Page 23 of Blue Gold

Elliot put out his cigarette in the ashtray he had beside him. “And what, a text couldn’t do it?”

Now I see why he’s angry.

“Elli—”

“No.” He got up to his feet and stomped toward me. Pulling out his phone, the one I’d bought for him, he shoved it at my chest.

I quickly moved to grab both—his phone and his hand—while keeping them close to me.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Rage simmered in his eyes before his jaw twitched. “Do you know how humiliating it was to ask someone to translate it for me?”

So, perhaps I should have called him instead of sending a lousy message telling him I wouldn’t make it this week. But forgive me for not typing it in French.

Tightening my grip on his hand, I leaned closer so our faces were inches apart.

“Couldn’t you just ask your boyfriend to read it for you?” I hissed in English, my voice laced with all the pent-up jealousy I’d swallowed for the past week.

Elliot’s brows pulled closer, a crease forming between them. “Boyfriend?” he repeated in English. “Qu’est-ce tu veux dire par ‘boyfriend’?”

Understanding that what I said was a mistake, I tried to take it back. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said in French. “It was nothing.”

I tried holding him closer, but he shrugged me off.

“It’s not nothing. You clearly have something to say, so say it!” he snapped, clenching his phone in his hand.

This was probably the first time I’d seen him angry, but at the moment, I was too mad to care.

“I saw you with that guy, Elliot. So don’t you dare lie about it.” My blood boiled with anger.

His brows rose to his hairline a second before he huffed. “It’s always the married ones who’re jealous.”

Somehow, having him say those words in his language felt even more condescending, only increasing my anger to immense levels.

“So you admit it?” I practically growled.

“Admit what?” he hissed, eyes narrowed.

“That you have someone?”

He snorted a laugh. Only it wasn’t the cheerful melody I was used to, but cold and detached.

“I don’t have anyone. And even if I did, why does it matter to you? You’re married.”

Elliot was right—I was married, hence why I shouldn’t care who he dated. And yet, I didn’t give a shit that he made sense and instead continued to act like a depraved man with a wounded ego and a bleeding heart.

“Damn it, Elliot!” I shouted in English. “Just answer my question.”

A deadly silence followed my outburst as he kept staring into my eyes, an expression I couldn’t read on his face.

“Oui.”

“Yes? Yes, what?” I nearly begged, sweating bullets in my tux, when coldness crossed his face.

“I fuck that man,” he snarled in English, as if he wanted to make sure I understood every word. “I fuck many men. Why not? On ne sors pas ensemble.” He shrugged, and something just snapped inside me.

“We’re not dating… That’s true. And yet, you have no problem taking my time and attention.” I spoke in French, my stare traveling to the phone he still clenched in his fist before going up to meet his hurt eyes.