Gianna kept cussing out, at her penchance to drink and lose awareness of herself, as she stood out by the road, hugging her bare arms against the sharp morning cold, waiting for a taxi.
She would have called an uber, but her phone had gone off; she had noticed in the elevator when the screen blinked weakly and died.
She had been too consumed with escaping from the room without rousing the one night stand that she hadn't checked the battery percentage. Now it was too late. She damned Zane for not staying asleep.
If he hadn't talked about talking, she would have escaped earlier, would have called Chelsea, or one of the guards at the Thorne's mansion. Now, she was stranded in the early dawn, standing on the edge of frustration.
She looked here and there, her eyes darting over the glimmering streetlights, hoping not to be accosted by drunken men, or worse, depraved ones.
Never mind that this was an elite street. Money polished one's taste up, but never character. Her one night stand was a proof of it.
She rubbed her arms again, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
"You know you are courting danger, standing here alone, as a woman… it's like a pick-me-up tag…"
Gianna's guards immediately went up on hearing Zane's voice echo behind her. Her spine stiffened. Couldn't he not talk to her?
What was this sudden need to be in her orbit? Had his friend's wedding made him think of second chances or what? Was it what had made him propose staying in the marriage? Some misguided sense of modern nobility?
She snorted in her mind. He must be a joke. But was there a time he wasn't?
She ignored him dutifully even when her ears picked up his weary sigh, while willing for a taxi to appear from anywhere—even if falling from the heavens.
"Let's go upstairs, Gianna. You can book a separate room if you want… it's not safe to…"
"And why would you suddenly care for my safety, Whitman?" she snapped quietly, not turning.
"Because Athena will have my head if…"
"Don't, Whitman." Her voice cut through the cold like a blade. "I have existed without you for years and have turned out well enough, safe enough. I don't need your protection, will never need it. Now return upstairs, and let me be."
But Zane couldn't. For the life of him, he couldn't leave her waiting for a taxi alone, in the dead quietness of the street. So, he stood beside her, adjusting his coat, putting his hands in his pocket.
He'd rather have her angry with him than Athena or Ewan, or even old Mr. Thorne. He was way too loyal to those people, and wouldn't want to disappoint them.
Five minutes in though, he couldn't take it again. The cold was getting to him and he knew it was the same for her, judging from the way she shivered and rubbed her arms through her thin dress.
"You will catch a cold, Gianna. Let's go upstairs. Taxis will be available for an hour or so…"
But the stubborn woman ignored him, making annoyance simmer in his chest.
Between them, who should be more angry?
She had broken his heart first! Or was all this exterior shenanigan a ploy to gaslight him?
One could never tell with women. Always playing victim when they were the ones that had dealt the dangerous card. He gritted his teeth, then remembered Athena's case.
One out of a thousand, he surmised. And Gianna wasn't among that.
He just needed to do his duty to her as Athena's friend, be noble like his friend Ewan—who hadn't thrown away Fiona's gift when it arrived a few days early to the wedding.
If his friend could forgive and tolerate Fiona, despite the wickedness the latter had committed, surely he could breathe the same space with his dreadful ex? Help her, even as much as it irritated him.
He had bought the company because if he hadn't, Dane would have sold it to his competitor, and as much as he hated the woman standing beside him, he didn't want her working for a shady competitor.
Even he would admit that her peculiar design skills were topnotch, skills which he had, at one time, laughed at for their peculiarity.
A soft wind blew cold on them, breaking him away from his thoughts. The breeze lifted the ends of Gianna's hair, brushing it against her cheek.
"Gianna…" Zane started again, softer this time.
She sighed then, loud and exasperated, showing both contempt and tiredness. "Let me be, Whitman."
And why was she bent on calling him by the surname?
"I can't…" he muttered, staring at her.
Gianna looked at him then, brows furrowed, mockery dancing in her eyes. He couldn't?
She shook her head, remembering the only time she had reached out to him after their breakup—on the evening of Athena's kidnap—and how he had ignored the call because it came from her. How her friend would have died if Ewan hadn't pushed aside misgivings and shown up. And now, he couldn't let her be?
She pushed aside the fury building in her chest. Now wasn't the time for it. It was wasted energy on the fellow beside her. The one she needed to see was Dane.
"You can, Whitman," she finally said, her voice low but firm. "You have done it before. You can do it again. Don't delude yourself of otherwise."
Then she turned and started walking down the street, her heels clicking against the concrete, her anger keeping her warm.
"Where the hell are—" Zane cussed under his breath, and followed after her, unable to let her alone still.
This time, Gianna said nothing as he walked beside her. If he wanted to delude himself, he should get on with that. Her only need was that he didn't try to involve her in the same delusion.
"So, what are you going to do concerning your career? Would you travel out?" he murmured, attempting a neutral tone.
Gianna frowned, her jaw tightening, but she said nothing.
Zane took her silence as a cue, and kept quiet, he too tired of trying to make a connection that had expired years back.
Luckily for them, a few minutes waiting at the junction, a taxi ferried through the street and came to a stop before them, headlights cutting through the faint dawn.
Without waiting for him to open the door, she opened it herself and stepped inside, her dress shifting around her legs, and shut the door after her with finality.
Zane bit back a laugh as he knocked on the window, leaning slightly so she'd see his face. Did she think he would follow her? He didn't exactly want to be in the same space with her.
"Take the pill," he said when she reluctantly wound down the window a few inches. "Since you don't want to rely on me, on the safety of the marriage—fake as it would be."
She only nodded stiffly and wound up the window, face turned straight so he didn't see the emotion that clouded her eyes at his instruction—one of pain, of abject sorrow, of guilt, of regrets.
A deep anguish only seen in women who had been proclaimed medically barren because of a damaged womb.