Page 82

There it is.

The landmine we’ve both been dancing around.

Graham doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. “If I had, would it change things?”

A slow, bitter smile tugs at my lips. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Something flickers across his face—something like frustration, something like regret—but it’s gone too fast for me to decipher.

“I didn’t,” he says finally.

I don’t let myself believe it. Not yet.

“Are you sure?” I ask quietly. “Because I need to know, Graham. I need to know that if I get this job, it’s because I deserve it. Not because you⁠—”

“I didn’t,” he says again, stepping forward, and closing the space between us. “I would never do that to you.”

And damn him.

Damn, the way he says it, low and rough like the very idea of taking that choice away from me insults him.

Like the thought of me doubting myself—of me doubting him—is worse than whatever hell he’s been wading through since we reentered each other’s lives.

For a moment, we just stand there.

Two people caught in the wreckage of their own making, both too stubborn to look away.

Then, quietly⁠—

“I need you to believe me, Ana.”

My breath hitches.

Not just from the way he says my name, but from the way he’s looking at me.

Not with arrogance.

Not with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

But with something else.

Something raw and vulnerable and dangerous because it makes me want to do something I shouldn’t.

So I do the only thing I can.

I move.

I set the glass down. I take a step past him. I remind myself why this can’t happen.

But then⁠—

He catches my wrist.

Light. Barely a touch.

But enough to stop me in my tracks.

Enough to make my pulse skitter beneath his fingers, to send a slow, traitorous shiver crawling up my spine.