"Our apologies, ma'am," says the blond one, who looks older, but his expression doesn't change.
"I swear I'll make you do facial yoga," I warn.
At that, both of them widen their eyes and try to relax their features. At least now they just look constipated, not like they want to murder every two-legged being in the room.
Resigned that this is the best I'll get, I turn around and walk straight into what feels like a brick wall. Except it's not a wall—it's someone's chest. When I look up and meet the man's eyes, I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from cursing out loud.God, I'm really trying not to be mad at You, but of all the scumbags and ex-boyfriends in this city—and let's be honest,they're the same category—couldn't You work some magic and make this one avoid me for the next three hours?
"Roxy," Stiles's voice grates, like nails on a chalkboard.
"Who are you?" I ask, hoping he'll just leave me the hell alone.
His hand goes to his chest, and he follows me even though I’m already six feet ahead of him. "You wound me. Don't tell me you've already forgotten the best three months of your life."
I snort with laughter because they were the most miserable three months of my life.Did I even have a single orgasm in those months?I’m pretty sure I threw my hormones completely out of whack just waiting for Mr. Miracle Worker here to do something right, so I just turn to leave.
His hand clamps onto my forearm. I spin around and shove him with my free hand.
"Get your hand off me if you want to keep it," I hiss. I will not tolerate a man who cheated on mein my own bedwasting my time. "Pretend you didn't see me, and I'll pretend I don't see the first signs of syphilis on your face."
From behind him, I see one of Damien’s soldiers start toward me, but I give him a sharp nod to stay put. He looks confused, but I can handle this guy. He's an empty threat.
"You've always been a miserable bitch. And then you acted surprised when I cheated on you," he sneers. "Always at work, always nagging me. I was never enough for you."
I want to say his words don’t affect me. I want to say I'm a hundred percent sure he deserved every single complaint. But when every one of my exes has said something similar, it's hard to hold on to my own rationality.
I know I work a lot, but that’s because I’m passionate about what I do. I know I ask for a lot, because I give just as much. Is it so hard to ask someone to make you a coffee in the morningif they're already up before you? Is it too much to want someone to do things for you without having to be asked? When he told me he wanted tickets to a Chicago Bulls game, I called a former client who’s a manager in their administration and got them for him. When he asked me to organize a team-building event for his company, I stayed up all night finding venues and coordinating dates that worked for everyone.
And still, I'm the bitch.Iwasn't good enough to keep him from falling into the vagina of some nineteen-year-old blonde. IN MY BED.
His eyes drift to my left hand, and I know he sees Damien’s ring. Putting on my sweetest smile, I say, "It's a good thing I found someone who wants me, miserable bitch and all. And who's capable of finding my clitoris without using Google Maps."
His face floods with rage, and I know I hit a nerve.
I turn my back, but I know that won't be enough for him. If I weren't at an important event, I would have already broken one of his fingers, but I have to be diplomatic. I turn back just before his hand can touch me again.
"Look, Stiles, take your little man purse, grab your blazer, and leave."
"Or what?" he asks, laughing.
"Or I'll humiliate you in front of all these people. I'll make sure that by tomorrow, every single one of your coworkers receives the photo I still have of you and that little girl in my bed while you were in a relationship with me. I'll make sure the whole internet knows about that toenail fungus, not to mention the premature ejaculation."
"You whore…"
"Ah, ah. That's not very nice. For every consonant you utter, I'll have my friends behind you," I say, watching him turn hishead and lock eyes with Damien's men, "rearrange your facial features. Okay?" I pat his chest. "Be a good boy and go home before you mess up your sideburns."
I can feel him seething, and I can't stop a grin from spreading across my face as I turn away. It feels good to say what's on your mind, but it feels even better to follow it up with the sound of your heels echoing across the marble floor.
"Roxy, everything looks wonderful," Bethanny, my client's wife, says.
I look around, proud of what we managed to pull off with this event. Okay, maybe the generous budget helped, but getting hyacinths this time of year isn't something just anyone can do. Or getting one of the most famous chefs in Chicago to cook live for an hour.
"I'm so glad it turned out just as you wished."
"We'll be contacting you for our little one's birthday, too," she says with a wink before walking away to greet an acquaintance.
My phone starts ringing. When I see the name on the screen, I can't avoid the bitter taste that fills my mouth.
"Aria," I say, and against my will, I feel my heart tighten.
