Going Up | ✓

Heartbreak Warfare - (20)

Heartbreak Warfare.

I've just applied the last brush of my mascara when the doorbell rings loudly and rudely.

I let a frown grace my features as I cap the mascara and set it down on the dresser. I'm halfway to the door when the person on the other side pounds on it.

I grit my teeth in irritation and pull open the door, only to be almost taken out by a slightly off-balance figure.

Of course.

It's just typical that after a whole week of silence, he turns up on my doorstep the one night I want to go out and do something.

I narrow my eyes at Ivan. 'You're drunk, aren't you?' I ask suspiciously, although I already know the answer.

'No, I'm not,' he denies quickly, a little too quickly. His eyes lazily appraise my outfit and a slack smirk dances around the edges of his mouth.

Definitely drunk.

My hand not tightly gripping the door clenches into a fist, anger rushing through me. 'You have to leave,' I glare at him. 'You can't be here.'

What if Oliver had been here, not at my parents' house, and he turned up in this state? Does he honestly think I'd ever think about talking to him when he's like this?

'No,' he insists, shaking his head adamantly. 'I'm not leaving. I want to talk to you. I've missed you.'

I scoff at his words. 'I'm not the one who walked away, remember? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm getting ready to go out, so you're going to have to leave.'

His icy eyes ignite with a cold fire. 'No,' he snaps. 'You're not going out and I'm not leaving.'

'Excuse me?' I shriek, my voice jumping an octave. 'You cannot tell me what I can and can't do! I'm-'

'Really,' he interrupts rudely, his eyes clashing with mine. 'Because, unless I'm wrong, you're trying to tell me what to do by attempting to kick me out.'

It takes all of my self control not to smack him across the face. 'Because this is my flat, you asshole,' I snarl, completely submerged in utter fury. 'I can tell you what to do, actually, so get out!'

He runs a hand through his already extremely messy hair. It's only then that I notice he's dressed in a particularly shabby outfit today: his slacks have a stain on the thigh, his shoes are scruffy, his white shirt is extremely crumpled and the sleeves are both rolled up, but one above his elbow and one below. His other hand is tightly wrapped around a rolled up magazine, by the looks of it. 'I'm not leaving,' he repeats. 'You're letting me in.'

'No, I'm n-' I begin to protest, but he's already barged past me into my flat. 'Hey!' I snap.

He doesn't listen to me, but marches through the corridor into the lounge.

I slam the door shut and follow him. 'What do you want?' I snarl, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him acidly. 'You made your feelings about all of this pretty clear last week, so what can I possibly do for you now?'

Ivan brandishes the slightly crumpled magazine, throwing it down on the table between us. 'I want an explanation,' he tells me in a dark tone. 'I want to know what this is all about.'

I look down at the magazine between us. 'What is it?'

He picks it back up, flicking through to find a page, before shoving it at me. 'This,' he snarls. 'What is this?'

I stare at it, utterly dumbfounded. It's a photo of me outside Lewis' house and the artlice details what time I went into his house and what time I came out, eventually deducing that I slept with him.