He closed the distance step by step, the pressure of him so suffocating I could barely breathe.
I forced myself to stay calm.
I pulled open the drawer and took out the only photograph we'd ever had together, then held it up in front of him and tore it apart, piece by slow piece.
I let the fragments fall at his feet, and when I spoke, my voice carried nothing at all—no anger, no grief, not even the memory of love.
"To get back the last shred of my dignity."
"Don't worry, CEO Gilbert. Your money, your trade secrets—I couldn't care less about any of it."
My answer clearly caught him off guard.
He looked into my hollow eyes, and something like panic flickered through him.
That panic made him angry.
He seized my wrist, shoved me down against the desk, and lowered his mouth toward mine.
I didn't struggle. I didn't respond.
I lay there like a corpse with no warmth left, and let him spend his rage on a body that gave him nothing back.
His kiss started violent, then slowly drained of any hunger at all.
In the end, he pushed me away in disgust and straightened his clothes.
"Beulah, that dead look on your face is revolting."
He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.