Page 53 of Pastel Kisses

But I won't give her that satisfaction.

She’s alert, twitchy. Not enough to let her guard down, but close. Her nerves are frayed, and I can sense the pressure building behind her smile, the cracks spreading behind her carefully constructed mask.

And if I want to get out of here, I need to find one of those cracks—and split it wide open.

She’s not going to give me an opportunity freely, but maybe... just maybe, if I push the right button, I can make one for myself. So, I do what she hates most.

I talk about them.

“You know…” I start slowly, my voice soft and calm like I’m just making conversation, “Jaxton only pays attention to you because he thinks you’re carrying his child.”

She freezes—barely, but enough for me to catch it.

The corners of my mouth tilt ever so slightly.

“He doesn’t really love you,” I continue, adding a sweet, almost pitying tone to my voice. “Not like he loves me.”

Her grip tightens in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to sting, to remind me that I’m still at her mercy. But I don’t stop.

“You can fake dinners, flirt, even pretend you’re playing house,” I whisper through clenched teeth, “but when he looks at you, he doesn’t see a future. Not anymore. That future belongs to me.”

Her breathing turns erratic. I can feel the fury pulsing off of her like heat waves in the middle of a desert.

“Shut up,” she hisses, voice dangerously low.

But I’ve struck a nerve, and I won’t let up now. Not when she’s this close to unraveling.

“I bet he thinks about me when you talk,” I add with a bitter smile. “When you touch him. When you lie next to him in my bed, in my house—do you ever wonder if he’s wishing it was me instead?” I know none of it ever really happened—just her twisted fairytale spun from delusion—but repeating it back to her still calls her out on her bullshit.

Her hand flies forward, slapping the water beside my face, sending a tidal wave over the tub’s edge. Her expression warps into something unhinged, eyes wide with that manic glint she gets just before she lashes out.

But I don’t flinch.

Because with every inch of power I take back—every jab, every truth—I chip away at her illusion of control.

“You’re delusional,” she seethes, voice sharp and shaking. “He’s mine. He always comes back to me. That’s how we work. You—” she spits the word like venom, “you’re a phase.”

“I’m the endgame,” I say simply, staring her straight in the eye. “And deep down, you know it.”

Her face twists in fury, and for a moment, I think she might strike me again.

Good.

Let her rage.

Because it means she’s scared. And if she’s scared, she’s sloppy. And if she’s sloppy, I just might finally get the opening I need.

Game on, bitch.

But she doesn’t back down—she matches my move with one of her own. Fury flashes in her shit-brown eyes, turning them almost molten with rage. Her expression twitches, contorting her face into something unrecognizable. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder if you’ve just poked the wrong demon.

Her fingers twitch—barely a flinch—and then she strikes.

They wrap around my throat like twin vices, strong and sure and seething with madness. Her nails dig into my skin as she snarls down at me, trembling with the force of her rage. And then, before I can gasp, scream, or claw her off—

I’m under.

My head is shoved beneath the scalding water, a single breath slipping in before everything turns liquid and chaos. My eyes fly open in the sting of soap and heat, bubbles rising from my nose as my lungs scream for air. Her garbled voice rages above the surface, obscenities tumbling out in animalistic shrieks, but they’re muffled and warped through the water—nothing more than white noise in this hellish tub of terror.

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