Chapter 3: The Confrontation
My thumb hovered over his name for what felt like an eternity, the ghost of that video burning behind my eyelids every time I blinked. I had to know what he'd say, had to hear if his voice carried the same frantic panic I'd seen on his face. The call connected, and I forgot to breathe. The line clicked and I heard his breath catch, a raw, ragged sound that made my chest tighten. "Oliva," he said, and the way he said it, like a man drowning, made my grip on the phone go white-knuckled.
"Don't," I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intended. "Don't you dare apologize again. I've heard enough apologies for one morning." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor waking me up fully for the first time since that video had detonated my quiet routine. "We need to talk, Grant. In person. Now."
Silence stretched between us, and I could almost hear him thinking, could almost see him running through every excuse, every reason to put this off until the shame faded into something manageable. But I wasn't going to give him that out.
"Send me your address," he said finally, his voice small and defeated.
"No. My apartment. You know where I live." I was already pulling on jeans with one hand, phone pressed between my shoulder and ear. "You've been here a hundred times, Grant. The only difference is this time you know exactly what you're walking into."
I ended the call before he could argue, before he could turn this into something I'd forgive him for over text, and I stood there in the middle of my bedroom, the silence ringing where his voice had been. An hour. I gave myself an hour to decide what I was going to do when he showed up. An hour to figure out whether I was going to scream at him or something worse.