Willow caresses it lovingly, nearly a quarter-million dollars sparkling against her skin. “Connor’s so considerate,” she swoons.
My heart skips a beat as Connor’s eyes meet mine.
“It’s like Rose’s jewel inTitanic,” Lucia trills. “How does this grand gesture make you feel, Willow?”
“I love it,” Willow gushes breathlessly.
“Connor clearly believes you’re his diamond of the sea,” Lucia coos. She turns her attention to Connor. “Come on, don’t be shy. When are you putting a ring on it?”
He stares at her as if she’s speaking Klingon. A hush falls over the room. I was expecting a smooth comeback from him, like in every other interview I’ve seen him in.
“Connor?” Lucia prompts, her smile turning razor-sharp.
Still nothing. Connor wipes at his brow, confusion etched across his rugged face.
My heart remains lodged in my throat.
All of a sudden, his body jerks forward, his chair screeching like nails on a chalkboard. His knuckles grip the armrests like a vise, tendons standing out. There’s a caged, almost panicked intensity in his eyes that contradicts his usually cool demeanor.
My stomach drops. Something’s way off. The Connor Quinn we all thought was unflappable looks like he’s on the edge of a cliff.
Lucia tosses another fluffy question into the mix. Connor’s face turns to stone, and then he’s on his feet as if he’s just touched a live wire. “We’re done here,” he declares, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The studio descends into mute chaos.
With a violent yank, he tears off his microphone, cables snapping in the tense silence.
Then he’s out, marching off the set, leaving behind a wake of stunned confusion.
Lucia’s smile wavers for a moment. “Well, folks, looks like our city’s most eligible bachelor didn’t come to chat about love today!”
The studio feels ready to rupture with tension. Everyone trades freaked looks, like their charming prince morphed into the Hulk before their eyes.
Whispers explode all around me. Some outright label him as an asshole as he strides away. It’s not the most catastrophic thing to happen on live TV, but it’s far from ideal.
Willow makes a feeble attempt to salvage the situation with a nervous, forced laugh. “Oh, Connor, always so grumpy on Mondays!” But the train already derailed.
I feel horrified for Willow, left to deal with the fallout. Lucia does her best to pivot, cracking a joke about “men leaving us to pick up the pieces,” then shifts the spotlight to Willow’s fashion ambassador gig.
But this meltdown isn’t about Connor hating Mondays. His reaction is too extreme, too visceral. Storming off like that goes against everything he puts out for the world to see. It makes absolutely no sense why those questions triggered such a strong reaction.
On impulse, I dash after him. “Connor, hold up!”
He’s barreling through the studio, not bothering to look back.
My heels click furiously as I try to catch up. “Slow down, will you?”
When I finally catch his arm, forcing him to face me, he looks like he’s ready to breathe fire. “Just go back to Willow.”
I scowl right back, hands on hips. “You don’t have to be a raging jerk just because you’re in a pissy mood. What the hell is your problem?”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “You’re pushing it. I did their bullshit interview. I’m done.”
“You just made things worse back there!” I shoot back, exasperated.
He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight like I’m giving him a headache.
I stare at him in disbelief. “What is going on with you? I know you can be a jerk, but this is extreme.”
