bite out, my voice lower now but no less slicing.
I turn, walking past him, close enough to feel the heat of him, his presence, and the way my body is suddenly too aware of where he is in the room.
I hate that.
I hate it more than anything.
The decanter catches my eye and I’m heading toward it. My hand reaches for the glass already sitting beside it, fingers wrapping around it without asking.
I pour and just drink, taking a large swallow that is way too much for my constricting throat.
The burn punches hard, dragging down my throat, biting through my chest, and forcing a breath out of me that I didn’t realize I was holding.
Good.
I need that.
I set the glass down with more force than necessary, my hand lingering on the edge of the table for a second before I straighten again.
And then, I look at him.
Really look, which is my mistake.
Because he’s striking. Still striking in a way that commands.
The charcoal suit fits him like it was built for him. The open collar of his shirt exposes just enough to make my temperature rise. His posture hasn’t changed. His gaze hasn’t softened, it burns under my skin.
I swallow, shaking my head to throw the madness into the dark that I've kept it all these years.
I straighten, pulling myself back together, forcing my shoulders into place, forcing my breathing to smooth out.
“I’m not staying,” I announce. “Whatever this is, you’ve made your point. I saw you. You saw me. That’s where this ends.”
I walk past him again, turning toward the door, already done, already stepping away from this before it takes anything else from me.
“Dinner.” His dreamy voice stops me cold, sending shivers down my spine.
I close my eyes briefly, irritation flaring all over again before I turn back just enough to look at him.
“What?”
“I'm asking you out on a date.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like we’re discussing something normal. Reasonable.
“I’m busy, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a wedding I’m planning.”
“After the wedding.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Because there’s no way… No way he just said that.
After everything.
A bristled laugh escapes me, cutting through the tension instead of easing it.
“How is it that I’m seeing Daniel and you on the same day?” I ask, but it comes out thin. Strained. Like I’m trying to hold onto logic that’s already slipping through my fingers.
My mind starts racing, going back to that night. This isn't a coincidence. It can’t be.
Daniel doesn’t just happen into my life again. Robert doesn’t just appear in the same space.
Something about this feels wrong and carefully planned out.
Like I’ve walked into something I didn’t know was waiting for me.
My pulse picks up, my heart slamming hard against my chest, eyes flicking around the room, like I’m suddenly looking for something I can’t see but can feel.
“Is this another one of your sick deals?” I bite out, panic threading through it despite how much I try to keep it down.
“No.” He answers simply. Then, he lifts a brow, watching me too closely now. “Although, I find it strange that you’re planning your ex’s wedding.”
“Are you…” I scoff, the sound breaking out of me before I can stop it, anger flaring over the panic, covering it, shielding it. “Fuck you.”
“So you didn’t know it was his wedding.”
“What do you think?” I bite back.
“Good,” he purrs, like that settles something for him. “I know a place with a clam sauce to die for.”
For a second I just stare at him. Because that… that’s not random. That’s not something you say unless you remember.
And he does.
My stomach drops, everything inside me folds.
That night in the suite, somewhere between everything, when the air had gone still for a second and I could actually think, I had said it. Offhandedly, like it didn’t matter. Like he wouldn’t hold onto something that small.
I had told him it was my comfort food, if done right.
Why would he remember that?
Why would he keep that?
“You’re insane.”
“I’m asking you on a date, Bonbon.” His expression doesn’t change.
“No,” I answer immediately, leaving no space for misinterpretation. “And I am not your Bonbon.”
I shake my head once, already stepping back again, already rejecting it before it can wrap around me.
It took me months, years to even get past that night. Even now, it’s not gone. It just… doesn’t scream as loud.
Sometimes, when I’m watching a romance movie, or I pick up a novel thinking I can just enjoy it like before, the thought of what we could have been creeps in.
And it haunts me.
Because of him, I stopped reading my erotica. Stopped my dark romance. I shut that part of myself down completely.
I kept my dark side where it belongs… In the dark.
So no.
I place my hand on the glass door, and it slides open. But I don't cross the threshold yet.
“Wasn’t it enough for you the last time?” I ask, my voice edged, hurting.
He meets my gaze fully, like I didn’t just throw that at him, like he’s been waiting for something exactly like it.
“Bonbon,” he starts, the pet name untouched by everything I tried to put into that question. “I have a large appetite.”
My fingers curl into a fist, heat flashing through me.
I hate him.
“Fuck you.”