He runs his fingers over his face.
"I did.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “But it’s not the same as hearing it."
"No, it isn’t."
I allow a small, knowing smile to curve my features.
He understands I’m hinting at the fact that I can sense he has feelings for me too, but I don’t expect him to come out with it anytime soon.
There’s a lot in his life which has damaged him. Circumstances that made him not very capable of trusting others or opening himself up.
Perhaps, subconsciously, I hoped I might be able to get him to open up to me, but now I know, I was wrong. He's not ready. He might never be.
I told him aloud that I love him. I stood on the precipice and bared myself to him, but he's refusing to join me.
A numbness moves through me, slow and total, like cold water rising.
I thought if he saw me fall, he would fall with me. I was wrong.
And now, I'm standing here with nothing left to give and nowhere left to go. The worst part is, I do not even regret it.
I would rather have said it and lost than spent the rest of my life wondering. But God, the losing hurts.
I square my shoulders and, taking a leaf out of the Ice Commander’s playbook, I wipe all emotion from my face.
"Which is why I think we should get divorced."
His jaw drops. His breath comes in quick puffs.
"You still want a divorce?" he croaks.
He seems so agonized that I almost retract my words. But I don’t give in to my weakness.
"It’s the best thing for both of us."
"No, it’s not," he snaps.
I raise my hands. "Every time you act like a husband, I wonder if you really mean it. It’s confusing me. Especially when the more time I spend with you, the deeper the feelings I develop for you. And that's against the contract."
"Fuck the contract." The tendons stand out at his throat.
Veins pop at his temples. He seems very agitated. When really, all I’m doing is stating the basis on which our fake relationship was built.
Again, I try to reason with him.
"Once I leave, the online chatter will quiet down. People will forget the fake marriage and come back for the food. You'll get your empire back. You'll have everything you ever wanted."
"Fuck my business and my restaurant!" he roars.
I blink. I didn’t think James Hamilton could ever put anything or anyone before his restaurant. That must mean something, right? But he hasn’t yet said that he loves me. And he might never; I remind myself. I’m doing the right thing. I am.
"I’ve delivered my part of the bargain; it’s best we move on."
His eyes bore into mine, two shards of frozen flint. Then, the mask doesn’t just crease; it shatters. A low growl vibrates in his chest as he lunges forward.
He snatches the agreement from the desk and rips it up.
The sound of tearing paper is like a gunshot in the silent room.
