The prick has no shame, he can’t possibly think that’ll...work?
To my horror, Jordan nods, moving closer next to my dad. They start for the elevator, and I’m on their heels, catching a frenzied receptionist standing and watching us out of the corner of my eye.
“He’s not going anywhere with you,” I grind out.
Baxter grins. “Yes, he is, Magnus. You aren’t his guardian. Legally, there’s nothing you can do. He’s coming with me.”
He’s right.
Fuck.
“Jordan, don’t go!” I howl. “For the love of God, don’t—”
“You lied to me,” he flings back, turning, fists flung down at his sides. “Everyone always lies to me! Mom wouldn’t tell me shit and you outright lied.” Jordan’s eyes are so much worse than the familiar, untrusting, sullen look he wore when we first met.
Now, he looks like he hates me with a vengeance.
I can’t fucking blame him.
This day is pure trauma.
First his mom was awake, then she wasn’t.
Next his supposedly dead dad shows up here.
I never should’ve lied. A stupid mistake, and I’m paying the price as I watch them moving, and a man with a badge cuts me off from following.
“Sir? If you could please step back,” the security guard says.
Jordan gets in the elevator first, with Baxter right behind him. I’m still looking past them, desperate, willing Jordan to stop, come back, think about this.
“Bye, Mag,” Jordan says with a scowl before the elevator doors snap shut.
Shut him off from me.
I don’t know how the fuck I’m still standing and not falling straight to the floor.
Somehow, I stagger back, away from the guard who has one hand on his radio—if it isn’t a taser.
A woman’s delicate fingers touch the back of my arm near the entrance door.
“Mag...are you okay?” Brina asks.
I jerk my arm away from her like she’s poison.
“You should go,” I choke out, my whole brain on fire.
“But—” Her voice quivers like she might cry. “But, Mag, I...”
No.
I can’t deal with this shit right now.
I have to get Jordan home.
I’m afraid to even look at her.
“Are you deaf? I said go. Armstrong’s in the lot. He’ll give you a ride home,” I snarl, already sick at the scorn pouring out of me.
“But—” she starts.
“Sabrina. Go,” I say. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“...you’re such a jackass!” She sniffles. “You shouldn’t have let him go.”
Thanks, Miss Obvious.
“I had no choice,” I mutter, suddenly feeling like the whole world’s tilting, spinning, shrugging me off. I pinch my eyes shut.
What the fuck is happening?
I’ve just lost Marissa’s son, my brother, to a monster. Now I’ve made an intelligent, kind, beautiful angel of a woman cry. I’ve given her this raw, scared look of betrayal.
I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today.
When I blink my eyes open, she’s disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a bitter not-quite-spring wind whipping through the open glass door.
How long has she been gone?
Long enough to decide I’ve hurt her enough, apparently. A text comes through that has me stumbling against the wall, holding out a hand so I don’t topple over.
Sabrina: I can’t do this anymore. Lose my fucking number.
23
Red Convertible (Sabrina)
I didn’t want to do it.
I tried not to let him see me cry, but the tears were already streaming down my cheeks before I took off, racing around the corner, leaving him standing there like this pillar of pure venom.
Somehow, I held it in until I was out of sight.
I bit my lip until I was sure, and the second I was, I let out a long sob.
For Jordan. For Mag. And, of course, for me.
Winding through the hallway, I nearly collide with a young doctor.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”
Yeah, but you don’t have a drug for this one, Doc.
“I-I-I’m f-fi-ne.”
God, it’s hard to talk while sobbing.
He lays a hand on my arm.
“Did you lose someone?” he asks, his voice so gentle.
I nod through the tears as his words bolt through me. I’m not just his EA anymore, and if that scene back there is how he’s going to keep treating me, we can’t survive.
Yes, I’ve lost him. Hell yes, it’s over.
The doctor squeezes my shoulders. “It’s okay. Everything happens for a reason, and there’s no grief that can’t be conquered with time.”
“With any luck, he’ll burn in hell,” I strangle out.
The doctor releases me and stumbles back, his mouth hanging open. It’s only then in my ruined state that I realize he thought someone died. I just meant they reverted back to their arrogant rich bitch self.
“Sorry,” I mutter, but the tears are less heavy now as I crawl into an elevator down the hall.
In no time, the elevator dings.
Thank God.
I want out of this elevator, out of this hospital, and out of this life.
I wander into the parking lot looking for Armstrong. I don’t see him here, but it’s so dark the town car could blend in. A steady cold rain sleets through the night, making it hard to see anything.
Just before I spot my ride, I shoot Mag a text, letting him know he can lose my fucking number.
I’m as done as I am hollowed out.
A horn honks. I glance up from my phone. The town car roars in right beside me.
In the back seat, I’m instantly assaulted with the earthy masculine scent of Magnus Heron. I burst into tears again.
“Brina, are you okay?” Armstrong asks, his eyes heavy with concern.
“Y-yes.” I spit through the tears.
He’s quiet for a minute. “Is Miss Quail all right? I thought she was getting better?”
I wipe a tear from my face.
“She...she’s fine.” I mutter.
“Are you warm enough back there?” he asks, confusion growing in those eyes staring back at me in the mirror.
I sniff. I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s fine.
“Yes. Nice and toasty.”
“All right. Say no more. I’ll get you to the penthouse as soon as I can.”
Torture. This is a bucket of killing ice poured over my head. The moment it becomes real.
“Take me to my apartment.” Another hushed sob flays me open.
Armstrong leaves me be but keeps looking in the rearview mirror. I want to stop, for his sake, but I can’t.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks in a quiet voice, the only break in the light tapping of wet sleet.
I shake my head.
He drives in silence for a few minutes, then asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
Well, maybe one thing.
“C-c-cinnamon—” Sob. “Latte,” I whisper.
“I knew you’d say that! Hang on.” When I look outside, I realize we’re almost at Sweeter Grind, even though it wasn’t on the way. He parks and goes in for the coffee this time. When he gets back in the car, he shakes the rain from his shoulders and hands me a large cinnamon latte and a box of truffles. “Here. I used the company card. That’s the least the prick can do.”