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I take a warning step toward her. “Or I’ll drag you out by your pink hair. It won’t be pretty.”
She backs out, closing the door with a mortal stare, and when I turn around, I think I see a flicker of a smile on Archer’s lips that disappears too quickly, his gaze back on his computer.
“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” I continue, irritated. “I meant what I said that night,whyI said it.”
“Kat, you don’t have to explain your opinion to me.”
“It wasn’t an opinion—”
“Kat,” he cuts me off in a businesslike manner. “If you came to apologize, please don’t. And I don’t need an explanation of why you think the way you do. It’s alright. Water under the bridge.”
His phone rings. Goddammit!
“Is there something else you wanted to talk about?” he asks, his face devoid of emotions as he picks up his phone, a clear sign that he doesn’t want to talk. “I really have to take this.”
I have his gold chain in my pocket, and I grip it as hard as I can, counting seconds in the hope he’ll say something else. I wanted to return it. But now, I’d be doing it angry, so instead, I nod and walk out.
A week goes by without Archer talking to me. The traffic in and out of his office is like that of a President. Assistants, lab personnel, surveillance. We act like strangers, the sight of him piercing me with regret for the harsh words I said every time I steal a glance of him.
One day, Ayana is rattled by the sound of helicopters, then a jet, and another one. An hour later, an echelon of golf carts pull up to the Center, and before the “guests” walk in, a dozen or so security guys sweep in, clearing the path to a conference room.
“What’s happening?” I ask one of the office guys after security asked me to move away from my desk.
“The board members’ meeting.”
A group of fifteen or so people walk into the Center, most of them much older, dress shirts and sunglasses, smiles and chatter. They could be Wall Street guys. Or Palm Beach golfers. Except they are not.
Archer is among them, so young he almost looks out of place, in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looks so sexy that it takes my breath away.
“A couple of them are the richest men in the world,” the guy next to me murmurs as if it’s a secret.
I know that.
“Wonder if any of them are responsible for the Change?” he asks with a snort.
I’m not into conspiracy theories, nor do I like politics. So I leave the Center.
The almighty with an army of guards crowd Ayana for the next several days—restaurants, bars, yachts, and villa parties. When they leave, Archer reappears at work, but it’s silent treatment again.
I sit at Marlow’s one evening—for the first time in more than a week, because Marlow is in the wrong place mentally, either spending evenings at Ty’s, because, right, Raylin is there, and he still didn’t tell me what his history with her is—or he’s sulking by himself and doesn’t pick up the phone.
Right now, I’m on his couch in his lounge room, listening to him play the guitar, plucking at the strings some melancholic notes. We’re barely talking, both of us lost in our thoughts, ignoring his phone ringing.
Only when the front door opens—Axavier is supposed to come—do we both stir.
But it’s Archer.
I’m so taken aback to see him outside the office that I freeze. We stare at each other, and I feel like his worst enemy, considering he avoids me like the plague.
“Wanna chill with us?” Marlow asks without getting up while I stiffen and keep staring at Archer.
“Just dropped by to chat about O’Shea, but…”
But I’m here. I get it.
“Don’t want to interrupt your evening.” Archer attempts to smile. “I’ll catch you later.”
Marlow and I exchange confused looks when the door closes, and we are left alone.
