Page 116 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
My eyes snapped to his. I searched his face, didn't find what I wanted, and searched it again.
I didn’t hear wrong, Fika. She met with a fucking S.E.C. agent.
I left that argument out, because if she had, I definitely deserved it.
My brain kicked into overdrive, recalling all the fucked-up things I had done to her because I had thought she was complicit in the Winthrop Scandal.
Being a general dick.
Laughing in her face when she accidentally screwed me instead of Reed.
Stealing her wallet.
Making her buy me coffee with her twenty-dollar bill.
Forcing her to give me the change.
Ripping her photo of Reed in half.
Watching her shower.
Threatening her.
Getting her off when she was barely older than half my age.
Ripping her clothes.
Leaving her naked when we both wanted to fuck each other’s brains out.
Embarrassing her in front of her coworkers.
Giving her grunt work.
Depriving her of a meal.
Shit, the list went on, flashes of scenes I’d been able to justify at the time.
Fika’s revelation haunted me.
She can’t even afford a meal.
And I’d taken one from her.
The thing about revenge is, people feel entitled to it. Being wronged is an invitation to retaliate, but the cycle never stops. I had justified everything I did to her at the time with one sentence—Dad died. My morals didn’t exist, though I told myself I thrived on them.
I tried to fix myself by breaking her.
Fika made me promise to leave Emery alone before he left. I didn’t remember what I had muttered back, but it must have pacified him because he placed a palm on my shoulder, said something I didn’t hear, and left right after.
My new phone hit the wall as soon as the door shut behind him. It clattered to the floor, chunks of glass flying off, the screen looking eerily similar to the one Emery had crushed to pieces.
She can’t even afford a meal, and you took her money and publicly shamed her for eating a pathetic slice of turkey. She can break all your damn phones until you die, you miserable bastard.
I stepped on the glass, uncaring that the shards dug into my heels and drew blood. Kicking my broken phone to the side, I stripped off my suit, scattered it to the ground like littered trash, and stood under the shower head. It hammered scalding-hot water onto my scalp and shoulders.
My skin turned red beneath the blaze, but I didn’t let myself move. I ground the glass deeper into my skin. Blood drifted from my feet. The dark red faded into the water, diluted to pink, and swirled down the drain.
Two palms pressed against the wall, I studied the floor, placing my feet exactly where Emery had stood when I’d watched her finish her shower. My dick instantly hardened, and I was so fucked up for grabbing it.
