But what struck me more was the temperature of the tea itself. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.
As if someone had timed it perfectly.
I didn't know how to begin talking without shredding what was left of my dignity.
That afternoon I'd been sitting across from him, bold as anything, pitching him on how I'd boost the commercial value of his "contract girlfriend" arrangement.
And now, just hours later, here I was: disheveled, panicked, a complete wreck outside his building.
What lie could I possibly tell that he'd believe?
"That wasn't the livestream account for the contract couple thing," he said, his tone easy. "If you're chasing clicks, you don't have to go this hard."
I looked at his profile. There was the trace of a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was mocking or teasing.
"I didn't do it on purpose." Honesty was all I had left.
"Ms. Summers," he began, slow and measured, "I've had a few women in difficult circumstances come through this arrangement. You're the only one who dared to pitch me on business value the same day she signed."
I couldn't tell whether Benedict's words were a compliment or a cut.
"But I never expected," he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over me with a trace of scrutiny, "that your image would crumble in a single afternoon."
The words landed like a slap. My face burned.
"So, is this your sob story? I'm in the mood to listen. Go ahead."
I bit down on my lip. How was I supposed to explain?
That my ex-husband was a narcissist, a gold digger who'd leeched off me while pretending otherwise, a serial cheater. That he'd burned through every cent I had, sold my property out from under me, and torpedoed my career.
That I'd come here carrying the keepsake Cindy left me, hoping to ask for his help.
But in the daylight, pride had stopped me.
Was it melodramatic? Absurdly so. Would he believe any of it? Not a chance.
"Can't say it?" He let out a quiet laugh. There was no malice in it, but something else that made me flinch. Pity.
"Then let's try a different question." He pulled out a pack of wet wipes and held them out to me. "Your hands are covered in blood. You didn't even notice?"
I looked down. My palms were a mess. The crescent wounds my nails had dug were already dried over.
I'd been clenching my fists the entire time, hard enough to break skin.