I blink hard and finally manage to focus on him.
He looks wrecked. Brows drawn tight, chest rising too fast, hands open at his sides like he’s approaching a cornered animal.
And that’s what I am. I see it now. I was never a person to him. I was prey.
“I can explain,” he says, his voice a hoarse, urgent rasp. “How did you—I thought you were still?—”
“My phone died. I took a cab.” I don’t give him time to respond. “You want to talk about that right now? Or do you want to explain why I just heard you tell someone you’re not going tokillme?”
“Natalia, please. It’s not what it?—”
“Not what it sounds like?” The question is a shriek. I scramble away from him, the movement so violent I nearly trip over my own feet.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know how far a hundred bucks and a full-blown panic spiral can get me in Vegas, but I know I cannot stay here.
Not with him.
“It actually sounded pretty simple.” My fingers fumble so badly on the strap that I almost drop my purse. “It sounded like everything out of your mouth has been one giant fucking lie.”
The words are gasoline, and my rage is the match. “How could you? Everything we did, and you were an Andretti the whole time? I let you touch me. I let you…”
I can’t say it. The memory of his body over mine, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breathing—it’s all curdling in my stomach.
Was it all a ploy? A tactic? Had any of it been real? The sketch. The kiss on the beach. The way he held me in the dark. Or had it all just been part of the job?
He flinches. “I didn’t know the whole time.”
“When?” I back up a step. My shoulder blade hits the doorframe. “When did you remember exactly who you were and decide not to tell me?”
His throat works.
“The day before we left for Vegas,” he says, his voice ragged.
The room tilts.
I actually have to slap one hand against the wall to steady myself.
Before Vegas.
Before Anna.
Before I introduced him as my boyfriend, giddy and stupid and full of hope.
Before he stood beside me while Anna smiled at us like she could see something good taking root in my life for once.
Before the hotel.
Before last night.
Before this morning.
Before all of it.
“Oh my God.” The words come out as a whisper. Then louder, harsher: “Oh my God.”
My throat closes. Not sadness. Something hotter. Something that tastes like iron and humiliation and the specific, searing shame of a woman who handed another person the knife and then watched them decide whether to use it.
“I was trying to find the right way to tell you.”
