A rejection response.
That’s what this is.
My body registering incompatible tissue, preparing to attack the foreign presence that doesn’t belong.
Except I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
I’m the one sitting in a car across the street like a goddamn psychopath while my secretary has dinner with someone who makes her smile.
The man says something and Bree throws her head back laughing.
She’s never laughed like that around me.
Not since that first night.
And why would she? I’ve spent weekstreating her like garbage. Micromanaging her into oblivion. Taking credit for her work. Sending her for coffee like she’s nothing more than hired help.
I did this.
And this is my reward.
Watching her be happy with someone else through a tinted car window.
“Indira.” My voice sounds like gravel. “How long have we been here?”
She checks the dashboard clock. “Forty-seven minutes, sir.”
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been sitting in this car for almost an hour watching my secretary on a date.
What is wrong with me?
“Sir.” Callahan again. Still neutral. But there’s something in his voice that might be concern. “Perhaps we should return to the residence.”
“No,” I hiss.
Inside the wine bar, the man reaches across the table fully takes Bree’s hand now. As in, actually holding it. Bree doesn’t pull away.
The same hand I kissed in her apartment when we were tangled in her sheets and nothing else existed except her skin under my mouth.
He doesn’t know her.
Not like I do.
He doesn’t know anything.
And she’s letting him touch her anyway.
Ninety minutes. We sit there for ninety agonizing minutes while Bree and this man share wine and laughter. My driver and my head of security say nothing. They don’t have to. I can feel their judgment oozing from the front seats.
Finally, mercifully, Bree and the man stand up.
My heart rate spikes.
They walk toward the door. He holds it open for her. His hand rests on the small of her back as they walk onto the sidewalk.
They start heading east. Toward Sixth Avenue. Toward the subway.
