I looked up at Drew through blurred, tear-soaked vision, and even through the blur, I could see his face perfectly. Cold. Indifferent. Nothing.
Beside him, Zelda was still performing her part, soft concern laced through her voice:
"Drew, I'm sure Ms. Fox didn't mean it. Please, don't hurt yourself being angry on my account."
But the satisfaction in her eyes—she couldn't hide that no matter how hard she tried.
Drew lifted his foot off my hand. He didn't look at me again. His voice was ice:
"You brought this on yourself. If anything happens to Zelda or the baby, I won't let you off."
He gathered Zelda carefully into his arms, turned, and walked out. Not a single glance back.
Watching their silhouettes disappear through the door, the only thing left in me for Drew Simmons was hate.
By the time I reached the hospital, the bone in my index finger had been crushed to pieces.
The doctor stopped the bleeding, bandaged it, set and splinted it. The pain had gone so far past crying that I'd forgotten how.
The coffee shop fired me that same day, too afraid of offending Zelda Harding. All I had left, sitting in that hospital bed, was hate so deep it had no bottom.