7.1: The Letter Dated Two Years Ago
935 Words
He slowly set his cup down.
So I continued.
“You saw me in the park. You watched me. You waited. You orchestrated everything—even our ‘accidental’ meeting. You left a whole damn journal about me. So explain, Dark.” His jaw clenched.
“Why?”
Every time his jaw flexed, I had to remind myself I was here to argue, not audition for round two of our one-night stand.
He stared at me. For a long, long moment.
Then quietly, he said…“Because I didn’t believe someone like you could exist. Not in my world. Not in the places I come from.”
His baritone voice didn’t just speak—it vibrated. Straight through my bones. Like my skeleton was suddenly a tuning fork for bad decisions.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream.
But the truth sat too heavy in the room.
Instead, I said:
“You don’t get to build a love story in secret and expect me to play the heroine on command.”
He winced—just slightly.
I saw it.
The flicker of guilt.
I stood, heart in my throat.
“You don’t get to control how I respond to the truth. I decide if I forgive you. I decide what to believe. And right now, I’m deciding… that I’m still here. But I’m watching everything.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t argue. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at me like I was both the fire and the only thing keeping him warm. The silence stretched, taut and loaded, like an arrow pulled back but never released.
Then…
His hand lifted.
Slow. Intentional. Like he was approaching a wild creature—me, apparently.
And when his fingertips touched my cheek, I hated how my skin leaned into it before I could scold it. Traitor.
His thumb brushed just beneath my eye, featherlight.
“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, voice low, careful, roughened by the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying. “But you’re here. And I can’t take that for granted.”
Before I could stop him, before I could even register the breath that stalled in my throat—
He dipped in. Pressed his mouth gently, confidently, to mine.
Not rushed. Not possessive.
Just… claiming.
And god help me—I kissed him back.
For a half-second, I told myself it was to keep up the upper hand. Then his lips moved over mine again, like he remembered every angle, every heat map of my weakness, and I knew I was already lying to myself.
I pulled back with a soft slap to his chest—one that wasn’t really a slap, but more like a reminder.
“I’m still mad,” I muttered, wiping my mouth like it hadn’t just betrayed me on every level.
“I know,” he said, smirking like the smug CEO-bastard he was. “You kiss angry. It’s hot.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it almost gave me a headache.
“You’re not funny.”
“I didn’t say I was. Just observant.”
He stepped back, still watching me like he hadn’t gotten enough yet. Still hadn’t breathed properly since I walked into the room.
Then—business-mode activated.
“Speaking of observation… there’s an event tonight. Small thing. Private. One of my potential investors is bringing his wife, and she’s the kind who only signs off on deals if she likes the ambiance.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“And I’m ambiance?”
His mouth twitched. “You’re better than ambiance. You’re the full production. The bait. The dream.”
“Oh, wow.” I clapped, deadpan. “So honored to be your corporate siren. Shall I wear sequins or just shimmer with betrayal?”
He chuckled. “I asked, not ordered.”
“Same difference when you say it in that sexy baritone.”
He paused.
Noted it.
Grinned, wicked and too damn proud.
“You think my voice is sexy?”
I crossed my arms. “I think your voice is manipulative, distracting, and causes sudden panty-malfunctions. So shut up.”
His grin widened. “So that’s a yes on coming with me tonight?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you didn’t say no.”
“I’m still deciding whether I want to wear heels or set the venue on fire.”
“You could do both,” he said, taking another step toward me.
I jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t. You’re already on thin ice, and that shirt is too tight for forgiveness.”
His biceps moved—moved—beneath the silk, and I swear, for one shameful moment, I forgot what forgiveness even meant.
He leaned in, brushing his lips just shy of my jaw.
“Wait. wait. wait. Didn’t everyone know that you’re in a coma?” I looked at him with confused eyes.
People would see a walking miracle if this maniac man resurrected from the dead.
“Ah. That? These investors knew my motive. They’re relatives.”
Good. Because if he held an event while everyone taught his partially conscious, then it would create a ruckus—probably half of the nation would be crazy about.
“You should come,” he murmured, “if only to prove that you don’t belong in the background of anyone’s story. You’re the scene-stealer, Hyacinth. You always were.”
Damn. Him.
I hated how those words settled in the hollow of my ribs like a matchbook.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, breathlessly bitter.
But we both knew I already had.
- Writer
