“Why?” My voice comes out thin and quiet. “Why did you do it?”
“You were so busy with your job. I needed more. It’s why I wanted you to marry me and quit.” His lips curl into a tight smile. “That’s what you want too, deep down. It’s the best thing for both of us, Gracie.”
I rip my hand from him. “God, do you even know me at all?”
“Listen, just...” He wipes a hand over his mouth as frustration flashes across his dark eyes. “... just come with me so we can talk about this.”
He grabs my arm and tries to pull me through the automatic glass doors out toward the street. There he goes again, dragging me wherever he wants to go, expecting me to silently, dutifully follow. Before I know what I’m doing my hand is up in a fist, flying toward his face. A blast of sharp heat runs through my whole arm and my knuckles bark in pain. William stumbles back, dropping the bouquet of roses so forcefully dark pink petals scatter all over the beige floor like an exploded flamingo, matching the color of his face as blood begins to trickle in a steady stream from his nose down his crisp white shirt.
He holds his bloodied hands out, shocked by what just happened. He takes in the damage, pinching his nose gingerly and then he lunges at me, mouth snarling as the blood lines his teeth.
I jolt back as a hand grabs William’s shoulder, balling his shirt into a fist. “I wouldn’t do that, mate,” a calm but firm voice comes from behind him. My shoulders lower at the sight of Dave the security guard, cool as can be.
“She attacked me! The bitch broke my nose!” William spits, nose still spewing thick red.
“No. You grabbed the nice lady and she defended herself,” Dave replies serenely.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” William stumbles, eyes jarringly wide as he tries to release himself from Dave’s grip.
“I suggest you leave now, sir, or I’ll have no choice but to call the police.” Dave guides him like a leashed toddler at Disneyland toward the glass doors.
My heart pounds as I watch William shrink away into the busy London street. The hate and shame and pity swell in my chest like a waterlogged drain as my brain tries to grasp his true nature. He so desperately needed to look like the knight in shining armor when all he really wanted to do was keep me locked up, where he could always find me, my only care to keep him happy.Myhappiness was only important when he deemed it so. People murmur around me and adrenaline races around my body, shaking my limbs like a wild animal slamming against the bars of its cage.
“Grace?” Eric’s smooth voice is a balm on my frazzled senses. “We should get you out of here.”
Eric looks around at the people lingering in the lobby and then holds a palm out for me. With my still functioning hand, I take it. My eyes are heavy as he carefully guides me past the last audience members into the lift.
A man in a suit strides up to the elevator doors, takes one look at our faces and says, “I’ll wait.”
The doors slide shut with a clang, followed by a quiet but oddly soothing whirring of the pulleys. We remain in silence until I lean against the support bar and examine my hand, hissing at the bruise already forming. The moment air escapes my mouth he is there, studying the marks, gently caressing my fingers resting on top of his. He brings my hand to his mouth and places a delicate kiss on the knuckle, then blinks his thoughts away.
“Sorry,” he half whispers when I blush. “Probably a stupid question but... are you OK?”
Everything that’s happened between us in the past few days flashes through my mind, and I’m back in the hotel room as he tenderly catalogs each part of me. He straightens his shoulders.
“I think so. It’ll heal,” I reply, studying the state of my dominant writing (and apparently punching) hand.
“Good.” He smiles softly. “But I meant areyouOK?”
Oh, he means am I going to transform into the shell of a person I was when I was with William? A cracked egg with no pan—broken, messy and useless. I gaze into his eyes, recognizing a depth of care and kindness in them I’ve never truly grasped before. If I was still a broken, messy, useless person, he would be here. He would wait for me to heal because that’s what he has been doing this whole time.
The words come out before I have a chance to catch them between my teeth. “I told them to choose you.”
My tone conveys a casualness more in the realm of “I told them you’ll have a Diet Coke,” not “I told them to give you the job we’ve both been fighting over for weeks.”
“What?” He blinks at me, mouth agape.
I nod. “I told them you were the right choice for the job.”
He puts both sets of fingers on his temples and rubs them in tiny circles. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but I do know. My foggy mind can’t compute why he wouldn’t be happy about getting the job of his dreams.
He sighs. “Itold them to chooseyou.”
“What? Why did you do that?” It turns out getting the shock of your life is a great way to alleviate pain from your recently injured hand.
He rolls his lips together and shakes his head, then turns to the metal sheet of glowing buttons on the wall and slams his palm against the big shiny red one. The quiet whirring ceases and I clutch the railing as we jolt to a stop.
