Page 167 of Matteo

But he did.

With this man I caught a glimpse of the future, of something lasting. Something worth risking my heart for, and now I feel like a fool for believing in it.

My heart breaks a little when I look at him. I see the tiredness in his face, and the hard line of his mouth. This is a man who holds everything in because somewhere deep down he learned too young that the ground can shift beneath you if you believe the wrong person.

I’m starting to get an inkling into why this cuts him so deep. He hasn’t fired me, or dragged me to his father yet. He should have, but he seems to be keeping this quiet. I rub my forehead, suddenly realizing that this isn't about him thinking I broke into the system.

This is about the trust he had in me.

Matteo has seen firsthand what secrets and lies do, and now he thinks I'm that person. I'm like his father.

I take a step back, my hand lowering to my neck. “You know what the worst part is?” I ask.

“What?”

I pause, because I catch myself remembering Central Park and hotdogs. The care package and the hot water bottle. The man who looked at me like I was his world.

I swallow, trying to gain a semblance of composure. “I could handle being investigated. I could handle restrictions. I could handle half the company whispering behind my back if that’s what it came to.” My voice shakes, and I despise how weak I sound. “What I can’t handle is that you looked at me and believed that I did this.”

He frowns. I detect a slight shake of his head, until he stops himself. “Elizabeth.”

I waggle a finger at him. “No. You don’t get to say my name like that.”

I wonder if he's fighting the urge to move closer, to touch. I wonder if he's struggling to hold back, like I am, and hoping that this is a bad dream we'll soon wake from.

“Elizabeth,” he says, standing up from his chair.

“Don't.” I point a finger at him again. “I’ll prove that I didn't do this, and I'll find whoever is trying to frame me.”

His fingers grab the edge of the table, but he doesn't say a word. Just watches me in silence.

“You’re just like all the others,” I mutter. The color drains from his face, so I twist the knife in further. “Only Vlad ever believed in me.”

His lips part, and I think he's going to snap, say something cruel and cutting, something that will hurt me as badly as I’ve hurt him.

But he doesn’t say a word. He just stands there and takes it. And that makes me feel worse. His lips press together, a muscle ticks along his jaw, and his eyes harden. It's not because he feels nothing. It’s because he feels too much. He's protecting himself, just like that little boy did when his mother's heart broke. I turn on my heels and leave, before I melt and give in to him, like every cell in my body is yelling at me to do.

I nearly collide with Alex on my way out. My heart lurches, and anger flashes through me when I look at the man who made the accusation. He hesitates, as though he isn’t quite sure of how to deal with me.

“How are you doing?” he asks, finally.

A bitter laugh escapes me. “How do you think?”

He winces. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “About everything.”

“I bet you are,” I mutter, racing back to my desk, not wanting to waste another second of my time with him. I sink into my chair, and power on my laptop, when Alex appears again, to my total shock.

“I couldn't sit on it. I'm sorry if I ruined your vacation.”

I shrug. “I didn’t do it, whatever it is that you're alleging.”

“We have to follow protocol.”

I stare at him. “Do you believe me?”

He shifts, just slightly. “It’s serious. You understand that.”

He doesn't believe me. Why do they both so willingly, so easily believe this?