Page 77 of The Bet
The words hit like a slap. “No,” I say, voice shrill and cracking. “No, I swear, well yes, it was originally for the bet, but like I said, I never showed it to anyone?—”
He cuts me off. “You filmed us having sex. Without asking me. And you did it the time when I thought it wasn’t just going to be another random fuck.”
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t move. He just stands in the center of the room, perfectly still, letting the words rot in the air.
My knees are shaking now, the kind of shake that feels like it’s coming up from the floorboards. I wipe at my cheeks, and my vision is nothing but tears and the color of the rug and the glitter of city lights through glass.
“Thomas,” I say again, helpless. “I’m sorry.”
He lets out a laugh so small I almost miss it. “I bet you are.”
I want to cross the distance between us, to touch him, to say something that will erase the last five minutes. But the look on his face makes it impossible.
I stand there, in the half-light, shaking, while the video plays on the table, repeating my own humiliation back to me. The penthouse has never felt so large or so empty.
The city glitters, and I can’t tell if it’s mocking me or just bored.
I swipe at my eyes again with the back of my hand, but the tears just keep coming.
He watches me, not moving.
And the only thing in the room that makes any noise is my own voice on his cell, echoing over and over, obscene and ultimately, my downfall.
I stand thereand watch my own humiliation, doubled and tripled, a funhouse mirror of my worst mistakes. My voice keeps looping through the penthouse, echoing off every slick, expensive surface. I want to scream, or claw at the phone until it breaks, or run back in time and strangle the girl who thought this was a good idea.
Instead, I do what I always do: I try to talk my way out of it.
“Thomas, I swear to god, I never sent it to anyone.” My hands flutter, useless, then clamp down on the strap of my purse. “I didn’t even use it for the bet, I never?—”
The billionaire doesn’t move. His voice is so flat it makes the next words worse: “Didn’t use it for the bet? You filmed it. Isn’t that enough?”
I taste bile in the back of my throat. “It was stupid. It was from before I knew you, I mean, really knew you. I thought I deleted it, I swear?—”
His laugh is sharp and hopeless, like the click of a broken seatbelt. “You thought you deleted it. But you didn’t because a lot of shit is automatically backed up now.”
“It’s just a fucking file, Thomas. It doesn’t mean?—”
He shakes his head. “Stop.” Then, softer: “Just stop, Andie. I don’t want to hear it.”
I want to walk toward him, to touch his hand, to close the space that’s suddenly an abyss. But his eyes are so cold they might as well be made of ice. My knees go weak, so I sit—kneeling, not quite conscious of it, the coffee table biting into my thigh.
“I chose you,” I say. “After everything, I chose you over them, over the bet, over all of it. Doesn’t that count for something?”
He sets the phone on the marble with a deliberate click and crosses his arms. There’s nothing left in his face. “There was no choosing. We made a deal that night at the diner,” he says, low and clipped. “No more secrets, remember? No more hiding in the shadows. You told me everything at the diner. Or you said you did.”
I nod, blinking away tears. “I did, I swear, I forgot?—”
He’s already shaking his head, slow, a funeral metronome. “Don’t bullshit me, Andie. If you didn’t want me to see it, you could’ve wiped it from the cloud. You’re not stupid. You know how these things work.” He glances at the window, then back. “You wanted to keep it. For yourself. For later. Or maybe you were just hedging your bets.”
The accusation lands like a stone. I suck in a breath, but it sticks in my chest. “That’s not true! You know it’s not?—”
He cuts me off. “I don’t know anything anymore. You were the only thing I thought was honest in this entire city.” He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Fuck me for being that naïve.”
My cheeks are wet, but I barely notice. “Please, Thomas, just listen?—”
He picks up the whiskey glass from the table, but doesn’t drink. He just turns it in his hand, watching the way the city lights refract through the cut glass. “You made me into a fool,” he says, almost to himself. “You made me trust you.”
His voice never rises. It just gets quieter, the volume dialed down until I have to strain to hear it. “You should go.”
