Page 145 of Illicit Games

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Kian

Walking into my apartment, the delicious aroma of food wafts down the hallway. Unlike every time, it doesn’t stir my appetite or bring an ounce of happiness.

With the folder tucked underneath my arm, I stride to the kitchen. Music blasts from the Bluetooth and behind the island, Iris sways to the beat while cooking over the stove.

I watch her silently, every inch of me hurting from the betrayal.

Even the sight of her in my T-shirt doesn’t lift the black cloud over my head.

Throughout the entire ride, I played the months since she stepped into my life over and over. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but the proof is in the file. Zenith didn’t lie about anything.

She’s shattered my trust.

My dead goddamn heart.

Will any reason or explanation make her actions excusable?

Despite it all, there’s no stopping my heart from racing. My body craving a hug from her. My lips aching to kiss her.

She twists toward the refrigerator, finally noticing my presence.

Ocean blue eyes sparkle, a beautiful smile stretching across her magnificent face, as they connect with mine. “Kian! You’re home.”

Turning the stove to a low flame, she unties her apron and runs toward me.

My arms open of their own accord to catch and lift her against my chest. My body is so in tune with hers, it’s conditioned to touch her without my mind commanding it. Cupping my face, she presses her soft lips to mine and sighs in pleasure. Desperate for her, I kiss her back, even as a pang hits my chest.

“Missed you, love,” she whispers. “Why don’t you go freshen up? Dinner is ready.”

I place her on the ground. “I thought you were sick.”

“Nothing a small nap couldn’t fix.” Loosening my tie, she probes, “Did your meeting run late?”

“Yeah.” I step back, making her hand drop. “I’ll get changed.”

“Okay. Hurry.”

I march down the hallway after she goes back into the kitchen. Nothing in her behavior suggests she’s keeping such a big secret from me. Then again, acting is one of her hidden talents, apparently. However, the glaring clue was right in front of me.

Her dream is to be an investigative journalist.

It’s all she ever talks about. How she wishes to make the world a better place. Highlight the crimes, raise the voices of underprivileged people, and bring justice.

I just assumed she’s an intern, so she’d be starting with simple interviews, not chasing big stories off the bat.

I’m doubting if she came into my life because she was obsessed with me, or was it because I was a story for her to climb the ranks for her career?

What’s more upsetting is that I’m not angry, just heartbroken. I would never lie to her, no matter how ugly and painful the truth might be. Why couldn’t she give me the same courtesy? What is she so scared of? I’ve told her again and again that nothing could make me push her away. So, why?

My turmoil doesn’t lessen as I put on my sweatpants after a quick shower and force myself to join her.

She’s setting our plates on the dining table.

“Hey, you,” she murmurs when I stop beside her. “Sit.”

Pulling out the chair, I sit at the head of the table while she brings two bottled waters for us. Once she takes a seat on my right, I serve us the food. Oblivious to my state of mind, she makes small talk as we eat.