“What proof could you possibly give for something that never happened?”
Though he’d said they’d never been together, I’d still had lingering doubts. His word no longer meant anything. But now…now I knew for sure. They’d never been romantic together. At least there was that.
“I told her you called me the same pet name you called her. Tore. Her. Up.”
“From the looks of it, it seems she tore you up.”
“Battle scars,” she said dismissively.
Her face! I’d almost forgotten. Damn, I wished I could see the results of my attack.
“What pet name are you talking about, anyway?”
His question alone meant he’d never told her. I turned my head toward the opening, eager to hear how this proceeded.
“Precious,” she said.
“How the hell did you know about that?” He was furious.
So it had been only ours. Finally, I had something to hold onto. That—his name for me—that would be the memory I’d take away as pure and true.
“I borrowed her phone one day when we’d had lunch. I saw text messages between the two of you. You called her precious.”
Such a fucking cunt. I wanted to stand up and shout it across the room. It was almost worth revealing myself.
Almost.
Hudson’s expression must have indicated he wasn’t happy about the information because Celia said, “Oh, come on. It was a good play. A fucking good play. And you’re telling me that had no bearing on your breakup?”
“No. I think she could have survived that, honestly.” Yes, we could have survived that. “It was the truth that did us in.”
“The truth? You told her—?”
He cut her off. “Everything.”
“That’s against the ru—”
Again he broke her off. “There are no fucking rules anymore, Celia. It’s over! I’m not playing. And I’m not discussing Alayna with you for another minute.” He spoke with finality.
I pictured what he must look like—his shoulders broad and squared, his face stern and unmoving. There was no way to refute him when he looked like that.
Her heels clicked again.
I tensed.
Then the sound of the couch creaking. “Is that why you brought me here? To tell me that you’re quitting?” Though she was trying to sound bored, I heard the disappointment in her voice.
“I haven’t even really played in years. Except to be your pawn.” Hudson’s steps then movement as he sat in his chair. “But no, that’s not why you’re here. I’m telling you that you’re quitting. You’re done, Celia. No more games.”
“You’re joking, right? You can’t decide that for me.”
While I appreciated that Hudson believed he could simply talk Celia out of her ways, I recognized her fortitude. She was not one to give up easily. Or at all. Even if Hudson asked her nicely.
“You’re right that I can’t monitor you in every facet of your life,” Hudson said, “nor do I have any intention, but I can tell you that you will not be messing with me or my family or my employees and definitely not Alayna.”
There, again. The sound of my name from his lips. Said so carefully, so reverently, like carrying something fragile and precious. Ah…precious. His care for me was…it was deep. I couldn’t deny that.
And the realization only hurt that much more.
Celia’s response kept me from spiraling into a fit of sobs. “That’s hilarious that you think you have any control over me in any measure. And your declaration is only begging for me to prove you wrong. Plus, even though I agreed to not press charges, I’m not finished with this Alayna game.”
“You are finished, Celia.” Again, he spoke with authority. “While I’d hoped you’d give it up for the sake of our friendship—or whatever it is that we once had—I had a feeling that you’d disagree. So I’ve attained some insurance.”
“I’m intrigued.”
So am I.
“Let me tell you about a company that I just bought.” There was unusual pep in Hudson’s tone. “Actually, I’ll show you the paperwork.”
Once more my heart raced as Hudson stood and moved. But he sounded like he was walking away. Then a shuffle of papers—he was at his desk. Then back to where he’d been—again, the chair creaked. I heard another shuffle and then individual paper movement as though someone was flipping through a packet and periodic silence as they paused to read. I could picture it—her French-tipped nails turning one page after another.
What was it? I itched to know. Though there was no way I’d be able to see what she was reading, I couldn’t take it anymore—I had to peek. If they were buried in papers, they wouldn’t notice me. I moved to my knees and peered around the door.