Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Then I look back at her.
“I’ve fucking missed you,” I say. “And I’ve thought about you every day since we last spoke…Happy?”
“No.” A small smile crosses her lips. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“If that’s even halfway true,” I say, pausing. “Why haven’t you called or texted me?”
“Because I wasn’t the one who asked for space.”
Fair point. I step closer, wanting to see her eyes.
“The sun isn’t out and we’re indoors,” I say, gently lifting her shades. “You don’t need to wear these, so…”
My sentence stalls at the full view of her face.
Small cuts border her left eye and her right one features a tell-tale grey mark from a brutal hit. She’s tried to cover the flaws with makeup, but the swelling is too hard to erase.
“Give me those back.” She snatches the shades from me, sliding them back into place.
“Have you tried anything from the dessert tower?” She tries her hand at small talk. “My parents flew in every pastry from Italy.”
“What the hell happened to your face?” I refuse to play along with her.
“It’s pretty hard to make a perfect cannoli, but somehow that chef nails it every time.”
“Scarlett…” I can feel my blood boiling. “Who the fuck hit you?”
“No one,” she says. “I ran into a door.”
“And you hit both eyes at the same time?”
“I’m fine, Jameson.” Her voice gives away another lie. “Please just drop it.”
“I won’t.” I close the gap between us. “Who did this to you?”
“It’s been really nice seeing you again.” She attempts to step away from me, but I grab her wrist. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“If you think I won’t cause a fucking scene because this is your father’s party, you’re sadly mistaken...” I lower my voice. “Tell me who hurt you. Now.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She jerks her hand away. “You would’ve never known if you didn’t come talk to me anyway. You didn’t even know I was going to be here…”
“You have one more second to answer my question.”
“It was my mother, okay?” Her bottom lip quivers. “Is that good enough?”
As if she knows it’s not, she lets out a soft sigh and continues.
“She found me in New York last week—right after an audition—and then we got into a one-sided argument. She won with her hands. The end.”
“So, she finally knows about your double life?”
“Part of it,” she says. “She’s not going to tell my dad, so there’s a silver lining...I shouldn’t have said what I said, so the bruises are all my fault.”
“No, the assault is one hundred percent her fault.” Remorse for not calling her sooner hits my chest all at once. “Does this happen often with her?”
She shrugs. “Do you want me to press charges or something?”
I’m tempted to… “I want you to feel better.”
“Then leave,” she says. “It hurts like hell to see you, and I was just fine before you got here.”
“You’re usually a lot more convincing when you lie to me.” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Are you staying here this weekend or going back to New York?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Her bottom lip quivers. “I meant what I said about the cannolis, though. They’re really good.”
“I’m staying in suite seven,” I glance up at where it sits, right behind the grand staircase. “Meet me there in ten minutes.”
“And if I don’t want to be around you for another second?”
“You would’ve walked away right after I said hello.”
OVERRULE (V.):
TO REJECT AN ATTORNEY'S OBJECTION TO A QUESTION TO A WITNESS OR ADMISSION OF EVIDENCE.
SCARLETT
Ido my best to keep my head low as I move through the party.
Thankfully, most of the people my father invited are casual business acquaintances and feel no need to strike up a conversation with me.
Hell, even my brothers have avoided saying anything other than “Hey there, Scar,” to me whenever we’ve crossed paths this weekend. I’m not sure if it’s because they’ve seen my scars and don’t want to ask questions, or if they’re too wrapped up in their own lives to care.
Pushing my way through the kitchen, I stop walking when I spot my mother escorting a group of women toward the pantry.
“I had Lucas make this custom for me.” She smiles at them. “Our other homes had grand walk-ins, but there was never enough space for me to sit down and really take it in, you know?”
“Oh, wonderful!” “I’ll have to tell Brad!” “That is beyond spacious!”
They pay her with her favorite currency of vapid compliments.
Her eyes suddenly meet mine, and her smile falters for a few seconds before her lips curve back into place.
“Oh, come here, Scarlett!” She waves me over.
For a moment, I contemplate walking away like I didn’t hear her, but her friends are already looking in my direction.
I put on a fake smile that rivals hers as I walk over to join them.
“My contact at Dior pulled this vintage dress out for her,” she says, tugging the fabric. “Isn’t it lovely?”