I don’t feel the cold. I’m filled with red-hot rage. The flames of hell are crackling behind my eyes.
The crazy has come.
I spent all yesterday holding it back because I didn’t get to go home, and now… I can’t hold back anymore. All my crazy is about to spew out of me. The mask is off.
I point at him. “You,” I snarl. I sound demonic.
He raises a brow.
“You did this on purpose.”
There it is—a flash of something cracking his world-renowned poker face. Regret, maybe? Guilt?
I don’t care.
I’m done reading him. His moods, his whims, his needs... I’ve catalogued everything about him for four years, eleven months, and twenty-six days, and no more! It doesn’t matter how hot he is. How much I live for his zingers and stern reprimands. I’ve studied his microexpressions and read way, way too much into them… for the last time!
“I give you everything. I only asked for one thing—one thing! But noooo. You’re so miserable, you can’t stand the holidays. And you’re such a Grinch, you can’t stand for anyone else to be happy. You want to drag me down with you. Well, not today, Satan. Not today and not any day hereafter!”
Now he’s raised both of his brows. I sound deranged, but dammit, I don’t care.
My fingers are cold and stiff, and it takes a few tries, but I pry open the clasp of the limited edition Rolex he bought for me on the first anniversary of our working together and hold it out to him.
“What is this?” His poker face is back.
“I’m done,” I say, shaking the watch at him. “No more late nights. No more working lunches. No more missed weekends because you just had to fly to Shanghai on Friday. Take it.”
“That was a gift.”
“And I’m returning it.”
He makes no move to take the watch, so I set it down on a side table. I could sell it for a few hundred thousand dollars, but pride dictates that I give it back.
Good riddance.
No, not good riddance. Bad riddance. The worst riddance.
A pox on him and his house!
I spin on my heel and march away.
“Where are you going?” the Dread Lord calls after me. Ideally, his voice would be tinged with worry, but no, his tone is still perfectly bland. He doesn’t care about me. He never has.
And I’m done pretending it doesn’t hurt.
“Anywhere away from you.” Now I sound like a teenager. I march into the closest room, a dining room with a mahogany table that could seat twenty, and slam the door so hard I hear a picture frame fall in the hall.
Then I change my mind and reopen the door to walk back into the foyer. It ruins my grand exit, but I don’t care. I ignore Piers and head to the closet to pull out my coat.
“I’m leaving.” I move to the front door. The cold metal burns my palm, but I tug and tug until I remember he locked it.
I need to get it together. I’m so incensed, I’m not thinking clearly, and I need all my wits to stand against the Dread Lord.
His hand slams against the door before I can undo the lock and try again. “Wellesley, be sensible. You can’t leave. I arranged for a helicopter to pick you up, but the pilot is still snowed in. The roads won’t open for at least a day.”
“Then I’ll walk to the village.” I’m making threats I can’t follow through on, but this is a matter of pride.
“In your Christmas kitten socks?” He glances down at my feet. He doesn’t smirk, but my skin prickles in embarrassment anyway.
