Battle Royal by Lucy Parker

Chapter Seventeen

They stood intheir office, the desks between them. They were both holding on to the backs of their chairs, as if they didn’t know what to do with their hands.

As if they needed the support.

The rain was hitting the windows hard, and the clock was ticking, and everything felt both unnaturally loud and painfully silent.

She couldn’t look away from him.

He couldn’t seem to bear to look at her.

When he spoke at last, it was with his head lowered, his hair falling forward. “You and De Vere.” There was nothing in his tone. Literally nothing. Her stomach did a horrible, sickening little flip. “You’re—with De Vere.”

“Yes.” Sylvie spoke very quietly, but with no hesitation. Even as she felt that every word would stab into Jay with a weapon she’d never imagined she possessed, she wouldn’t deny Dominic. Couldn’t. “I’m seeing Dominic.”

Inadequate. Barely touching the surface. And already more than he wanted to hear.

“How long?” Jay asked, still expressionless. Under the stubble edging his sculpted jaw, a muscle jumped.

“Not long.”

He finally looked up, and the moment she saw his eyes again, her heart hurt like hell. “I, um—I didn’t realize. I wasn’t expecting . . .” He took a visibly unsteady breath.

“Neither was I,” she said softly. She had to cross her arms tightly to stop herself moving forward, reaching out for him.

She’d always held him when he was hurt.

And to do that, right now, would obviously gut him.

He seemed to be bracing himself. “Is it serious?” He forced those words out and raised a hand before she could answer. “Don’t answer that.” That frozen, hateful emptiness was leaving his voice. It cracked. Her eyes burnt. “I know you.” His mouth twisted. “I know you.”

Sylvie nodded once.

“The look on your face when you turned around. When you . . . left his arms.” Jay pressed his lips together. “It’s serious.”

“Jay.”

“I love you.” He said it so simply, as he’d said it a hundred times before, all these years.

And for the first time in all these years, she heard him.

The first tears slipped past her lashes.

Her usual response, as deeply and truly as she meant it, would be another sharp knife.

“I didn’t know.” She managed to speak, but it was barely more than a whisper. They looked at each other. His face was white. Another tear fell down her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

He closed his eyes, tilted his head back. Exhaled.

“How . . .” She trailed off.

Slowly, he looked back down at her. He slipped his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his trousers pulling taut across his long legs. “How long?” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t even know anymore. It crept up so gradually. For a while, I thought, Nah, you love her so much that you’re crossing wires that aren’t there. But no. And now I . . . I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t you.” A single crack of horrible self-deprecating laughter. “And for some reason, I was convinced that we’ve been moving closer to a point where it would be us.”

She didn’t question how he felt. She never would. Jay knew himself; he knew his feelings. She had no right to invalidate that to try to make this situation easier for herself.

They’d flatted together for a few years after Mallory’s death. Night after night, they’d curled up in the lounge, watching Mallory’s favorite classic films, and talking for hours and hours.

There had never been a time when Sylvie couldn’t talk to Jay, about anything.

She couldn’t think of one word to say now.

Nothing that wouldn’t make this even worse.

Even as she watched, his shoulders straightened, his face smoothing out, the professional suavity slipping over his features, the mask that had carried him through years of business negotiations.

He’d never used this version of himself with her.

It was as if he’d reached out and closed a physical door between them.

The pain was shocking.

“I have to leave now.” His every syllable was measured and too calm, but as their gazes met again and held, the façade cracked. “And for everything that we are, all that’s ever been between us that wasn’t in my head . . .” A slight note of bitterness, swiftly quashed. “I need you to let me do that.”

During that time back then, when Mallory had died, and her breath had been punched out of her chest and she’d felt she could never move again, she’d forced herself up and she’d thrown herself into work. Keeping her hands and mind busy until she was ready to face what had happened. Keeping herself intact until it was time to break.

She let him leave. Without a word. Her gaze averted. Her hands clenched into shaking fists.

When the door closed with finality behind him, the clock kept ticking in the silent room.