Page 4 of Lady and the Hitman

He meant it as a compliment. But his voice was too soft, too careful. Like I was something fragile he was afraid to bruise.

And that’s what killed me—he’d always treated me like that. Like I was breakable. Sharp, sure, but only in theory. The kind of sharp you admired from a distance, not the kind you actually let cut.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I said coolly.

Another silence. Then: “I’ve been thinking about you.”

I closed my eyes.

I knew where this was going. I could already feel it happening. That creeping nostalgia he wore like cologne, the tender little words he used when he wanted something, the way he never said the wrong thing because he didn’t say anything real at all.

“Have you?” I asked.

“I miss you,” he said. “I miss … us.”

I let out a slow breath, long and quiet. My body was still warm from the orgasm I’d given myself minutes ago, but now that heat was shifting. Dimming. Tightening into something resentful.

Us.

What wasus?

A year of stifled sighs and scheduled sex. A string of nights where he kissed me like I was glass and fucked me like he was afraid I’d write about it later.

He was sweet, I’ll give him that. Generous. Patient. Always checking in.

But never once had I felt claimed. Never once had I looked into his eyes and seen someone who could pin me down with a word.

With Trevor, it had been slow kisses. Tongues that moved like apologies. Careful fingers that waited for permission at every turn. He never pulled my hair. Never made a sound. I’d fake-moaned just to fill the silence.

He’d whispered “you’re so beautiful” while I was biting my lip to stay awake.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

“You don’t think what’s a good idea?”

“Us,” I replied, sharper now. “Whatever this is.”

He was quiet again, and I imagined him frowning into the phone, hurt but trying not to show it.

“I’ve changed,” he said. “I’ve been working out more. I started that Substack—political commentary. I even got a new therapist.”

“That’s great, Trevor.” My voice cracked a little on the edge. “I’m happy for you.”

“But not interested?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because I want a man who’d tear that phone out of my hand and throw me over the couch.

Because I want someone who wouldn’t need a therapist to figure out what I want in bed—he’d just know.

Because I want someone I’m scared to crave.

But I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I said, “Because I’m not the woman you remember. And honestly? I don’t think I ever was.”