The thought makes my vision go red for a split second. I crush it down, but it's always there, festering and taunting me, reminding me that I'll never deserve her. I can fuck my way into her soul. I can ruin her for any other man. I can destroy anyone who tries to touch her. But none of that will ever change reality.
In two weeks, she won't be mine anymore.
What the fuck am I supposed to do then?
My hands curl into fists on my thighs, the question pinging around my head like there's some answer that'll satisfy me.
I glance at her, daring her to ask what my problem is. Of course she doesn't. She's locked away in her own head, pretending she isn't watching my reflection in the window.
We taxi and take off in silence. She doesn't look at me once, not even when the city falls away, leaving nothing but darkness below. I watch her profile, the way she chews the inside of her cheek, the way her fingers drum an angry rhythm against the armrest.
The stewardess brings the dinner I ordered in advance—two rare steaks with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
"Don't interrupt us until we're landing," I instruct the stewardess before she can walk away.
"Yes, sir."
Brielle doesn't touch the steak. She pokes at her vegetables with her fork, stabbing at them like she wishes they were my face.
I pour her a glass of wine and slide it across the table between us. "You need to eat," I say. "I don't want you passing out mid-flight."
She slams the fork down, the tines nearly bending. "Where are you taking me?"
"Los Angeles," I say. "We're holding a talent showcase. If you're going to be in this business, you need to see how they work, so you know when to jump on talent and when to walk."
"Bullshit," she snorts. "You probably haven't recruited talent yourself in years. We're only going because you want to control every second of my life."
I smile, amused at how well she knows me. "I don't need to control every second, princess. Just the ones that matter."
She lifts the glass, her eyes never leaving mine, and drinks. She doesn't sip. She chugs, like she wants to drown herself in the wine.
"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask, genuinely curious about which of my sins finally pushed her over the edge. It should have been the car accident, but even after she woke up in the hospital, she still looked at me like I was the only thing she wanted. And I was more convinced than ever that I was the last thing she needed.
She glares at me like she thinks I should already know the answer. "Because you won't let me go."
I laugh. It's not funny, not really, but out of everything I've done to make her hate me—all the fucked-up things I did to earn her hate—the thing that pushed her to the brink was my own inability to let her go. It's so fucking ironic, I have to laugh.
"It's not that funny," she sniffs.
"It is. We both know you don't want to go, Brielle."
"Keep on believing that then," she says, but there's no conviction in it. Just exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection.
"You're beautiful when you're angry." It's the kind of line I'd mock anyone else for using, but I mean it. She is so goddamn beautiful when she's angry.
She grabs the fork again, twirling it in her fingers, then points it at my chest. "If you keep talking, I'll stab you. Don't think I won't."
I lean forward, folding my hands on the table. "Go ahead. But if you do, make sure you hit my heart, princess. If you don't, you'll pay for it until you can't fucking walk."
She doesn't blink. "You're insane."
"Probably."
She sighs, like she's trying to decide whether she wants to kiss me or kill me. "What do you want, Asher?"
Everything,I think, but I don't say it.
"I want you to eat your steak," I say instead.
