She is the Queen

Chapter 20

"Who was he!" Imbued with a strange audacity, I retorted with a liberating vehemence, "Just a friend, Andrea!" My voice wove an echo around us; a testament to the tension boiling between us.

His green eyes blazed with fiery jealousy as he spat out, "Why the fuck was he all over you? He was looking at you as if he wanted to fuck you!" I felt the sting of his words, yet I stood my ground. "No, Andrea. You're taking everything out of context." I exhaled sharply, my heart pounding against my chest in wild rebellion. It was time to draw the line. "Even if what you suppose was true, it would be none of your business. You need to back off."

The venom in his voice solidified, "You don't get to talk to me like that." He closed the distance between us, stepping out of the world of accusations into my personal space. I countered his advance, fueled by indignation. "You don't have any right to ruin my evening and pull me away from my friends."

His growl resounded through the room, "I can do whatever the hell I want. You're mine. Only mine." I laughed, a hysteric sound escaping my lips, the absurdity of his territorial claims registering in my brain. His ire flared further as he yanked my arm, pulling me closer to his raging form. His eyes burned into mine, his veins popping out with the strain of his claiming words.

"Erase that nonsense right now, Andrea. I don't want you." My lie couldn't have been more blatant. I tore my arm away, marking a clear line of defense. "Laila, this is not over." he insisted, the set of his jaw reflecting his stubborn intent. No words were given in return; only the raising of an eyebrow to question his next move.

He gestured towards the couch with undisguised impatience, "Sit. We need to talk." I found myself complying. He settled across from me on the coffee table, our knees barely touching, the atmosphere pregnant with anticipation. Breaking the silence, I asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

His eyes softened, his voice dropping an octave. "Why are you denying it?" The intimacy of his words hung in the air. "Us." I mirrored his sarcasm as I retorted, "Andrea, there is no 'us'." He challenged my statement, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "You don't feel anything for me? You didn't miss me or felt happy with me? You weren't affected by my touch, craving me like I crave you?" His words stung me, but I kept my gaze averted. "I don't know what you're talking about."

As the atmosphere bristled with undisciplined bravado, he chose the path of unfiltered accusations. Determined to stoke the fire of this bitter encounter, he uttered, "You are lying, Laila." Suppressed feelings rumbled beneath my pretense of indifference as I retorted, "No, I don't." Yet the falsehood echoed in the silent room.

His challenge sliced through me, "Look into my eyes and say that you don't like me. Tell me that you hate me."

I swallowed the lump lodged in my throat at his piercing demand. Everything was raw, the rawness so intense it was nauseating. My hands trembled; my voice had a distinct quiver yet I stood firm, "Easy."

It was far from easy though. His gaze was acute, a kaleidoscope of painful contradictions. Stark shadows of arrogance mixed with a glimmer of vulnerability. I felt a searing hate, yet it was marred by a disturbing love. His eyes, sharp as shards, told a story; a tale of unspoken emotions that sought refuge in hate.

"As clear as daylight, I will tell you. I hate you, Andrea. I despise you to my core that it feels grippingly easy to forgive you after you kidnapped me. And I don't even understand why. I can't take it when you come close to me, the intoxicating scent that tangles my senses, and the way my body involuntarily reacts to your touch. I hate myself for being so susceptible, so defenseless around you," I vented out.

Every word was a nail hammered into the coffin of my rationality. They echoed the reality of my emotional vulnerability, an admittance of my tangled feelings towards him. His eyes lightening from emerald to light brown, the scar on his back, his preference for black coffee over basil, I remembered it all. And I loathed myself for it.

"I despise every bit of you, so much so that my hatred makes me want to be selfish with you. And the worst part is, I like it."

I gulped down a lungful of air, finally able to breathe as I poured out my tumultuous feelings. Then the magnitude of my confession hit me. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounded an uneven rhythm; I felt vulnerable. This vulnerability was perhaps the most painful admission of them all, the one I despised the most.

"When it comes to you, I can't keep myself together, I can't hide. I left because I couldn't bear the sight of my own tear-streaked reflection in your eyes," I uttered, my voice barely a whisper, choked with emotion.

Finally letting go of my emotions left me shaken, my body involuntarily trembling with the aftermath. Unexpectedly, he pulled me back down, his powerful grip entrapping me, preventing escape. His muscular form was unyielding, an immovable force. His words shattered my resolve, the icy veneer cracking under the warmth of his confession.

"I hate how you push me away, how we magnetically pull each other closer despite ourselves. Your endless knowledge, your calm demeanor, your strength admidst adversity – all of it fascinates me. Your eyes, your aroma, your hidden pain – it drives me to insanity," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion.

His confession was gentle, loving and pleading. "I hate hurting you; I hate it when you think I'll leave. I want to be there for you, like we were for each other in the business. I want you – every flaw, every strength."

His voice softened, turned intimate, as he took my hand in his, "Be my wife." His confession hung in the room, a startling admission that held more weight than a thousand hateful words.