“Why?” The question is simple, but loaded, and I sit my cup down on the counter, curling my fingers around it. Savoring the warmth on my cold hands.
“Money got tight,” I admit finally, averting my eyes and giving him a shrug. “I did what I had to do.”
I peek up at him. But to my surprise, there’s no judgement in his eyes, and he nods as if he understands.
“That’s when you borrowed money from Giovanni?”
“Mhm.” I sip at my coffee, pulling open the mystery bag and my jaw drops at the sight of donuts inside.
“And you defaulted?”
The question has me shifting anxiously in my seat, but a quick glance at Koen reveals no emotions—no judgement.
“Not my intention,” I start. He arches a brow, and my defense flares. “I broke my ankle, couldn’t waitress and couldn’t dance. With an eight-week recovery, it wasn’t hard to fall behind,” I bite out, peering up at him to gauge his reaction, but he’s just staring at me. If I’m not mistaken, his jaw seems tenser.
“By all means, continue with your interrogation.”
“This isn’t an interrogation.”
“Are you sure? Because it feels an awful lot like an interrogation to me.”
“I brought donuts.”
I blink up at him. “Are you saying this can’t be an interrogation because you brought donuts?”
“Yes,” he confirms, reaching into the bag and biting into a Boston Creme.
“Pretty sure cops and donuts are synonymous.”
He shakes his head. “Cops wouldn’t give you donuts if they were interrogating you.”
“And how would you know? Spend some time in an interrogation room?” My tone is teasing but his answer is immediate.
“Yes.”
I immediately regret the question, and a tense silence fills the room.
“Oh.”
Koen pushes up off the island, rising to his full height.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, you’re free to go about your day. I’ll pick you up later tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask warily before adding, “I’m supposed to work.”
Koen’s gaze darkens and I resist the urge to shrink back in my chair. “Where?” The word comes out as more of a growl than anything else.
“The club,” I reply, softly.
“You don’t work there anymore.”
My mouth drops.
“While you’re mine, you’re only working for me.”
Annoyance flares at the audacity he has thinking he can just dictate my whole life now. “I have to work! And I have classes to teach at the Conservatory.”
“Cancel them.” His phone chimes and his attention drops to it. His words coming out like an afterthought, not realizing I’m growing more and more irritable by the second, and how quickly I’m starting to spiral.
