Page 160 of Swallow Your Sorries

“I suppose,” I say, and Aria shoots me a disbelieving look.

Okay, we definitely are.

I’d had seven more lessons with Gant since his breakdown and he’d kept his word. He’d touch me. Tease me. Kiss me. Make me cum, but he would barely let me touch him, and no matter how much I shamelessly whimpered and pleaded, he wouldn’t fuck me. I still don’t understand why, because I refuse to believe for one second that Gant Auclair truly cares enough about me to want to be ‘special’ before we fuck.

It has to be another little game of his.

Or maybe he can’t accept not being special.

On another note, things were heating up dance-wise. All I have to do is look at Gant and my muscles would begin to burn and ache. I could just look at the studio’s speakers, and Cinderella’s classical ballet soundtrack would play in my ears given the number of times we’d rehearsed with it. Gant’s instructions were excellent, meticulous, and borderline brutal. Mistress must’ve noticed an improvement because, for the past week, her once ultra-specific critiques of my every move have been minimal.

“So that means the interlude’s going well?”

“It is,” I hesitate, again not knowing how much to share with Gant’s bestie. “But we mostly just talk.”

About that green car. After our gruelling private lessons, Gant would flick through every single nineteen forties and fifties car model known to man, asking me if any rang a bell, seeing as he’d only spotted a blur of dark green in real-time. We also had the back fender from the fuzzy screenshot of the crash video, but it isn’t enough and I’m proving to be of poor help.

I’m not a car person, perhaps because I couldn’t even afford a bike. Whenever someone said a model type, I simply envisioned a box on four wheels the way kids always drew them.

I remember the ornament being silver and tall, with a trail. But was it wings? A flowing dress? I know the headlights were round, but did they have little metal bars running across them to form checkers? Was the roof domed or flat?

I don’t know and seeing as there are thousands of cars that match the little description I do have, it may as well not be a description at all.

Surprisingly, Gant never showed his frustration, but mine is coming to a boiling point.

I want to find the car.

I want to find the driver.

Because…maybe just like Gant, I want to shift the blame because I do feel guilty for my role in the email leak. So are we a little alike in that we just want to absolve our own guilt?

“The last thing I’d expect to do is talk inside that monstrosity,” Aria says, jutting her chin towards the glistening pointed roof of the old greenhouse as we work ourselves deeper into the forest.

“Tell me about it.” I sigh.

“Wait, are you actually disappointed? I thought you weren’t sure about taking things all the way.”

“I wasn’t.”

“And now?”

It takes me a moment, but I finally verbalise it. “I want him. Badly.”

“Telling the truth is so freeing, isn’t it?” Aria coos.

“But it’s like he doesn’t want me.” At her lifted brow, I go on as we circle around a boulder. “It’s like he wants me to…love him first.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? To be in love with the person?”

“Yes, but no. I didn’t just want to love them. I wanted them to love me back and Gant can’t. Not when he still blames me for everything.”

The more I think about it, the more I realise that I’m not truly seeking justice for Madame. I want justice for myself. Like Gant, I want to point a finger too. I do want to get rid of my guilt, but is it just to clear my own conscience? Or because I want Gant to view me as being innocent in it all too? So that maybe if I was innocent, he didn’t have to hate me.

And if he didn’t hate me…No.

“How do you know he still does? Maybe your talks have shifted his perspective?”

“Maybe…”

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