Snow rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
I’ve always hated Snow. He thinks he can do whatever he wants and get away with it. He’s always had this problem with me, which I don’t understand. We never got along, even as kids.
Jameson’s shoulders tense, and he taps his fingers on the table. “What if she says no?”
“Who says I’m giving her an option? She has no choice but to marry me.” I polish off the rest of the lobster sliders.
Jameson grins. “You’re psychotic.”
I down my liquor, slam my glass on the table, and beckon the waitress for another drink.
“I’m not denying that.”
If I outright asked Lilac to marry me, she’d say no—and I need her like I need air. She’s my dream girl, and she’s the only one who seems to see me as a person, not someone with a personality disorder.
People love their labels.
I know I’m not a good person, nor a man fit for marriage, but I’m not about to be stuck with someone I don’t care about. I see couples among the elite, unhappy as hell, coming to the club to cheat on their spouses.
If Lilac touches another man, I’ll cut off the body part he touched her with. I’ll deny her an orgasm for months, pushing her to the brink until she can’t handle it anymore. I have no plans to dabble in new pussy myself.
The elite mingle to feel powerful. People are people, no matter their status.
A stripper asks me for a dance. I shoo her away—I’m not going to embarrass my future wife like that.
Speaking of Lilac, I haven’t heard from her since this morning, so I remove my phone from my pocket and open our message thread.
Me:What are you doing, my princess?
Ten minutes pass with no response. Maybe she’s busy. I click on her contact and call her. The phone rings for several moments, then goes to voicemail, which she hasn’t set up.
That’s strange. Maybe she’s pissed, thinking I’m marrying someone else. I only told her I’m engaged to throw her off my tracks.
I check Instagram next—she hasn’t posted in the last twenty-four hours—then I glance at Keanu.
“Call Winter for me,” I ask.
“Why?” Keanu answers.
“Because Lilac isn’t answering her phone.”
He grabs his phone, dials Winter’s number, and hands it to me. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, Keanu.”
“This is Irvin,” I answer.
“Oh. Um… hi, Irvin.” She clears her throat. “How are you?”
I stroke my forehead. “Have you seen Lilac? Or heard from her today?”
“Yes, of course. She’s my best friend.”
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Around late afternoon. We had coffee, and she went home to read her thriller. She seemed out of it, but I didn’t think anything of it—sometimes she zones out.”
“It’s unusual for her not to respond to me.”
