Page 96 of Sexting His Assistant

“Your pregnant date kissed you in the hallway,” I say. “What’s there to misunderstand?”

His expression hardens. “She’s not my date.”

“Oh, please.”

“She was a woman I had dinner with.”

“Yes, Luka, we all know about your dinners. I practically run the archive.”

“That’s not what you think.”

“It is exactly what I think.” My voice rises despite my best effort to control it. “I have scheduled them. Canceled them. Sent flowers. Chosen wine. Updated your ridiculous diary like your love life is a compliance risk.”

His mouth tightens.

I want it to hurt.

“You are vile,” I say.

I keep going because I’m already bleeding, so why not make a mess of everything.

“You let me sit there organizing your women like I was above it, like I was different because I had a desk outside your office and knew how you took your tea. You let me think—” My voice breaks, and I hate that more than anything. “You let me think something happened between us.”

“Something did happen.”

“While one of them might be carrying your child.”

His expression goes cold. “I don’t know who the father is.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Liar.” The word comes out hard.

For one stupid second, some old instinct in me flinches before he even moves. I hate myself for it, but Luka sees it. His face changes completely.

“I deserve that,” he says.

His voice is quiet.

I blink. “What?”

“For many things,” he says. “For frightening you. For touching you and leaving. For coming here like this. For tearing up the letter. But not for lying.”

I swallow.

He steps no closer.

Because suddenly my own apartment feels too charged, too warm, too small for all the things we have not said.

“I haven’t slept with Alina,” he says.

I laugh again, but weaker this time. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”