He leans in.
And whispers: “Because if I didn’t walk away that night, I was going to fuck you against that mirror so hard you’d forget your own name.”
Silence swallows everything.
Even the music.
Even the room.
Even the part of me that used to be sane.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
But then—he does.
He steps back.
Air rushes in between us, cold and sharp.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” he says, voice flat now. Detached.
My heart drops.
“What does it matter?”
He lets out a humourless laugh. “Of course it matters.”
“Why? Because it ruins the fantasy? Because I’m not the sweet little butterfly you thought I was?”
“I never said you were sweet.”
“No. But you looked at me like I was. Like I was different.”
His jaw ticks.
Then he says it.
The words that slice. “I was wrong.”
I flinch.
Actually flinch.
And he sees it.
“Wow.” I breathe. “That’s what this is? You’re mad because I work here?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re furious.”
“I’m disappointed.”
Somehow that’s worse.
He crosses his arms, eyes scanning me with something colder than judgement. More like erasure.
