Page 35 of Ruin Me Gently

I stared down at the paper, then at the heart attack waiting to happen, then at Molly. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t just another gift. This meant he knew that I’d been out, and he knew that Molly was here. Which meant he was watching. She must have had the same realisation, because she sat back, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

“How though?” she muttered. “I have him blocked. He couldn’t have seen anything. And you blocked him, right?”

I nodded, jaw clenching.

“So how does he know?” she asked.

The air in the room shifted, and not just because it was thick with the hot, stuffy mess of a hangover. It was heavier now, denser, like I could physically smell the gaslighting baked into the grease and pastry.

“Are we throwing it or are we eating it?” she asked, nudging my knee.

My stomach answered for me with a loud, humiliating growl.

She snorted. “Same.”

And then we dug in. Because fuck Clark. Fuck his mind games and his bullshit, and whatever weird, obsessive fantasy he thought he was creating.

Because this bagel?

This bagel was fucking delicious.

And if he was going to be a creepy, obsessive piece of shit, the least he could do was fund my breakfast. He wanted me to see this as thoughtful. As caring. But his control, his little game, had its limits.

And I could use that.

The thought had slithered in, slow and quiet, settling itself somewhere in the back of my mind days ago. Small at first, just a flicker, a tiny spark, an idea I hadn’t fully let myself touch, because I wasn’t stupid. I knew what Clark wanted. I knew how his mind worked, how he expected me to react, how he was waiting for me to cave and acknowledge him.

I thought I’d won. But it hadn’t stopped. The game just shifted. He didn’t need to scream his presence anymore. He just wanted me to feel it.

Molly must have caught the shift in my expression. “Okay. What’s going on in there?”

I shrugged, still chewing.

“Uh-uh.” She pointed at me. “That’s your scheming look.”

I swallowed, leaning back against the headboard. “I don’t have a scheming look.”

“You do.”

I rolled my eyes, reaching for a hash brown. “It’s nothing.”

She wasn’t buying it. “Don’t make me drag it out of you, Lils. You know I will.”

I let the silence stretch, taking my time with the next bite of crispy, potatoey goodness before leaning in slightly.

“Fine,” I murmured. “But you can’t laugh.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Lilith. I can’t do this anymore.” Molly groaned, flopping back against the couch like a damsel in distress. “I’m tapping out. This istorture.”

The flickering light from the TV was the only thing illuminating the room. On the coffee table, two pizza boxes sat among half-eaten bags of popcorn, a scattered deck of cards, and Molly’s abandoned wine glass.

“Molly, it’s witching hour. You can’t leave now,” I whispered. “If we stop here, something bad is bound to happen.”

Her head lolled toward me, eyes narrowing. “Why do you sound like you’re narrating a horror movie?”

“First of all,” I said, holding up a finger. “Witching hour is real, and we don’t mess with that energy. Second of all, I’m serious. If we stop now, we’re basically inviting death and destruction into our lives.”

She sat up, hair sticking out in every direction. “We’ve watched four rom-coms in a row, and not the fun ones—If I have to watch one more emotionally repressed British man confess his love at the last possible second, I’m gonna combust.”

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