"No," I say. I stare at the screen, at the evidence of my own stupidity for trusting him. "That’s too quick."
"Blair—"
"He wanted me weak," I say, turning to look at her. "He wanted me dependent. He thought I was nothing without him."
The sound of the front door opening stops our conversation. The air in the room changes. It thickens, charged with a sudden, overwhelming pressure as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Gabriel.
He walks into the room and doesn’t even bother looking at Harper before his gaze zeroes in on me. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made just for him, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks lethal. He looks exhausted.
His gray eyes sweep the room, taking everything in. He clocks the tension, the laptop, Harper’s murder-face.
"Miss Sinclair," he greets with a nod.
"Gabriel," Harper replies, standing up straighter and refusing to use her manners. It’s something I love about her, how she just gives no fucks.
Gabriel crosses the room to me. He doesn't ask if I’m okay. He steps into my personal space, his large hand cupping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. The touch is grounding. Possessive.
"Tell me," he commands.
"He stole from me," I say. I don't stutter. I don't cry. "For two years. Ryder used my admin access to transfer over forty thousand dollars out of my account. And he emailed my biggest prospects telling them I was unstable to kill the deals."
Gabriel goes still.
It’s a terrifying kind of stillness. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. His thumb stops moving against my skin.
"Show me," he says.
I turn the laptop toward him. He scans the statements. He reads the emails. His face reveals nothing, but the air around him radiates with violence.
"I’ll handle it," he says. His voice is a low rumble, dark and final. "He won’t have a penny left by morning. I’ll bury him so deep he’ll need a miracle to find sunlight."
"No."
Gabriel looks down at me, his brow furrowing slightly. "No?"
I stand up. I’m still in his t-shirt, barefoot, looking up at a man who could crush my ex-boyfriend with nothing more than a phone call.
But I’m not asking for a savior.
"This is mine," I tell him. "He didn't steal from you, Gabriel. He stole fromme. He tried to destroymylife."
I step closer, placing my hand on his chest. I can feel his heart beating—slow, steady, powerful.
"I don't want you to fix it," I say, looking into those steel eyes. "I want to be the one who breaks him. I want to watch the light go out of his eyes when he realizes he lost to the girl he thought was nothing."
Gabriel stares at me.
For a second, I think he’s going to argue. I think he’s going to tell me to sit down and let the men handle it.
But then, his eyes darken. The pupils blow wide, swallowing the gray.
He likes it.
He likes the rage. He likes the darkness in me.
His hand tightens on my neck, pulling me closer until our bodies are pressed together.
