Page 112 of On the Breakaway

I immediately turn toward the opposite hallway, picking up speed. I’ve spent enough time learning that engaging with Damon is like stepping into quicksand. The second you give him an opening, he’ll drag you under.

Unfortunately, he’s never been particularly good at respecting boundaries.

Three long strides close the distance between us. When his hand wraps around my arm, every muscle in my body goes rigid.

I wasn’t scared of him when we started dating, and even at the end, I was convinced that he’d never physically hurt me. I convinced myself that the way my body tensed when he walked in the room was an overreaction because he’d never take it that far. Now, after that damn article, my heart lurches into my throat, fear crawling up my spine.

“Let go of me.”

His grip tightens. “Not until we talk.”

My pulse spikes instantly, because after everything he did, after every lie and carefully crafted apology designed to make me question my own reality, he still somehow walks around acting like he’s entitled to my attention.

I yank against his hold. “Damon.”

“Five minutes.”

“No.”

His expression darkens. “Avery.”

Then, before I can step away again, he catches both of my arms and steers me toward the quieter corner of the room, smiling widely at the people we breeze past. It’s the same smile that used to send butterflies coursing through my stomach, but now I see it for what it is.

Pretend.

Once we’re away from the main hallway where fewer people can see us, I pull my arm out of his grasp. His eyes widen as if surprised that I’d have the audacity to defy him.

Anger surges through me. Maybe back when we were together I’d been desperate to appease him, but not anymore. I’ve spent months getting myself back, and if he touches me again, I might just break his fucking nose.

He stares at me for a long moment as though he’s waiting for me to confess to something before he even has to ask. When I don’t, his jaw flexes.

“Are you trying to embarrass me?”

The question catches me so off guard that I actually laugh.

“What?”

“You come to my city. And go to a club my team frequents.”

My confusion only deepens. “And?”

“And I’m supposed to believe that’s an accident?”

Has he lost his mind? Then again, this is Damon. The man has always possessed an incredible ability to make everything about himself.

I motion around us, paying close attention to the people ensuring that we’re not truly alone. “You do know I’m here for a soccer game, right?”

“Don’t play dumb."

“You don’t own New York, Damon.” I laugh again, this time entirely without humor.

“Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?”

“You do that all on your own.”

His hand disappears into his suit jacket, pulling out his phone. When he shoves the screen toward me, understanding lands.

The photo is grainy and taken from a distance, but it’s unmistakably me.