Page 11 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Gideon

I rub my temples, tracing the clean edges of my desk. I’m an accountant, trained for precision, for control. Numbers behave. But people? People bleed, distort, and lie. Lately, everything feels loud, impossible to measure.

The door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a crack sharp enough to wake the dead. A nearby desk plant quivers. My secretary jumps, her chair screeches, and coffee splatters dark across a stack of manila folders.

Calvin storms in. His face is flushed red, his movements clipped. The soles of his boots strike the linoleum with steady menace. He’s always worn intensity like a badge, but today it’s heavier. More volatile.

I straighten instinctively, my heart thudding against my ribs. The atmosphere shifts, electric and brittle. Calvin has never been subtle; his emotions usually serve as armor. But right now, that armor seems dangerously frayed.

The irony almost makes me laugh. He’s the angry one? He got the girl.

“Mr. Eastwood, should I call security?” my secretary whispers, her fingers white-knuckling the phone.

“No.” I keep my eyes locked on him. “I’ve got it.”

He closes the distance in a few strides. Ash and cologne cling to him, sharp and bitter. The last time I saw him, I pictured him in my fiancée’s bed. The thought still claws at me, but I choke it down. His fury demands mine.

“We need to talk,” he says.

I cross my arms, cool air from the ceiling vent stirring my sleeves. “About what? Sleeping with my fiancée?”

The words snap out—too fast, too hot. Regret pools instantly in my chest. This isn’t the place. My boss’s silhouette hovers in the glass office nearby, and I can feel the room tilting toward us. I don’t want the spectacle.

But here we are.

Calvin doesn’t flinch.

“No,” he says. “Meet me for lunch. Now.”

“Lunch?” I glance at my desk. Light flashes across my plastic nameplate. “Why would I do that?”

“I’m done hiding. You need the truth.”

His voice drills into me. Fury, yes, but beneath it, something raw. He’s either bluffing or bleeding. I need to know which.

I exhale slowly, toner and stale air filling my lungs. “Fine. I’ll meet you. This better be worth it.” And anyway, he’s already spooking my coworkers. This conversation can’t happen here.

He nods once and storms out. The door slams, sending a gust across my desk, scattering papers like startled birds.

The tension doesn’t leave. It thickens. My secretary watches me, waiting. I give her nothing.

Calvin’s voice lingers. So does everything he didn’t say.

My phone buzzes, Delilah.

Her name pulses on the screen. I let it ring. Her voice would only tangle the mess further, and I need clarity.

I almost text her back. Almost. But I don’t.

“She’ s my friend,” I murmur, staring past the glow of my monitor. But the words taste wrong, like lukewarm coffee and regret. Like my mouth knows something my brain won’t admit.

The bell over the diner door chimes as I enter. Brittle. Like everything here, cracked vinyl booths, chipped mugs, linoleum curling at the corners. Grease stains crawl the walls. The air smells of burnt toast and stale desperation.

The waitress lifts her eyes, half-lidded, and jerks her chin toward the back booth. I take it. Both exits are in view. Control. Distance. Safety.

I don’t order. A sweating water glass appears anyway. I wrap my hand around it, ground myself, and scan the room.

Two suits sit by the window, coffees untouched. One clicks his pen twice, exactly every twenty seconds. I count. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

Calvin walks in at twenty-eight.

No hesitation. No searching. He knows where I am. His coat shifts across his shoulders as he moves, boots cracking against the tile. His entrance drags the air down with him, stormfront rolling in.

As Calvin nears, the suited men by the window straighten. Alert. Ready. No wonder the rumors spread, mafia ties or not, he carries command like a second skin.

He slides into the booth across from me. No greeting. Sugar granules crunch beneath his forearm.

His eyes skim the warped napkin dispenser, the neon sign stuttering between OPEN and PEN, before locking on mine.

“You’re a damn fool,” he says.

Not cruel . Worse. Matter-of-fact.

I lean back. The vinyl grips my shirt. Behind the counter, something hisses on the griddle. The air is heavy with fried onions and sour eggs, bitter enough to coat my tongue.

