Diablo doesn’t look at her.
He just guides me through the crowd like the club is a storm and he’s the only one who can get me through it. When we reach the hallway, he guides me up the stairs and pushes the door open with his shoulder. Pulls me inside his office.
The door slams behind us.
The noise drops to a muffled thump.
My breath catches like I’ve been running.
Diablo turns, eyes locked on me.
For a second he doesn’t move.
He just looks.
Like he’s taking inventory. Bruises. Fear. Anger. The way my hands are shaking even though I’m trying to keep them still.
“You didn’t shut her down,” I whisper.
My voice cracks. I hate that it does.
His jaw works like he’s chewing glass.
“Not in front of the room,” he says.
“That’s convenient.”
His gaze goes sharp.
“You think I don’t know what she did?” he asks, voice low. “You think I didn’t feel her pulling that stunt like she stabbed me right in the heart?”
“Then why did you let it happen?”
He takes one step closer.
Because even in here, with the door shut, he moves like the whole world is watching. Like he’s trained to control every inch of space he takes up.
“Because she wanted you to run,” he says. “She wanted you to make a scene. She wanted you to look weak, look messy, look like a problem I can’t manage.”
I laugh, bitter and shaking. “And you proved her right.”
His eyes flash.
“No,” he says. “I proved I’m not giving her a public show she can use against you.”
Against me.
The words hit wrong. Too protective. Too intimate.
Too late.
I cross my arms over my chest like it can hold me together.
“I’m not your problem,” I snap.
His gaze drops to my collarbone, to the bruise.
His expression changes.
