“Does he?” I ask. “Or does he love the idea of you? Does he love the prop that stands next to him at galas?”
She flinches. I hit a nerve. One she keeps buried deep.
“Shut up,” she hisses.
“You were out there in the middle of the night,” I say, pressing the wound. “You were fixing the flowers because you were terrified of him. You were terrified that a single mistake would make him withdraw his affection. That isn’t love. That’s employment.”
“Stop it!”
She looks around the room, wild-eyed, seeking an outlet.
Her eyes land on the wet bar. Specifically, on the heavy crystal whiskey decanter.
She sprints over, grabbing it.
“I hate you!” she screams. “I hate this place! I hate your voice!”
Rather than tossing back a gulp, she hurls it at my head—a crystal missile moving at high velocity.
I don’t flinch. I move. A fluid, practiced side-step to the left.
Whoosh.
The wind of it passes my ear before the decanter strikes the walnut paneling and explodes. Shards of crystal spray outward. The whiskey splashes against the wood, filling the room instantly with the sharp, stinging scent of alcohol.
Silence follows the crash.
I stand there, looking at the wet stain on the wall where my head was a second ago.
My heart rate drops instead of spiking.
This is the cold zone. The place I go when the bullets start flying. The world slows down. The noise fades. All that remains is the threat and the solution.
I turn my head slowly to look at her.
She’s standing with her hand still extended, chest heaving. She’s staring at the shattered glass, eyes wide.
“I...” she stammers, hand dropping to her side. “I didn’t mean?—”
Not letting her finish, I push off the console and cross the distance. My boots are silent on the slate.
She sees me coming. She sees the look in my eyes—the void.
She tries to flee and stumbles, retreating until her back hits the wall next to the bathroom door.
“Stay away,” she gasps, raising her hands.
I slam my hand against the wall next to her head. The sound is a gunshot crack in the quiet room.
She flinches, squeezing her eyes shut.
I step into her space, eliminating the distance. I press my body against hers, pinning her between the walnut paneling and the hard wall of my chest.
“Open your eyes,” I growl.
She shakes her head.
I reach up and grip her chin. My fingers are rough against her jaw. I hold her firm.
