“Why there’s a year missing from your life.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because you’ve already figured it out? Or because it’s none of your fucking business?”
“Because you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
I laugh, and it sounds like breaking glass. “That’s rich. What is this, a therapy session? Going to bill my insurance for this heart-to-heart?”
“You’re angry.”
“Wow. U Penn really paid off with those analytical skills. You have no right to dissect my life like it’s one of your little business acquisitions.”
I feel the mattress shift as he turns toward me. “I wasn’t trying to?—”
“What did you think you’d find?” I interrupt, still facing away from him. “More importantly, why would you want to know?”
“I was curious.”
“Curious.” I roll the word around like it’s poison. “Like I’m some exotic specimen in your collection.”
“That’s not?—”
“Just stop talking. I’m tired, OK? It’s been… a helluva day.” I pull the covers up higher.
He sighs, and it sounds almost genuine. “Emmaleen, I’m trying to understand?—”
“No,” I cut him off, finally rolling over to face him. His green eyes are closer than I expected, startlingly bright even in the dim light. “You’re trying to control. There’s a difference.”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“I know exactly what this is,” I say, my voice dropping to something dangerous and low. “This is you gathering intel. This is you looking for pressure points. This is you figuring out exactly how much it would take to break me.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s what menlike youdo,” I continue, riding the wave of fury that’s been building all day. “You study. You categorize. You exploit. You’re no different from—” I catch myself just in time.
Giovanni’s eyes narrow. “From who?”
“From every other entitled asshole who thinks money buys them the right to other people’s lives.”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying me with that unnerving intensity. “You’re comparing me to someone specific.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I snap. “You’re my boss, not my therapist.”
“I’m the man you fucked against a door an hour ago,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “I think we’re past professional boundaries.”
The words hit like a slap. “And whose fault is that? You’re the one who made the rules. You’re the one who keeps changing them.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re overstepping,” I counter. “My past is off-limits.”
“Everything about you is a locked door,” he says. “Even when you’re naked and coming apart in my hands.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. “Fuck you.”
“You already did,” he reminds me, maddeningly calm. “Rather enthusiastically.”
I want to scream. I want to hit him. I want to kiss him until neither of us can breathe.