He didn’t look at me. Didn’t answer. Just walked straight to the kitchen and threw the glass he was holding into the sink—hard.
The sound of shattering glass cracked through the silence.
I jumped.
Tiny shards sprayed across the basin. His shoulders heaved once, hands braced on the edge of the counter like he needed them to keep himself grounded. Or to keep from doing something worse.
My heart hammered in my chest. I hated myself.
“You let him touch you,” he said, voice low, raw.
I swallowed hard. “Diego—”
He spun around, finally looking at me, and his eyes were nothing like the Diego I knew. They were wild. Pained. Furious. He was so angry I got scared of him. And Diego never scares me.
“I get it,” he said, laughing bitterly. “I knew you wanted him.”
“Don’t—”
“But I told you I lo
