Page 39 of Painted Truths

Angry that he so blatantly has the upper hand here.

Angry that my stupid heart won't let go of the idea that he's not what he portrays to the world, despite my head knowing it to be true.

Angry that he filled my innocent head with such complete and utter bullshit that I still can't get past that singular night two long-ass years later.

But most of all, I'm angry, I'm so fucking angry that he still makes me feel. That he retains that power over me.

Yeah, that last one tips me right over the edge, so I can't stop myself from lashing out.

"You can go and fuck yourself, you giant asshole." My eyes are narrowed as the words come out in a hiss from between my clenched jaws. "Threatening an employee, Henry, or is it, Enrico? Who the hell knows! Tut fucking tut yourself, Mr DeMarco!"

Before I can even take a breath, he's unbuckled his seatbelt and is on me.

My heart rate stutters in my chest before galloping at top speed, threatening to jump out of my palpitating chest.

One big hand comes up, catching my chin to force me to look him in the eyes. Those unforgettable, evocative eyes, more black than green at this moment, threaten to devour me.

I swallow roughly under his searing gaze while my disloyal body purrs from the power he exudes.

The other hand catches my hip, pinning me in place so that all I can do is look up at him, hating myself for coming alive under his obvious disdain. "Peaches, baby," he growls, the words sounding as though they’re being torn from deep within his broad chest. "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't make threats. I make promises, and I keep them. Unlike some."

At the last two words, his eyes flicker with something.

Pain?

I've seen it often enough in my own eyes to recognise it instantly, and regardless of the words he's just spewed at me, despite it all, I can see the Henry my heart believes hides away from the world behind fortified walls too high to be scaled.

My idiotic heart softens at the glimpse into his humanity for a nanosecond before giving myself a mental shake. I need to listen to my head where this man is concerned and stop letting the emotions he forcibly pulls from me take flight.

I stiffen my spine and push the empathy I feel for him deep, deep down inside. I force myself to remember his beautiful lies, his treatment of my best friend, and his unnecessary exhibition at the Gala. I steel myself to his proximity, scent, voice, and beautiful fucking face. Ugh, it's so fucking beautiful, but I plough on.

I plough on, regardless of my wayward thoughts. "You clearly love to disappoint me, seeing as you do it at any given opportunity."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," I seethe, ruffled and entirely out of character, "maybe people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

His eyes narrow into angry slits, his jaw tightening even more than before as we stare, at each other at an impasse.

Having realised moments ago that we were just about to pull up outside the office, I'm ready to duck out from under his grasp.

"And I'm so far beyond done with this conversation."

I grab the handle, push the door open wide before the car has even reached a stop, then run as fast as my heels will carry me.

As I reach the foyer, I glance back over my shoulder, just once, but it's once too many. Henry has gotten out and is now leaning against the car, looking disgustingly gorgeous, his hands in his pant pockets and his green eyes bright as they follow me on my dash into the building.

Picking up the pace, I can only hope he leaves me alone going forward. I'm not a confrontational person by any means, but there's something about him that makes me become someone else, and I'm not altogether sure if I like it.

Or maybe you like it a little too much.

* * *

The day goes from bad to worse. Much, much worse.

It's barely 10 am when I get a call from Martha asking me to come down to the fourteenth floor, where she reigns supreme, though I've never had a reason to visit for a “chat.” The whole way down in the elevator, my stomach is churning with where this conversation will inevitably go.

I've already endured pitying looks from the whole of the twenty-fifth floor, except from Andrea, who has spent the morning so far up my ass she undoubtedly knows what I’ve had for breakfast.