Page 4 of House of Scarlett
Scarlett
Present day
I stare at Gabriel Legend, a man who wasinside meonly a few minutes ago, and watch as he strides out of his office like demons from hell are chasing him.
But there are no demons in this room.
Just me.
My knees weaken, and I stumble toward the desk for something stable. My entire body, still languid from the toe-curling sex, is turning to ice, and I’m afraid I might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces all over this rug.
This fucking rug.
My fingers slip off the desk as I slide to my ass on the stupid freaking oriental rug that started it all.
Except it wasn’t the rug’s fault that I was falling apart. It was his.
“You’ll always be what I want most. But I can’t have you.”
“How could he say that?” I whisper to the empty room. “How could he just ... leave?” There’s no answer.
“You should go. And don’t come back, Scarlett. This isn’t happening.”His harsh words from only minutes before play on a loop in my chaotic mind.
My head drops to my knees as I picture his face as it went from tortured to just ... blank.
He shut me out. Shut me down. Shut everything down.
Someone knocks on the door a fraction of a second before it opens. I don’t have enough time to scramble to my feet, so Q sees me sitting here on the floor like a stupid girl who was dumb enough to fall for the wrong guy.
I jump up and nearly lose my balance on my heels. He holds out a hand, like he’s going to try to steady me, but I jump back and slam my hip into the desk. Pain radiates from where the wood cracks into bone, and I suck in a sharp breath.
With my eyes squeezed shut, I focus on the physical pain. At least that I understand. But what just happened in this office, I will never comprehend.
Q is silent for a long moment, and I assume he’s probably waiting for me to open my eyes. I take another beat to pull myself together and straighten my posture, pinning my shoulders back.
My dignity may be in shreds on the rug where I once came to, after I was kidnapped, but I’m not going to let this man see me cry. I’m not going to let any of them see me cry.
I’ve worn armor all my life. The kind you strap on every time you leave the house, because the gossip columns will dissect your outfit, and they won’t be kind if they decide your fashion-forward ensemble is really a fail.
Q is easy compared to that public humiliation. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I need to go,” I say, my voice steady as I pray the tears stay where they are—burning behind my eyes.
“Of course, Ms. Priest. Whatever you need.”
I’m proud of the measured steps I take toward him, even as pain emanates from both my hip and my heart.
“Tell my friends something came up. Tell them ...” I glance toward the door before I finally force myself to meet his gaze. “Tell them I’ll see them tomorrow.”
It’s the apologetic, yet perceptive look in his eyes that almost undoes me.
“You knew this was going to happen. Didn’t you?”
Q’s face shutters. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Ms. Priest.”
“Bullshit,” I say, spitting the word out. “But, don’t worry, his precious club is safe. I hope it was worth it.”
I stride toward the door, but Q reaches out to slow me with a gentle hand to my upper arm.
