Page 95 of Hidden

Yet now that he had finally given me exactly what I had been silently begging for, I hated it.

My fingers tightened around the phone, and I stared down at the blank screen. My texts were monitored, just like every other aspect of my life. But it had been years—years—of me not using this stupid thing, other than to text Nico asking “how high” when he told me to jump. I couldn’t even remember the last time he’d checked my phone, because he knew how limited my social life was. Surely there would be no harm in one small text? A quick phone call?

Before I could think better of it, I unlocked it and found his number, pressing dial before logic and reason had the chance to infiltrate the recklessness of the wine.

As the phone rang, my stomach hollowed, my heart raced, and my hands grew sweaty. This was a terrible idea, an absolutely catastrophic one. But there was no turning back now.

The ringing seemed endless in the otherwise silence of my room, and I chewed on my lower lip, beginning to think that he wasn’t going to answer.

And then, the ringing stopped, and there was quiet on the other end.

I pulled the phone away from my cheek, glancing down at the screen, seeing that the call had been disconnected, he just wasn’t talking. As I brought it back up to my ear, I heard the soft sound of his breathing.

“Vienna,” I whispered, closing my eyes tightly.

What had I been expecting? That he would answer the phone with something humorous, no doubt calling himself the greatest man ever, and then come rescue me?

Miracles didn’t happen twice, and I’d already been given that version of him.

His breathing picked up ever so slightly once he heard my voice, and before I could help myself, I found myself speaking again.

“Why aren’t you here?”

“Gabby,” he breathed.

“You didn’t come tonight.”

“No. I didn’t,” he said softly, sounding almost sad.

“Why?” I asked, and then immediately cringed, hearing how pathetic I sounded.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and then, very quietly, he said, “You called just to tell me off?” followed by a small chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest. A chuckle that did something wicked to me.

I swallowed and tipped my head back against the headboard. “I’m not telling you off.”

“No?” he murmured.

“No.”

“What would you call it, then?”

I looked toward the window again, as though that might somehow help. “An observation.”

He made a soft sound under his breath, something halfway between amusement and disbelief. “An observation.”

“Yes.”

“And what else have you observed?” he asked.

“I thought you were the observer in this relationship?” I replied, wanting to tease him. Instead, his breath sucked in sharply.

“We don’t have a relationship.”

I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. Pain flared underneath every inch of skin on my body, and I had to bite down on the palm of my hand to stop the sob from escaping.

“That was an asshole thing to say, I’m sorry,” he finally said, which was a relief because I had nothing else to say.

“No, it’s okay. You were right. We have a history. That’s not the same thing.”