Interruption
859 Words
Eleven hours left, and his thumb was still at my temple.
“Say something,” he said. Voice raw. “Please.”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Just my eyes doing math.
_Eleven hours.
His hand on my lie.
Speak, and I lose him.
Silent, and I’ve lost me._
Should I—
His phone rang.
Sharp. Violent. Cut through the willow and the wind and the word love still hanging between us.
Thank God.
His jaw locked. He didn’t move for a second. Thumb still pressed to my hairline like he could hold the moment in place.
Then he stepped back. The air rushed in cold where his hand had been.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. Didn’t look at the screen. Just answered. “Darian.”
One word. CEO again. Ice back in his voice.
I exhaled. Didn’t realize I’d been holding it.
He listened. Three seconds. Five. A muscle ticked near his eye. His fist clenched around the phone, knuckles white. “Handle it,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up. Didn’t put the phone back. Just stood there. Staring at nothing. At the city. At me.
I wanted to ask. What happened? Are you okay? The words were there. Wife words.
But he cut me out before I could speak.
“Baby, get your things ready.” Flat. Cold. “We’re going home.”
Not our home. Home. Like the penthouse was a hotel. Like yesterday didn’t happen.
I stood up. Slow. Blood drained from my face, but I made my legs move. His eyes ran math on my face. Looking for cracks. Looking for fear. Looking for the girl who flinched last night.
He found her.
He stepped forward. Gripped my arm. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to stop me. His fingers were hot. I could feel sweat starting at my hairline.
“It’s a work emergency,” he said. The explanation was stiff. Forced. “I had to,” he added. Like he owed me that.
Something in my chest twisted. Not from the grip. From the whiplash. From I think I’m in love with you to get your things in under a minute.
“You don’t have to force it,” I said. My voice was ice. I didn’t recognize it. “Acting all nice to me. Because every now and then, I get to see the ruthless, cold Michael Darian.”
His fingers twitched on my arm. Surprise. Or anger. Then he let go. Like I burned him.
Stood there and watched me.
I turned. Walked back through the glass doors. My floral gown didn’t fly. Silk mules clicked against marble. Measured. Loud in the quiet.
I didn’t look back. But I felt it. His eyes. On my back. On my hair. On the spot where his thumb had been. Counting down.
I didn’t wait for him.
Straight to the bedroom.
My Louis Vuitton box sat open on the chaise. Mocking me. Floral gown, wedding dress, lingerie I wouldn’t wear. All of it his. All of it the mask.
I started packing. Angry. Yanking fabric. Not folding. Shoving.
Michael followed suit.
I heard the door. Didn’t turn. Felt him in the room though. Like a change in air pressure.
The zipper on the garment bag caught. I wrenched it.
Pain. Sharp.
“Shit.”
Blood. A thin line across my index finger. Beaded up fast. One drop hit the yellow floral gown.
I froze.
Not from the cut. From what the blood meant. Red on yellow. Proof I wasn’t perfect. Proof I bled. Proof there was something under the mask.
Michael was behind me before I could hide it.
He grabbed my hand. Not like before. Not to stop me.
Gently.
He turned me. Blew light air on the cut. His breath warm. Careful. Like I was that glass he said I was in the garden.
“Sit,” he said. No ice. No CEO.
He pressed my shoulders until my knees hit the bed. I sat.
He was gone for five seconds. Came back with a first aid box. Black leather. Monogrammed. Of course.
He knelt. One knee on the marble. Put my hand in his lap.
Took out cotton. Poured spirit. The smell was sharp. Clean.
He dabbed. It tingled when it touched my skin. I flinched.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
He wasn’t looking at the cut. He was looking at my face. At my temple. Where his thumb had been ten minutes ago. Where the sweat started.
He finished wrapping my finger. Small bandage. White against my skin.
He didn’t let go.
“Ariana.” His voice dropped. That raw thing from the garden coming back. “About what I said—”
“I’m done packing.”
I stood up. Pulled my hand from his.
Cut him off mid-confession. Mid-love.
His eyes went dark. Not angry. Hurt.
Good.
Let him hurt for a second. He’d spent all morning switching between it. Soft, cold, soft, cold. I couldn’t do the whiplash.
Ten hours, forty minutes left.
And now my finger was bleeding under a bandage.
One more c***k.
- Writer