“Because I refused to marry a cheater?” I shoot back.

Calvin tilts his head. His mouth twitches, not humor, but calculation. The accusation shifts into something sharper.

“You think Delilah’s loyal?”

The water glass sweats against my palm. My thumb presses hard into the chill, as if pressure alone could keep me steady.

“She’s had my back,” I say. “Always. Lara tried to isolate me. Delilah didn’t.”

He flicks a glance toward the suited men. One checks his watch. The silence presses down, heavy and deliberate.

“She’s playing you, Gideon.”

The words cleave the air.

Silverware clatters louder. A baby whines. The ceiling vent hums, spilling recycled chill down my spine.

“That’s insane.”

Calvin doesn’t blink.

“What’s insane,” he says evenly, “is leaving your fiancée over a rumor.”

My jaw locks. “You expect me to believe you weren’t sleeping with Lara?”

He sneers, not to provoke, but to confirm how little I understand.

“I most certainly am not sleeping with my sister.”

The word slams into me. Gravel in the throat.

“Sister?”

Calvin snaps his fingers once. A waiter materializes, not the sluggish waitress from before, but sharp, polished, attentive.

“Yes, s ir?”

“Bourbon.”

“Right away.”

As the waiter departs, I stare at the wood grain in the table, searching for something steady. The swirls only ripple outward. Descent. Slow. Unforgiving.

“She would’ve told me.”

“She didn’t,” Calvin says, “because I asked her not to. It wasn’t safe. Delilah promised too.”

My stomach folds inward. “Delilah knew?”

His expression hardens, sharpening like glass. “Funny how my sisters can’t stand each other, until they want the same man.”

The sentence lands like a blade.

I blink slowly. The diner noise dissolves into static, clinking dishes, distant traffic, the relentless drum in my ears.

“Lara and I are siblings. Delilah too. Both half-sisters. I told them to keep it quiet.”

Everything tilts. The floor holds steady, but inside, I’m falling. Off-balance. Drowning.

“You’re lying.” My voice fractures on the word.

Calvin doesn’t argue. Just exhales a long breath, as if truth itself has worn him down.

The photo flashes in my mind again. If he’s right, then Delilah didn’t save me, she used me.

I force the words out anyway. “No. She wouldn’t. I trust her too much.”

“I wouldn’t have destroyed my life over nothing.” I search his face, desperate for a crack. “If Delilah and Lara were related to you, they would’ve told me.”

The suite d men flicker in my mind again. The waiter’s instant obedience. Maybe not. Maybe secrecy runs deeper than I ever knew.

Still. Am I really going to believe Calvin over Delilah?

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

Calvin’s eyes narrow. “You calling me a liar?”

Behind him, the men shift. One flashes a holster.

“No, no,” I say quickly, hands raised in appeasement. “Not accusing you of anything. I just… I need to understand why my world exploded.”

“Simple.” His voice lands like stone. “Delilah used us both. And you were too arrogant to see it.”

I want to argue. To fight. To deny.

But the words sink heavy, cold lead in my chest.

His bourbon arrives. He doesn’t touch it. It sits there, untouched, amber and silent.

“Why me?” I whisper, though the answer already stains the air.

Calvin’s gaze doesn’t move. “Because you let her. You turned your back on Lara. On yourself. All it took was a rumor, and a doctored photo.”

I want to tear the booth apart. To shatter the flickering “OPEN” sign. To shout until someone explains what’s real. Calvin and I could go back and forth for hours, but there’s no point.

Instead, I stand. The vinyl groans. A woman drops her fork. The clatter rings too loud.

I walk out.

The cold hits hard. Wind slaps my face. Traffic hums nearby. A dog barks in the distance.

But none of it reaches me.

Delilah’s smile lingers. Her voice. Her loyalty. Her lies?

Only two women hold the truth.

I swallow , but the lump won’t budge.

Back at the office, I collapse into my chair. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My fingers twitch against the armrest.

Calvin’s final words return like static: You’re too weak to see what’s in front of you.

Maybe I was.

But not anymore.

It’s time to confront Delilah.

It’s time to face what’s real.