There have been reports that the two of you were seeing each other before the wedding—is that true?
Paige Blackwell is claiming that those texts between her and Millie’s ex were fabricated and she’s inferred heavily that you’re behind it. Do you have a response to her allegation?
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t answer one question. What happened between Millie and me is no one’s business but after that, I figured it was time to come out of hiding.
The first week was rough. So rough, I considered faking my own death and joining the French Foreign Legion.
The second week was easier and by week three, with nothing to fuel the flames of discord and speculation, it was like none of it even happened. Aside from a few stray stares and the occasional, behind-the-hand whispers, I’ve been allowed to become who I was before I fell in love with Millie.
No one.
True to his word, Preston Blackwell has left me alone. I haven’t been blackballed. No one has called to cancel their events. Secret Service agents haven’t stormed my apartment to drop a bag over my head and throw me into the back of a black SUV and take me to a CIA black site.
Even with hiring an additional forty bartenders, my schedule is packed solid for the next two years. So packed that I’ve had to work some of the events myself. I stick to the smaller parties. Ones I know there won’t be a Blackwell in attendance. I’ll fill in at Level and Lotus—both nightclubs owned and run by the Bright group—but I leave Davino’s to Marcus or one of my other, more experienced bartenders. Incredibly, I haven’t heard from Paige. I think she knows the well has run dry where I’m concerned and that reaching out to me will no longer serve her cause.
Things have, slowly but surely, returned to normal. Business is thriving. So much so that I managed to attract the attention of Jase Bright.
I’m particularly interested in the temp service you’ve started. I know it’s in its preliminary stages but you’ve managed to compile quite the client list, our own nightclubs and restaurants among them. I can see the growth potential and would be very interested in discussing a possible buy out.
I took the meeting with him last week and the offer is generous. So generous that, if invested properly, I’d never have to work again. I could travel. Get the hell out of New York. Get the fuck away from Millie. Try to start putting myself back together. I told him I’d think about it and I do sometimes. Usually late at night when I’m lying in bed, missing the weight of her pressed against me.
Ten days.
That’s all I had of her.
But it was enough to ruin me.
Enough to tell me that I can pretend all I want. I can sell my business and leave New York. I can travel the world and pretend everything is fine. That I got exactly what I wanted. That there isn’t this fucked-up thing inside me, getting angrier and more desperate by the second. Angry at myself for playing the part instead of being honest. For not telling Millie how I felt sooner and angry at her for not even trying to believe me when I finally did. Desperate to make her listen. Desperate to touch her. Fuck—desperate toseeher.
Most of the time I can keep it under control. I can pretend it’s not there. That the angry, desperate, fucked-up thing inside me that needs her doesn’t exist.
I focus on work.
Growing my business.
Moving on.
I rented office space.
I hired an assistant to keep me organized.
I work-out until I’m so physically exhausted, I’m numb. I order Thai from across the street and watch TV. I ignore social media. Closed my DMs. Pretend that the week I spent with her didn’t completely destroy me.
That everything is fine.
ThatI’mfine.
And I will be.
I’ll be fine.
As long as I never see Millie Blackwell again.
FORTY-FIVE
I’ve received another email.
The first since I went scorched earth nearly three months ago. Staring at the subject line, I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment.
