I text the wedding planner and tell her the wedding is off. I tell her I’ll pay her whatever she needs to do to take care of it.
I walk with purpose back to my room. I throw all the important, expensive shit into one of my suitcases. I leave everything else.
I take the elevator down to the bar.
I order a martini.
I cry.
I fix my makeup.
I find a man sitting alone.
“Hey,” I smirk.
He looks me up and down. His hair and his eyes, really, hiseverything, are all wrong, but he will do. “Hey,” he says with a smile.
THIRTY
Nico
I’ll admitthat it takes me a sec to go after Annie.
I do leave that damn room almost immediately after her, but it’s to get away from my worst fuckin’ nightmare—stares and whispers and a barrage of questions and glances at my crotch. I go to my own room to wage my own war in my own damn head. The arguments on both sides are equally loud.
This is exactly what you were fuckin’ worried about, and it’s only been eight days. Complicated, guarded, cryptic, mysterious Annie Li, who you thought you could trust.
There is no fuckin’ way Annie told anyone about you. Annie, who gave you all of herself. Who you gave all of your own damn self because you knew she’d guard it with her life. Fierce, loyal, protective Annie Li. Ali. My Annie Li. Annie “Whom I Love” Li.
I glance around my room. Housekeeping has been here twice, and the previous hurricane of this room, gold dress and heels and my new shirt and everything, is now perfect. Too perfect. The dress and shirt are side by side in the closet, shoes neatly arranged just underneath.
I hate it.
A flurry of images flashes through my mind. Annie with the gold dress banded around her waist, hair cascading across the sheets, open, smiling, glowing, vulnerable and covered inme. Annie with some kid’s snot on her arm. Annie verbally bodying Tom. Annie physically bodying Tom. Annie protecting her sister, eyes flashing, hair everywhere. Annie defending… me.
Annie against the world. Annie, with no one on her team.
Except for maybe three people.
May.
Izzy Flores.
And me.
We’re the only ones who fuckin’ earned it.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’ve gotta go chase Annie. I’ve gotta fight for her. I promised.
Maybe we’ll figure it out.
I pull out my phone and call her. It goes straight to voicemail. “Annie, honey. Where are you? Please call me,” I say. I send her a text with the same thing, stare at my phone, then hear the blood rush into my ears.
Undeliverable.
