Page 11 of Claiming Genevieve

“Why are you acting like this?” I hiss. “Vincent is on edge already because you haven’t written him a check lately. Now you’re insulting other possible patrons? What are you doing?”

“Other possible patrons?” Chris makes air quotes with his fingers as he speaks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Genevieve. If that man is a possible patron, it’s because he wantsyou. I saw the way he was looking at you. Have you fucked him already? No, wait, I know the answer. If you had, he wouldn’t have been looking at you like that.”

It takes everything in me not to slap him. “We were just talking,” I bite out, my jaw tightening. “What on earth has gotten into you, Chris? I can’ttalkto someone without you getting jealous? Maybe it’s a good thing that you didn’t come to the party, because I definitely had to talk to other men there. Several of them, in fact.”

“And I can’t have a hint of perfume on my clothing without you getting jealous.” Chris looks at me almost smugly, as if it’s the same thing and he’s proving a point, and my chest tightens with an anger that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt before.

“I’m sorry I ever brought up the fucking perfume,” I snap. “But it’s not the same thing, and you know it?—”

“From the way he was looking at you, I think it is.”

“I can’t help how he looked at me!” I throw my hands up, aware that my voice is raised, that Rowan can probably hear me if he hasn’t left yet, and maybe even others in the building. But I can’t help it. The tension between Chris and me has been winding tighter, and I try to remember why I’m tolerating the slow death of our relationship. Why I don’t just pull the trigger and end it here and now.

But of course, I know why. I can’t risk screwing up the most important thing in my life by upending that life entirely just before a huge performance.

“I don’t have time for this, Chris,” I say as calmly as I can, lowering my voice. “I need to focus on getting ready for the showcase. If you had a big account at work that you were trying to get, and we were fighting, you’d tell me that we’d need to address the problem later, when you had the time and focus?—”

“Theproblem,” Chris snaps, “is you flirting with other men, and then accusing me?—”

“I wasn’t—” My voice rises again, and I quickly lower it. “I wasn’t flirting. I have no interest in him. And whatever you are or aren’t doing, I just—” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “I can’t deal with it right now. I just can’t.”

“There’s nothing to deal with,” Chris shoots back coldly, and I nod.

“Okay. Fine. There’s nothing to deal with.” I don’t believe him, and in the back of my mind, I know that any self-respecting woman would break up with him at this point. I would tell any of my friends to do exactly that if this was happening to one of them and they told me about it. But even as I stand there, looking at this man that I once considered a friend and now can barely stand the sight of, I rationalize that it makes more sense to wait.

This isn’t pleasant, but neither is dealing with a breakup and a move. Just the thought of everything that entails—all of the discussions and arguments that come with the dissolution of a relationship, looking for a new apartment, signing a lease, packing everything up and moving it—makes me feel exhausted and drained just thinking about it. Even if Chris doesn’t care, even if he’s happy to cut me loose—which I doubt, given his ego—it’s impossible to walk out of a relationship without some final conversations. And even with all the help I know I’ll have when it comes to rearranging my life, even with the support system that I’m deeply grateful for, none of that is easy or quick.

It’s not something I can handle right before a major performance. I just can’t.

Not with a week until the show.

I can handle this for one more week,I tell myself. It’s not as if I’m in love with Chris and my heart is breaking. This is an annoyance, but no more than the annoyance that the breakup is going to be. Maybe even a little less so.

Chris looks at me narrowly. “I don’t want to catch you flirting with him again. Or anyone else that your manager wants you to charm for the sake of their ‘patronage.’” He steps closer, the thick scent of his cologne filling my nose. I used to like the warm, spicy scent, but something about it turns my stomach now.I like Rowan’s better,I think nonsensically, the thought coming out of nowhere, and I quickly push it away.

He reaches up, fingers skating against my temple as if to brush a piece of hair back, though there’s nothing there. My rehearsal bun is as smooth and perfectly done as it would be for a performance, and somehow it irks me that Chris wants to pretend that there’s something amiss. That I’ve left a hair out of place. That he wants to find fault with me.

I try to shift away from his touch, but his hand drops, his palm cupping my chin as his fingers press against my cheek, holding me in place for a moment. It doesn’t hurt, but the forcefulness of it freezes me in place, my heart suddenly beating like a rabbit’s in my chest.

His gaze holds mine, and I wait for him to say something. A beat passes, and then another, and he lets me go, the press of his fingers into my skin lingering as I stare up at him.

“I came to tell you,” he says slowly, as if this entire thing has inconvenienced him greatly, “that I wanted to go out to dinner tonight. You’re free, aren’t you?”

It’s phrased as a question, but I know it’s really not. It’s never bothered me before, but it does now. Chris expects a reasonable amount of my time in exchange for all that he offers. Dinners out, going to a play or a movie, seeing a concert, fucking him when he wants it. In exchange, I’ve been able to focus entirely on what really matters to me, without the worries of how I’ll house or feed or clothe myself distracting me. But in the past, I’ve always felt like he genuinely wanted to spend time with me—like he looked forward to that part of our arrangement.

I thought we respected each other. But with every day that’s passed since the night of the party, that feeling chips away more and more.

Now it just feels like he’s demanding his pound of flesh. Insisting I hold up my end.

“Of course I’m free.” I give him a tight, brittle smile. “What time?”

“Seven. Wear that black dress I like.” Chris starts to turn to walk away, and I call after him.

“You should stop by and see Vincent. He asked about you at the party.”

Chris’s shoulders tense. He knows the suggestion for what it is—a reminder that if I’m going to hold up my end of the deal, he needs to as well. And truthfully, I want him to go write Vincent a check. Then Vincent will stop bothering me about finding a new patron—Rowan, in particular—and I can end my relationship with Chris on my own terms, in my own time.

After the showcase. After I’ve had a little time to rest. After, after, after.

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