His reply? Radio silence.
And I deserve it for being an asshole who plays with people's feelings.
Richard's been a ghost at home, swallowed by work, but when he shows up, it's back to our usual routine—the dinner, the how-was-your-day.
When he pries about the trip, I always dodge it because I'm not sure how much I want to burn into ashes.
He might smell that I got too close to the fire, though. He's been distant and snarky.
When he saw me glued to my screen, he asked about my work, and I vaguely mentioned the love-triangle plot. He looked at me like I should do way better with my free time. So, I lied—shocker, I know—called it "just an idea."
Truth? I'm halfway through weaponizing Tessa's undignified heart.
My editor calls it searing, says I've never written like this before. I'd take it as a compliment if I knew where her desire ends and mine begins.
Now I'm on a call with Lucy.
She's buried in preps for her exhibition, but humors my pitch about spilling to Richard, crunching something to it—probably popcorn for the suspense.
"You think Richard will be fine with that ego shatter? Girl, you're asking a shark for swimming lessons. On your period," she jokes darkly.
I roll my eyes. "He's not a monster."
"I'm all for you divorcing him, but—"
"But he should know."
"Do. Not. Tell. Him," she says, teeth sharp even over the phone.
I roll my eyes again and sigh loudly. "Alright. I won't tell him."
"Good. Anyway, thought you were done with the Da Vinci's fuckboy?"
"He's not a fuckboy," I groan, tipping my head back in my office chair. And honestly? I doubt a toy would've been better.
"I know. You're still into him," she teases while eating.
"I'm not."
"Oh my god, you're so into him, you're practically vibrating through the phone," she shrieks. "How was it after all this time?"
"Eeeh... Good."
"Good?! Come on, you're a writer." A pause. "Were there violins? Did a small Italian cherub with Ben's face descend from the heavens singing 'That's Amore'?"
She actually sings it, full blast, straight into my ear.
I groan, tempted to reach through the phone and smack her. "You're the most annoying person I've ever loved."
"I know you've replayed it more times than that Bridgerton sex scene you swear you don't rewatch," she says, smug.
"I don't—and Idon't!"
Both lies, but Ben's kiss? Intrusive. It plays in my mind fifty times a day, and every grounding trick my therapist taught me isuseless against him.
"Sure you don't," Lucy mocks. "So? Tongue poetry of jaw domination?"
Flash—Ben's finger gently brushing the hollow of my lip.
