It’s Morse code for war.
I’m. Going. To. Kill. Becker.
I spent the last twenty minutes rehearsing my speech.
This was supposed to be a strategic meeting.
Cold. Clean. Precise.
We were supposed to decide:
– When to release our first “couple” photo
– What excuse to use for our sudden closeness
– How to handle the press
– When to be seen together in Elm Hollow
Instead, the only item on my agenda is now:
Who the hell is that black lace bodysuit for and why are you smiling like an idiot on the Gazette’s front page?
I reach my office door.
Lila’s gone—probably fled after sensing my murder aura—and the door is cracked open.
I’m about to storm in and fling the newspaper at his head when I freeze.
A voice.
His voice.
But not the deep, arrogant, provocative one he uses with me.
Not the cool, detached one he uses with the press either.
This one is… soft.
Gentle.
Almost unrecognizable.
“Hey… don’t cry. I told you not to worry, didn’t I?”
My hand goes rigid on the handle.
Silence. He’s listening to someone.
“I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But I’m here, okay? I won’t let anything happen. I promised you.”
Sweetheart.
My stomach somersaults and lands face-first on concrete.
A soft exhale on the other side of the door.
“No. Don’t listen to him. You listen to me.”
