Robin
×××

Heather's confession is still ringing in my ears.

"I don’t want this anymore. But I don’t know what else to do, Robin.”

And I should feel victorious, right? This is what I wanted—to watch her unravel, to have her admit the truth, to prove that this whole engagement is a joke. But instead of satisfaction, all I feel is…

No. Doesn’t matter.

Just then, the bathroom door creaks open.

A woman in a crisp white dress strides in, pausing slightly when she sees us standing too close, too tense. A hundred bucks says she spends her afternoons picking out centerpieces or shit like that and pretending her life isn’t empty.

Heather flinches back like she’s been caught doing the abominable. As if this woman even knows who the fuck we are.

My jaw clenches as I take a slow step away, watching as her expression shutters closed in an instant.

Coward.

I want to grab her wrist, demand a response to my question hanging in the air. But she won’t meet my eyes now.

She’s already reaching for the sink, running her hands under cold water like she can scrub away what just happened. Then she smooths her dress down, composing herself in an instant.

The woman heads into a stall, but the interruption is enough to kill whatever moment or conversation we were having.

Heather won’t look at me, won’t say another word. She just turns on her heel and walks out, leaving me standing there, gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

I stare at my reflection, my pulse still hammering, my skin too hot, my mouth still tasting her breath.

Stupid.

I shouldn’t have let her get that close. I shouldn’t have kissed her. And she shouldn't have started a conversation she wasn't ready to finish.

But now I know one thing's for certain: she doesn't want to be with Javis, and all of this is just a twisted game. I wonder if Javis knows this, if he is in on it too. Or if it's that movie thing where you have to marry to prove that you can take over the family business or shit like that.

Either way, I don't know if I should feel relieved or pissed off. I don't know whether to go through with the plan or not, I don't know if I should expose them just now or wait.

I don't even have enough evidence to prove that they're faking this shit.

I splash cold water on my face, gripping the edges of the sink like it might keep me from doing something reckless. Like it might wash away the feel of her, the heat of her skin under my fingers, the way her breath hitched when I whispered against her lips.

It doesn’t.

I force myself to breathe, inhale, exhale, until my pulse slows, until my hands stop shaking. Then I straighten, fixing my shirt, smoothing my hair, schooling my face into something casual.

Something that doesn’t scream I just had Heather pinned against a sink, whispering things she’s too much of a coward to say out loud and forcing her to spit out the truth.

Bitter truths.

Truths that should make me feel satisfied.

Instead, they sit heavy in my chest.

But she's already at the door, one hand gripping the handle, like she needs to escape before she loses what little self-control she has left.

Her gaze flickers back to me once, just for a second, before she pushes it open and steps out, her posture stiff, her movements a too controlled.

I follow her out a few seconds later, keeping a careful distance as we walk back to the table, slipping into my seat like I haven’t just had my hands on her.

I feel evil.

Javis doesn’t even glance up from his plate.

He just reaches for Heather’s hand, pulls it into his lap like it’s an afterthought, he isn’t even paying attention.

And then—just to really hammer it in—he presses a lingering kiss to her temple.

It’s meant to be sweet. Tender. Loving.

It makes my stomach twist.

Heather doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t lean into it either.

And when she glances up, our eyes meet across the table.

For just a second.

Long enough to know that she’s feeling what I'm feeling. Disgust.

"Hey, babe," he murmurs, low and affectionate. "You okay?"

Heather tenses. Her body stiffens,  her fingers twitch in his grasp like she wants to pull away but knows she can’t.

And for the first time since this ridiculous engagement started, I see it.

She’s not okay.

Not with this. Not with him.

And still—still—she forces a smile and nods, even though I can see the way her throat works, like she’s swallowing down something bitter.

I hate it.

And I hate her for making me hate it.

The rest of brunch is a slow, torturous hell.

Javis, ever the golden boy, is laughing, drinking his drink, and playing the part of the devoted fiancé perfectly to his friends.

And Heather—

Heather sits there, barely touching her food, nodding when she’s expected to, smiling when it’s required, and pretending.

Like she hasn’t just told me she doesn’t want this.

Like she doesn’t feel everything when we’re alone.

Like she hasn’t just had my hands on her, my mouth on hers, my name on her breath.

I dig my nails into my palm, resisting the urge to slam my chair back and walk the hell out of here.

Instead, I lean back, swirling the last of my apple juice, and let my gaze settle on Heather.

She catches me staring.

And when she looks at me, her lips part just slightly, her chest rising in this shallow, uneven breath, like she’s fighting something.

Good, I guess because if I have to sit here and watch this, if I have to endure her playing pretend in front of Javis while we both know the truth—then she should suffer too.

So I do the one thing I know will make her squirm.

I smirk.

Slow. Calculated.

And then I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, like I can still taste her.

Her breath catches. Her grip on her fork tightens.

She looks away.

But not before I see the red creeping up her cheeks.

Oh, Heather. I’m just getting started.