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“Did you just refer to yourself as an international sex symbol?”
“Merely repeating what others have said.”
“Are you flattered by the label?”
His face closed up and his lips tightened.
“This isn’t an interview.”
Iris clamped her mouth shut and diverted her eyes once again.
“Right.”
“How’s your back?” he asked after a moment. Then, when she continued to mutinously stare at the condensation beaded on the glass door, “Don’t be childish now, Hughes, look at me and answer the question.”
“It’s fine,” she said, still not looking at him. He made a quiet sound of frustration.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Why do you so desperately need to be looked at?” she countered, angling her jaw upwards. “Do you miss having an audience?”
The silence seethed and—curious though she was to see his reaction—Iris maintained her stubborn focus on the door.
“I don’t need an audience.”
“Of course, you do. It’s why you do what you do. You enjoy having the adulation of the masses, don’t you?”
“Is that your best guess, Hughes? Some cheap, predictable psychobabble about what you think makes me tick? You know fuck all about me. You’ve seen me in a few movies, read or watched some interviews, and believe you know everything about me? You’re a fucking child if you think everything you’ve seen and heard about me is true.”
Iris finally gave him her eyes, which he then held trapped in his own furious, burning gaze.
“Why won’t you enlighten me then?” she invited, her voice curt.
“Because you’re nothing to me. Nobody. Why should I reveal any part of who I am to you? What the fuck makes you think you’re so goddamned special? You’re nothing but a little wannabe journalist with zero credentials and even less experience. Added to that, you’re the spawn of one of the worst human beings to have ever befouled this planet with his existence. You’re literally the last person on earth I’d ever confide in.”
“You’re getting repetitive,” she told him. Refusing to let him provoke her again. “My father’s the devil, I’m Satan’s spawn, blah, blah… I heard the same boring rant not more than half an hour ago.”
There was a gleam of—was that appreciation?—in his eyes and for the first time since she’d arrived, his lips stretched into that famous Abbott grin.
“Very well done, Hughes. You won’t get very far with paper-thin skin in this industry.”
His praise confused her and she glared at him warily, not sure what to make of it.
“I’m tired. I think I’d like to go back to my room now.” Right now, even the oppressive hell that was her room seemed preferable to his disagreeable presence.
“Do you really prefer what you refer to as your prison cell over a sauna and my company?” His stare was contemplative, but his question without inflection, and Iris wasn’t sure if she’d offended him.
Nor did she care.
“Yes.”
God, that was such a lie. It was literally the second last place she’d rather be right now. But since this right here was the last place she wanted to be, she had no other choice than to return to her stifling, terrifying solitary confinement.
His eyebrows shot to his hairline.
“Very well. But you have to do some stretching when you get back to your room to prevent your back from seizing up again.”
Iris nodded and pushed to her feet. The movement was easy and relatively painless.
