Focus, Lia.
You are quiet. You are strong. You are not buckling.
Without saying a word, I pick up a folder and start flipping through it. Every so often, I can feel Beave’s eyes on me, but I continue to look through template after template. All of them are far too fancy to even consider. I don’t want something super stuffy. It can be pretty, but gold filigree seems a bit much.
Lifting my head, I ask the owner, “Do you happen to have anything that isn’t as fancy?”
“Excuse me?” The Beave asks. “What do you mean not so fancy?”
Do I answer?
I was told to be quiet.
Would Huxley answer?
Or would he just stare?
I think he would just stare.
So that’s what I do. I stare at her.
“Ophelia, I asked you a question.”
I know, but I’m supposed to just stare, so . . . that’s what I do, as sweat creeps up my neck, because this staring thing is hard.
The Beave must pick up on what I’m doing because she folds her hands in front of her and stares back.
Oh God!
It’s a stare off.
Breaker did not prepare me for this.
Why did he choose this moment to go to the bathroom? He had a chance when we went back to the apartment to change. This is poor peeing management on his end, leaving me here like this, all alone with a teaspoon of confidence in what I’m doing.
And boy, is she good.
Really fucking good.
Those beady eyes stare back at me. She recognizes it’s a showdown, and if I know this woman like I think I do, she won’t back down. Huxley might be the king of not talking, but man, oh man, it looks like The Beave can run a master class on it.
Just look at the way her eyes remain steady.
Not a twitch.
Not a fidget.
Meanwhile, over here, I’m a party of one, heading straight into the fiery pits of hell as I attempt to hold steady. But I’m wilting.
I can feel it.
There’s too much silence.
It’s killing me.
I’m going to break.
I’m going to snap.
