Chapter 22: A Teeny Tiny Piece of Forgiveness
VANESSA BELMONT
As my sobbing abated, I felt someone stroking my hair.
The touch was gentle, hesitant—almost as if the person wasn’t sure they were allowed to comfort me.
I looked up.
The dim light of the bedside lamp cast shadows across Nathan’s sharp features. His tie was loosened, his usually immaculate suit jacket wrinkled, and his dark eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
He grabbed the tissue box and held it out to me.
I tore out a few tissues, wiping my nose and patting at the damp trails of tears from my cheeks. My hands trembled, and I hated it—hated how weak I looked, how exposed. Nate reached for my free hand, his fingers brushing against mine, but I jerked away, shaking off his grasp.
"What are you doing?" I asked, irritated
"Comforting my fiancée."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Well, that’s stupid of you."
Nate exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he said, "I told Fiona to go home."