I opened my messages. I found his contact.
I attached the photo. My thumb hovered over the send button. My heart was racing, a frantic drumbeat in my ears. Let's see how you like THIS, Cassian. Let's see you ignore me now.
I hit send.
The moment the 'Delivered' checkmark appeared, the alcohol-induced bravado vanished, replaced by a wave of cold, paralyzing dread.
"Oh fuck," I whispered. "Oh no. No, no, no."
I frantically tapped the message, hitting 'Delete for Everyone.'
Too late.
The status changed. Seen. He'd seen it. He'd seen the photo of Alex Hendrix, his rival, with his hands on my throat and his lips on mine.
I sat there, frozen, staring at the screen. The little typing bubble appeared.
Cassian is typing…
My breath hitched. I could almost feel the vibration of his rage through the glass of the phone. I waited for the explosion. I waited for the text telling me I was fired, or dead, or both.
The bubble disappeared.
Nothing.
