“Lunch?” I glance at my desk. Light flashes across my plastic nameplate. “Why would I do that?”
“I’m done hiding. You need the truth.”
His voice drills into me. Fury, yes, but beneath it, something raw. He’s either bluffing or bleeding. I need to know which.
I exhale slowly, toner and stale air filling my lungs. “Fine. I’ll meet you. This better be worth it.” And anyway, he’s already spooking my coworkers. This conversation can’t happen here.
He nods once and storms out. The door slams, sending a gust across my desk, scattering papers like startled birds.
The tension doesn’t leave. It thickens. My secretary watches me, waiting. I give her nothing.
Calvin’s voice lingers. So does everything he didn’t say.
My phone buzzes, Delilah.
Her name pulses on the screen. I let it ring. Her voice would only tangle the mess further, and I need clarity.
I almost text her back. Almost. But I don’t.
“She’s my friend,” I murmur, staring past the glow of my monitor. But the words taste wrong, like lukewarm coffee and regret. Like my mouth knows something my brain won’t admit.
The bell over the diner door chimes as I enter. Brittle. Like everything here, cracked vinyl booths, chipped mugs, linoleum curling at the corners. Grease stains crawl the walls. The air smells of burnt toast and stale desperation.
The waitress lifts her eyes, half-lidded, and jerks her chin toward the back booth. I take it. Both exits are in view. Control. Distance. Safety.
I don’t order. A sweating water glass appears anyway. I wrap my hand around it, ground myself, and scan the room.
Two suits sit by the window, coffees untouched. One clicks his pen twice, exactly every twenty seconds. I count. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.
Calvin walks in at twenty-eight.
No hesitation. No searching. He knows where I am. His coat shifts across his shoulders as he moves, boots cracking against the tile. His entrance drags the air down with him, stormfront rolling in.
As Calvin nears, the suited men by the window straighten. Alert. Ready. No wonder the rumors spread, mafia ties or not, he carries command like a second skin.
He slides into the booth across from me. No greeting. Sugar granules crunch beneath his forearm.
His eyes skim the warped napkin dispenser, the neon sign stuttering between OPEN and PEN, before locking on mine.
“You’re a damn fool,” he says.
Not cruel. Worse. Matter-of-fact.
I lean back. The vinyl grips my shirt. Behind the counter, something hisses on the griddle. The air is heavy with fried onions and sour eggs, bitter enough to coat my tongue.
“Because I refused to marry a cheater?” I shoot back.
Calvin tilts his head. His mouth twitches, not humor, but calculation. The accusation shifts into something sharper.
“You think Delilah’s loyal?”
The water glass sweats against my palm. My thumb presses hard into the chill, as if pressure alone could keep me steady.
“She’s had my back,” I say. “Always. Lara tried to isolate me. Delilah didn’t.”
He flicks a glance toward the suited men. One checks his watch. The silence presses down, heavy and deliberate.
“She’s playing you, Gideon.”
