Page 61 of The Bet
My breath catches, and I can feel my heart start to gallop. The idea of it—the life he’s offering—is so absurd and so wonderful that I want to laugh, or cry, or both.
I look at him, and for the first time, I let myself imagine it: waking up in that glass tower, the whole city spread out like a painting; sleeping next to Thomas, safe in the arms. Being his.
It sounds wonderful, and I almost start to cry as my heart pounds. Thomas can sense my emotions, and he holds my hand tighter as his voice drops even lower. “I want everything, Andie. I want to take care of you. I want to see you in my bed, in my house, wearing my ring—fuck, even pregnant with my baby. I know it’s insane, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The words hit me so hard I can’t breathe for a second. My hand goes still in his, and my free hand—the one not visible above the table—presses flat against my thigh, as if I can steady myself that way. I blink, and my eyes sting.
It should be a happy moment. I should be floating on clouds with happiness, and I am. But I’m also terrified because all I can think of is the naughty video on my phone, the one I made without hispermission; the bet I never told him about; the $1,000 prize I could claim just by sending a single message.
The confession burns in my chest. It wants to come out, to ruin everything before it even starts.
I open my mouth to speak, but at that exact second, Thomas covers my hand with both of his, pinning it gently to the table.
His eyes are so blue and so kind that the words shrivel up and die.
“You don’t have to answer now,” he says. “But think about it, will you? Think about us. About a future that isn’t just stolen weekends and secrets.”
I nod, unable to speak. My other hand presses harder into my thigh, the fingernails leaving half-moons in my jeans.
We sit there, the two of us, hands tangled on the table, the rest of the world fading into static. The record spins to the end of a side and clicks, then the barista flips it and drops the needle again. Billie’s voice returns, softer this time, like she’s singing just for us.
The sun begins to set. Beautiful rays of pink and orange glimmer through the window, covering our clasped hands. And for a long moment, everything in the world is exactly as it should be—except for the words I can’t say.
Not yet.
But soon.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe this weekend.
For now, I let him hold my hand, and I pretend I’m not about to break everything we’ve built.
It almost works.
When we finally leave Café Soleil, thecity has changed. The sun’s only a hint in the sky now, the world a moody scene of blue, purples, and greys around us.
Thomas holds the door for me, then steps outside and stretches, as if he’s been underground for a year. For a moment, neither of us moves. People walk past—an old man with a dog, a girl with pink hair riding a battered bike—but we’re in a bubble, the world blurring at the perimeter.
He stands close, but not close enough to touch. The pause is deliberate. He’s waiting for a sign from me, a word, a nod, something. When he leans in, it’s slow, careful, as if he’s kissing me for the first time. I tilt my head up and meet his mouth, soft at first, then greedy. I taste the bitterness of old coffee and something else—something like hope and promises.
He pulls away first, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, they’re the clearest blue I’ve ever seen, wiped clean by the storm. “You’re mine,” he says, not loud but certain.
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He walks me to the corner, then stops, glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to be watching. “I’ll see you this weekend,” he says. It’s not a question.
I say, “Yes.” My voice cracks, but it’s okay.
He gives me one last look—up and down, possessive and unhurried—then turns and heads for his car, his stride smooth, unhurried, king of his own piece of city.
I watch him until he disappears around the corner, then just stand there, blinking in the fading light. I feel the place where his hand held mine, the echo of his kiss on my lips, the tremor of everything I almost said.
On the walk back to my car, the world feels different. Lighter, but also more dangerous. Every honk sounds unduly loud, every passing car sounds like a dare. I replay our conversation, the confession I almost made, the way his fingers covered mine at exactly the right moment. I think about all the things he said—about the future, about us, about the child he’d like to see growing inside me.
By the time I reach my car, I’ve made a decision.
I’ll tell him. All of it. This weekend, in the penthouse, with the city looking on. The bet, the video, the thousand dollars, every last humiliating, honest detail. He deserves the truth. And if it ruins everything, at least it will be my ruin, not a lie.
