“Or we could skip dinner and go right to dessert.”
Revulsion rolls through me.
“Are you serious?”
He looks offended.
“Perfectly.”
“You publicly humiliated me, and now you think I'm going to go out with you?”
“Oh, don't be dramatic.”
He waves a dismissive hand.
“Consider it a little lovers' quarrel.”
The room suddenly feels too small.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
He isn't touching me.
But he doesn't have to.
Men like Joel Jonas don't need fists.
They weaponize pressure.
Money.
Fear.
Power.
And despite the rage boiling inside me, I'm not stupid.
If he lunged at me right now, he outweighs me by at least sixty pounds.
He could hurt me.
Maybe not badly.
But enough.
Enough to frighten.
Enough to remind me he can.
Still—I refuse to let him see that fear.
He walks closer.
Not touching me.
Yet.