A painful sting sinks into my gut—deep, mean, personal. I give her the quickest glance and shake my head.
Pathetic. Even for me.
Her jaw tightens and for a split second I feel her disappointment like a slap. She turns around sharply, her posture stiff, shoulders tense. She marches away from the table and drops the tray onto the bar with a loud metallic clatter. The bartender startles, but she doesn’t care.
Without slowing down, Kiara pushes through the kitchen doors, slamming them open so hard they rattle before disappearing inside.
And I just sit there, staring at the papers I can’t read anymore, feeling that sharp ache dig deeper and deeper until it’s all I can focus on.
How the fuck am I going to explain this?
This meeting is never-ending.
We go through the conditions for another hour and Kiara never leaves the kitchen. I’m being weird for the rest of the meeting, but Sylvia fortunately doesn’t notice since I’m always a little weird anyway.
When it’s finally over, we shake hands and take all the papers, leaving the restaurant. I stop by the bar to leave the check, but Kiara is not there anymore.
Not that I could do anything if she was.
But the empty space where she should be makes me question it. A stupid, dull ache settles under my ribs. The kind that feels like punishment.
She’s somewhere behind those kitchen doors, probably furious, probably done with me, or confused. And I don’t know what she’s thinking.
?
As soon as the car stops in front of the house, I get out and head straight to my room, ripping off that stupid tie and shirt.
I can’t fucking breathe in this thing.
It’s like I have two personalities. The polished asshole son playing businessman, and the other one. Just me. Fucked up and unstable.
My hands shake as I yank the buttons so hard one of them flies off. I hiss under my breath, pacing like a caged animal.
Calm the fuck down.
But the more I tell myself, the worse it gets. Everything in me feels too tight, too loud. I want to punch something.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, already dialing her number.
Voicemail.
The sound makes my stomach twist.
I call again.
Same.
The third time, my jaw locks so tight I have to clench my fist to keep from throwing the phone across the room.
“Unbelievable,” I breathe out, voice low, shaking.
I’m going to lose my mind if I just ruined this. I open the messages and text her instead.
Me: Please pick up, I’m really sorry. I’ll explain.
I don’t even know how to explain it. What can I say? I can say Varners are strict and I can’t date but that would make me a bitch and wouldn’t explain why I was acting like I didn’t even know her.
Fucking fuck.
