Why didn’t she tell me the truth? Does she not trust me?
“The motherfucking rules,” I snap at myself.
I came up with them. She’s only sticking to them. So why are they feeling like a noose around my neck?
An hour later, I’m parking outside her building and stepping out. The doorman mutters a good afternoon, letting me inside. My foot taps nonstop on the floor of the elevator as it climbs to her floor. When the door opens enough for me to slip outside, I get out and pause outside her door.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
Nobody answers.
Is she even home or did she lie?
I stab the doorbell thrice in a row.
Long tense beats pass before I finally hear soft footfalls on the other side. She takes ages to come, not helping the dread gripping my lungs.
The door creaks open to reveal Arya clad in a pink fluffy robe and matching slippers with bunnies on them. Her hair wet like she came straight from the shower. Hence, the delay in answering the door.
I gulp in my first relieved breath.
The peace is short-lived after one look at her face. Her lively eyes are haunted and red-rimmed, her nose a dark pink, and her cheeks are ashen.
She’s been crying.
Who would dare to make her cry? They’ve just signed their death warrant.
Her jaw goes slack upon seeing me. She stumbles back, giving me enough room to enter and shut the door behind me.
The banging noise jerks her out of the stupor. “N-Nathan, what are you doing here? I told you I am—”
“The name.”
“What?” she sputters.
“The name of the person who made you cry, Ari,” I repeat. “Don’t bullshit me that you’re sick.”
Her hand flies to her right cheek, checking for lingering tears and giving away the confirmation. And that’s when I notice her palm. They’re a dark pink like from when someone scrubs for too long.
Fury boils in my veins at whoever caused her to do this.
“I’m fine. Just feeling under the weather.”
“You’re not fine.” I capture her wrist and turn it over so we’re both staring at her hand. “Explain.”
“I accidentally touched my hair straightener while it was hot,” she blatantly lies, avoiding my gaze. Freeing her wrist, she says in a small voice, “You shouldn’t have wasted your time coming here. Go back to your office.”
My attention catches on her arm, where the robe’s sleeve has risen. The state of her forearm is the same as her palm, along with scratches.
Was she hurting herself in the shower? Something tells me it’s not just her arms. When she shifts on her feet and tightens the collar, my stomach twists.
I reach for her robe.
She swats my hand away. “I’m not in the mood for sex, Nathan.”
“I’m not here to fuck.” Does she think of me that low? That I would try to sleep with her while she’s vulnerable and sad.
You haven’t exactly given her any other impression.
