Chapter 45: Take Your Time

Chapter 45: Take Your Time
Chapter 45: Take Your Time

EVANGELINE

I take a deep breath as the elevator moves, feeling my hands slightly damp with sweat.

I don’t know how I’m going to face him. He could be thinking the worst things about me right now.

The elevator stops suddenly, making my stomach tighten. My eyes sweep over every inch of the space as the doors open.

I swallow hard as I step out, and when I spot him farther ahead, sitting on the couch, I pause for a moment before continuing.

His eyes are on me. And now, it feels as though they know too much, as if they can see more than I would like.

“Good evening,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I approach, walking around the couch.

He gives a brief nod in response.

“Sit,” he says.

Setting my bag aside, I sit on the couch across from him.

“I hope you managed to distract yourself a little with your friend.”

“Yes, thank you… and thank you for the gift.” My gaze drifts toward the entrance, searching for the black box, but it’s no longer there.

“About the messages…” he says, drawing my attention back to him. “I appreciate your trust.”

“No, I should have told you earlier, but…” I look away, hesitating to admit my shame.

“Don’t worry. I don’t want you to feel pressured. We’ll do this at your pace.”

“No. I want to do whatever it takes to resolve this.”

He remains silent for a brief moment.

“Then help me understand.”

I nod, even though I fear what will come next.

He holds my gaze for another moment before continuing.

“When he says he showed you the truth… do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I’m not sure, but… maybe it’s about my ex-boyfriend’s betrayal,” I reveal, even though I wish I never had to mention it again.

“How did he do that?”

“I found an envelope at my door.”

“Do you know why he would do that?”

I shake my head, and silence settles between us again.

“He talks as if the two of you share something,” he observes. “Is there any reason for that?”

A small knot forms in my throat, but I can’t run from this anymore.

“Yes,” I admit. “But… I just… I didn’t have a choice.”

“Did he force you to do something?” he asks, his tone now edged with concern.

I close my eyes, trying to push the memories away.

All I want is to forget that night—the shame, the confusion—but now he’s asking me to do exactly the opposite.

“Did he hurt you?” he continues when I don’t answer.

“No. He didn’t touch me.”

Not with his hands.

But he did something worse.

He got inside my head and played with it.

“He mentions a night. He asks if you missed him. But you said he didn’t touch you, and at the same time that you didn’t have a choice…” he continues while I stare at a random corner, avoiding his gaze. “What didn’t you have a choice about? What did you do?”

I hesitate, trying to find a way to tell the truth without feeling filthy.

“He wanted something… and said he would only leave if I did it.”

“And you did,” he concludes after a few seconds of silence.

“I just wanted him to leave,” I murmur, feeling guilt consume me.

The silence hangs in the air for seconds that feel far too long.

“Can you tell me what really happened?”

“I shouldn’t… I was scared and confused… I just…”

“It’s alright,” he interrupts. “We don’t have to continue.”

I nod, taking a deep breath as I try to calm my mind.

He suddenly stands.

“I think you need a drink.”

I watch him walk away, heading toward the wall-mounted wine rack behind the dining table.

After a moment, I stand and go to him.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I think I’ve had enough tonight,” I say, noticing the black box from earlier on the table while he pours the glasses.

“We still haven’t toasted your feature,” he says, stepping closer to hand me one of the glasses.

“Well… I think the credit is more yours than mine,” I say with a shy smile.

“I’m not the one who wrote it.” He raises his glass to mine, our glasses clinking softly. “Drink,” he instructs.

I obey, bringing the glass to my lips, and the slightly bitter taste of the wine is almost comforting.

Seemingly satisfied, he does the same without looking away.

Then he positions himself beside me, leaning back against the table as I do.

For a moment, I’m aware of how large his body feels beside mine.

“Before, I didn’t see much use in this kind of exposure. But now I realize it can be an interesting tool,” he comments, pulling my mind back to the conversation.

“Well, I’m glad if I had any part in that,” I tease.

“You did,” he confirms, meeting my gaze again.

I lift my glass for another toast, which he accepts, and I could swear there’s a hint of a smile in his blue eyes before he looks away, bringing his glass to his lips.

In that instant, an impulse takes hold of me.

“He watched me while I touched myself,” I confess, unable to stop the words.

He looks at me immediately, and the silence that follows makes me want to disappear.

“You did what you had to do. Don’t feel ashamed of that,” he says at last.

But his words don’t make me feel any better.

“I was alone, confused, and scared,” I say, looking away. “But he came back because he thinks I liked it—that I wanted it… Maybe it’s my fault.”

He takes my chin, surprising me, forcing me to meet his gaze again.

“Our bodies can react instinctively to things our minds don’t yet understand.”

“But I didn’t want that.”

“I believe you. But maybe I’m not the one you’re trying to convince.”

I blink, absorbing his words.

Maybe he’s right. All this time, I’ve tried to forget—to pretend it was a fantasy and convince myself it wasn’t my fault.

But I still feel guilty. Just remembering how my body reacted makes me feel dirty, and I know it will haunt me forever.

So why am I asking him to believe me when I can’t even do that myself?

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to drag you into this…” I say, stepping back just enough to escape his touch.

“Don’t apologize. It’s a pleasure to help you.”

“Why?” I ask, searching for the truth in his cold blue eyes.

“Because I can. And because I want to.”

He makes it sound so simple. But I know it isn’t just that.

“And why do you want to?” I insist.

He holds my gaze as the silence between us grows heavy with tension.

Raising his hand, he cups the side of my face, making my breath catch in my throat.

His touch is firm, yet careful. My gaze drops to his lips, and I know I should step away.

But I can’t.

And I don’t want to.