Mike’s eyebrows fly up, his mouth curling into a smirk. “Yeah? Brilliant! It’s on Dean Street in Soho—this guy has a killer apartment, it’s—”
His words fade into white noise. I nod mechanically but I am seconds away from bursting into tears.
In my clutch, my phone vibrates and I jerk so hard you’d think someone had just fired a gun beside my head. My fingers fumble at the clasp as I scramble to pry it open. The moment my fingertips graze the screen, my breath snags in my throat.
Edward:
What are you up to? X
I snap my head up, scanning the room like some paranoid assassin. Is he watching me? Nothing—just a sea of interchangeable pricks in tuxedos.
The audacity of this man.
Me:
At home. So bored. What are you up to?
No kisses. Kisses are for people who deserve to be kissed. Not for people who deserve to be swan-dived into the Thames wearing concrete boots.
I glance at Mike and snag a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray. He chuckles and I shrug, no trace of a smile. “One for the road.” One for the mess. One for the fact that I should have yeeted my phone into an ice bucket the second I saw his name light up my screen.
I sneak a look while taking a huge gulp. Two ticks. He’s read it. He’s online. But he’s not typing. He goes offline again.
Another gulp.
What an absolute grade-Aprick.
I should have learned my fucking lesson.
Edward will never accept me for who I am.
Every warning sign was there. Did I listen? No. I was too busy being an optimistic idiot.
First, there was the Tate incident, where I got upgraded from secret girlfriend to secret niece. A thrilling new development in the family tree—just not in the direction anyone would want.
Then there was the “nothing that needs announcing” comment at the rehearsal dinner.
And yes, I was in the wrong for acting like a brat and going out that night. I know that. But I am not always in the wrong.
Edward can whisper all the right things in private. He can play the devoted lover behind closed doors.
But the facts remain—when it comes to publicly acknowledging me, he won’t.
The champagne turns on me, fizz rushing up my throat so violently I nearly snort it out of my nose.
I’m not here to make a scene. And frankly I don’t have the emotional strength to.
I set my glass down and turn to Mike. “Ready?”
He nods, and we weave toward the door.
That last champagne’s really kicking in now—I can feel its buzz.
We’re almost at the door when we hit a bottleneck, a bunch of people stalled by some red-carpet setup. Photographers are snapping away, their flashes popping at a handful of D-list celebs.
There’s this blonde I vaguely recognize—some reality TV type, maybe?—posing with an exaggerated pout and her ass jutted out at an awkward, almost painful angle. It’s the kind of pose that’ll look great in photos but, in real life, is just fucking ridiculous.
I don’t know if it’s the champagne, my nerves, or just how ridiculous she looks, but a giggle sneaks out before I can stop it.
