I’d made her forget about him. At least for a few hours.
“Everything okay?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended. Husky with sleep and something darker.
She spun to face me, and the expression on her face was pure panic. Eyes too wide, breathing too fast, color draining from her cheeks. For a split second, I saw real fear there, and it wasn’t fear of me.
It was fear of whoever was on that phone.
“There was a break-in,” she blurted out, the lie tumbling from her lips so fast I almost believed it. Almost. “At my mansion. Security just called. I need to go.”
I sat up slowly, watching her scramble for her clothes. Her blouse from last night. The skirt I’d unzipped with my teeth. She was lying. The words came too quick, too rehearsed, like she’d had this excuse ready before she’d even answered the phone.
“A break-in,” I repeated flatly. “Are you—”
“I’m fine. It’s just…they need me there. My father’s going to freak out, and I need to—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Just grabbed her boots from where they’d been kicked off in the hallway, her movements jerky and desperate.
I should’ve called her on it. Should’ve demanded the truth. Should’ve told her I saw the name on her screen, heard the way that bastard spoke to her like he owned her.
But something in her eyes stopped me. Something broken and ashamed and so tired it made my chest ache.
“Let me drive you,” I offered, already swinging my legs out of bed.
“No!” The word came out too sharp, too panicked. She softened her tone, tried again. “No, it’s fine. I’ll call a car. You should go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
She was at the bedroom door now, fully dressed except for her hair, still tangled from my hands, from the pillow, from the way I’d fisted it while she’d—
Stop. Focus.
“Barbara….”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then she was gone.
I walked back to the bed and sat there in the sudden silence, my penthouse feeling emptier than it ever had before.The sheets still smelled like her, jasmine and something sweeter, something that was just her. My lips still tasted like her skin. My body still hummed with the memory of her wrapped around me, moving with me, falling apart beneath my hands.
And she’d lied straight to my face.
“Fuck.” I raked both hands through my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. “Fuck.”
She’d cheated on her boyfriend. With me. Had him waiting for her last night while she was here, in my bed, doing things that probably would’ve made that bastard lose his mind if he knew.
And instead of feeling guilty, instead of feeling like the piece of shit I probably was, I felt something else entirely.
I felt like a creep.
Not because of what we’d done, that had been mutual, desperate, two people who’d wanted each other past the point of sanity. But because I’d known. The moment I saw that name flash on her screen, heard the way he spoke to her, watched her transform into someone small and scared, I’d known something was wrong.
And I’d let her leave anyway.
Let her walk out my door and back to whatever hell she was living in, because I was too much of a coward to demand answers. Too afraid of what those answers might reveal. Too fucking selfish to want to know the truth if it meant I couldn’t have her again.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting me from thoughts that were spiraling into territory I couldn’t afford to explore.
Reminder: Kamarov property inspection - 10:00 a.m.
Right. Work. The thing I was actually good at. The thing that made sense in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways.
I forced myself out of bed, away from sheets that still smelled like her, and into the shower. Let scalding water pound against my shoulders while I tried to wash away the confusion, the rage, the sick feeling in my gut that told me Barbara Davis was in more trouble than just a cheating boyfriend.
