The second it dawns on her what I did, those round eyes go huge with mortification. “Oh my gosh!”
“Arya-”
“I… I’m so sorry.” Her eyes tear up, face going crimson. “I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
Without giving me a chance to utter a word, she turns on her heel and runs away.
I don’t chase after her.
Chapter Seven
Arya
It’s been two weeks since I kissed Nathan and got brutally rejected. Yet I’m still mortified as ever. After everything he did, how could I be so stupid and come on to him?
Every time I close my eyes, his handsome face, rigid with tension and bewilderment, pops up. What did I do next? I ran like my ass was on fire.
Have I grown such low self-esteem? Left damaged by Aryan’s betrayal? Why else would I kiss a man who’s clearly hung up on his ex? Not that I’m completely over mine.
I blame Anaya.
She filled my head with her nonsense ideas and magnificent dicks.
“Have a rebound, my ass.”
Speak of the devil, the doorbell rings. Laying my floral and lace dress on the bed, I walk to the front door and unlock it.
“Hola!” Anaya winks, holding up her vanity bag. “Your makeup fairy is here.”
It isn’t a brag.
Anaya is a talented stylist and makeup artist, whose services I get to use for free by playing the best friend card. Also, because she’d kick my ass if I tried to pay. I earned a punch in the arm the last time I took the warning lightly.
Pushing past me, she lets herself in and trudges to my bedroom.
I follow her.
“Which dress did you pick for tonight?” she inquires. “Western or traditional? Is it black tie? If so, a cocktail dress or an evening gown?”
When it comes to fashion, Anaya is my go-to person.
“It’s semi-formal. Sorta laid-back,” I reply, then point to the bed. “I picked this.”
“Holy moly,” she exclaims, running toward my outfit and carefully picking it up. “That is a sexy-as-fuck dress. When did you buy this?”
My smile falters as my chest squeezes tight. “I was going to wear it on my honeymoon.”
I had half a mind to throw it away, but I didn’t want Aryan to have such power over me that I’d ruin such a stunning dress.
It’s a mini purple dress with a plunging neckline, made of lace, purple flowers, and diamond beads. Formfitting till my belly button before flaring out into a flowy skirt. It stops just above my thighs when I wear it.
“Oh no, no,” tsks Anaya, caressing the delicate lace. “This is a revenge dress.”
“Revenge dress?”
“Yep. Meant to be worn by a seductress that men bow down to.” Shrugging, she teases, “Or, you know, a perfect rebound dress.”
“No!” I grumble. “You’re not starting that again.”
