We negotiate. I send a list of requirements to my lawyer, and he sends a contract back. The whole thing only takes a few minutes.
Ciprian doesn’t even seem to realise the importance of the clause I put in there. The one that gives me twenty-four hours to change my mind, penalty free.
Penalty free on my part, anyway. For Ciprian and Gabriel, it’ll be another story. Both men deserve what’s coming to them. Next time either of them considers messing with me, they’ll think twice.
My tight smile grows as I wonder if my kid brother will take her back. If she’ll be worth anything to him once he knows I had her first.
I hope he can’t ever touch her again without seeing my fingerprints all over her body.
I hope it drives him fucking insane.
* * *
CRIMSON
As the minutes tick by, I ignore the fact I’m hiding from my own party and resort to my old techniques to diminish the pain. Visualising my body, I work through each set of muscles, right side then left side, forcing them to relax.
My neck is the biggest offender. From my clenched jaw to my hunched shoulders, everything is tensed hard as steel. I can imagine my vertebrae popping under the pressure, collapsing one upon the other until I have as much neck as a veteran rugby player, without the tree trunk thighs.
Finally, the tension softens and from there it’s an easy trip along my arms, curling my fingers, then opening my mouth to ease my jaw, smooth my forehead, and done.
It’s only when I startle awake at the door opening that I realise I’ve fallen asleep. The soft whisper of expensive leather soles against the carpet rouses me, and when I sit upright, I discover my headache is almost gone.
“Gabriel?”
“No. Second strike. You better be careful, or you’ll end the game without scoring.”
Micah sits beside me again, holding the back of his hand to my forehead. “Feeling better?”
“Much, thanks.” I swing my legs around, pulling my straggling hairs back into the bun as best I can. “I need to get the name of those drugs. They work better than anything I’ve tried.”
“Do you get migraines often?”
There’s an edge to his voice that I can’t quite place. “Often enough. Every other month or so.”
“Then your doctor should do a better job.”
“Oh, I don’t—” My sentence breaks off as I realise that won’t help matters. “My father is a great believer in natural therapies.”
“Well, colour me unnatural.” He takes my hand, and his grip is soft enough that I understand he might be upset, but it’s not at me. “And I’m happy to refer you to our family doctor, but you’ll get the same attention from any GP if your father cares enough to send you.”
I want to defend him. To explain that Dad wasn’t always an enemy of science. That after losing my mother to cancer, doctors were just another casualty of his mistrust.
But I don’t. The party has already been derailed long enough. Instead, I lower myself off the cot to test my ability to stand. It’s not a resounding success—I’ve developed a tilt—but it’s good enough to work with.
“Thank you,” I say as we leave the room, disentangling myself from Micah’s grip and stepping aside so nobody mistakes us as being together. “You’ve been very kind.”
“I’d do the same for any young beauty who stampedes into me at a party,” he says, tipping me a wink. His eyes are so dark that I can’t catch their colour, especially when his overlong curls fall down to cover his forehead. Add to that his square jaw and the aristocratic tilt of his roman nose, and he’s so attractive it’s almost grotesque.
I turn and walk away before I can do something more foolish than I have already, searching the restaurant for my table.
“There you are,” Marigold says, rising from her seat to drag me into a hug. “Where the f—” She breaks off as her mother’s stern eye catches hers. “Where theheckdid you get to?”
“I got a headache and had to lie down for a few minutes. What’s been happening?”
My friend launches into a long litany of gossip that involves half the party guests along with a small cast of outsiders. She can always be counted on to keep things lively; that she’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth is a little less reliable.
“You’re looking lovely, dear,” Marigold’s mother says to me before rising to intercept a waiter, scolding, “Where’s your tie?”
