He thought she’d used him for—what? Sex? Hadn’t all those late nights and intimate conversations, all the hard work she’d put into building her reputation and work ethic, meant anything? “It is not what you think.”
“Oh, she spelled it out pretty plain for me...unless you have a different explanation?”
“My mother is—” In that moment, under his hard stare, years of shame and fear kept her from saying the word prostitute. His obvious disgust told her he’d already come to his own conclusions. Knowing her mother, she’d given him every reason to believe Ziara had followed in her footsteps. And living in a small town had taught her that most people enjoyed believing the worst about others. She’d hoped he’d see her differently than other men.
But he hadn’t.
“Sloan, please understand—”
“Oh, I understand. I understand that you used me to get what you wanted.”
What?
“Or should I say what you and Vivian wanted? I guess I can live with the fact that no matter what happens, I’m the one who actually lifted this place back onto its feet.” He turned back to the drafting table, running a hand along its edge. “The only person whose recognition I’ve ever wanted is long gone. So why should I bother seeing this through? After all, I’ve gotten everything I wanted from you. And plenty of it.”
“Sloan,” she moaned. How could this be happening? How could her worst nightmares be coming true?
“Get. Out.”
Hardly able to breathe, she backed slowly toward the outer door.
Sloan turned slightly to glance at her over his shoulder. “And don’t worry. You won’t have to prostitute yourself to me ever again. I’m long gone.”
The words hurt, but what she saw in his eyes cemented the numbness spreading through her limbs.
She’d told herself all along, from the moment he’d seen her in the designer dress in Las Vegas, that she could do this as long as he looked at her a certain way—or any way except how men used to look at her mother. A mixture of lust, disgust and superiority. As long as that didn’t show up on Sloan’s face, she could put away all her insecurities and just be with him.
But now his eyes, those pale, electric blue eyes, were icy and cold, free of any emotion. His blank stare sliced through her, but she felt no pain.
She realized in that split second that as much as she wanted respectability and stability, had pushed herself to win Vivian’s regard and respect, she couldn’t care less about it in this moment. She didn’t care that she’d lost everything.
All she cared about was Sloan.
But he didn’t care about her. His willingness to walk away without a word, without listening to an explanation, told her everything she needed to know. That it had all been a lie.
Tears pushed into her eyes and she lowered her lids. She would not show vulnerability here, in this room that had seen the most sensual loving in her life. Now it was just a room. Cold and distant. She’d stay strong and protect herself, just as she’d been doing since she was a teenager.
The boxes once again caught her eye. Watching him pack up and leave, knowing he’d leave her behind without a twinge of regret, might just strip her of the stupor dulling everything—inside and out.
Ignoring him, she turned back to her own office. Luckily she hadn’t put her purse away. The straps remained tightly clasped in one of her hands.
She wandered down the hallway as if in a trance. Nearing the turn, she heard Patrick’s voice behind her. “Ziara, are you all right?”
She didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even glance his way. For once she didn’t care if it was her job to make things as easy as possible for her boss. Instinct said run, so she did—stepping into the elevator that opened before her like the doors to a haven.
* * *
Two days later Ziara lay motionless on her couch, staring up at the ceiling. The lights remained off, but she knew she would look a mess if anyone saw her. She’d managed to enter her bedroom only once and that had been to change out of her work clothes. She’d avoided it—and the memories of hours spent in her colorful bed with Sloan—since then.
She hadn’t moved except to blink for two hours. Her mind whirled, reexamining the same questions over and over again. The one image that rose repeatedly was the look in Sloan’s eyes when he’d glanced over his shoulder at her.
The blankness, so reminiscent of her life now.
She hurt too deeply to cry, to even move. So she held still and prayed it would all go away. She’d always been a doer, the type of person to take charge in a crisis, capable of handling most anything from her teen years on.