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Summary
“What, you’re not going to tell me that I ‘have a job to do?’” She asks him, her tone laced with bitterness.
“Why, do you want me to?”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m not.”
The American flag on his visors glared back at her, its once proud and patriotic symbol now a sick joke. Every fibre of her being wanted to punch him square in the nose, to feel the satisfying crunch of his flesh against her fist and watch the tacky glasses go flying off his face.
But she didn’t. Instead she took his outstretched hand in hers, and that hurt her more than any amount of his betrayal ever could.
OR
in which Bell cannot help but fall for the very man that orchestrated her destruction.