I see her look at me, but I ignore her. Hugh regards me before taking a sip of his Scotch. I don’t know if he considers my repudiation disrespectful and I don’t care, either.
“Some things are best left for the boys,” the weaselly looking one named Doug chimes in, like it’s his place to have an opinion. I want to bash his face in, but I shove my hands deep into my trouser pockets to keep myself from doing so.
“You seem to be paying close attention, Falkenberg,” Hugh finally says.
The comment startles me, but I don’t show it. “That’s what I was assigned to do.”
Freddie downs the rest of her drink. She sets the empty glass in a nearby planter, then digs around in her purse for a moment before saying, “Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom.”
I don’t miss how she bats at her eyes as she stalks off.
Chapter 41
Freddie
I would have liked it better if my father had slapped me across the face. I can’t believe he called me an amateur in front of the investors. Part of me wonders if he did it on purpose, to make sure they don’t take me seriously. To remind me that I can’t do anything without his help or approval, that he’ll sabotage me if I try.
The night has been horrible. Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked it off by reviewing my father’s NDAs and reading through his sale documents, but I wanted to know what I was up against. Knowing I can’t trust him not to fuck me over, I downloaded all the documents to the flash drive Coach gave me, which I’ve tucked away in my purse to review with Margot later.
A tray of champagne passes me on the way to the bathroom and I snatch one, downing it in one gulp before ditching it in a planter. I don’t even care who sees me being sloppy. My father has already done a masterful job of humiliating me tonight. How could it get any worse? I’m almost to the bathroom where I intend to have a full-on menty b, when a hand catches my elbow and whips me around.
It’s Mattias. My night just got worse.
“Freddie,” he says. “Stop.”
“Get off me.” I try to shove him away before I start crying, but he drags me out of the main banquet hall into an empty hotel corridor. “Fuck off, Falkenberg, you don’t know anything about this.”
“Falkenberg, is it?” He drops my elbow. “I’m sorry he said that. It’s not true and you shouldn’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Every player in the room could tell from his toast that he doesn’t know shit.”
The lump in my throat thickens, making it hard to breathe. “Doesn’t matter,” I choke out. “They listen to him, not me. I’m just his spoiled daughter. Nothing I do matters.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
I look up at him. I’ve never seen him so disheveled with his previously waxed hair falling down around his face, his bowtie slightly crooked, and his eyes full of concern I certainly don’t deserve.
“I don’t know. Not really. I’m nobody without him.” Even though they’re practically a whisper, my words carry in the silent hallway. They’re words I’ve said in my mind so frequently they’ve become part of who I am. The tears start to fall. Falkenberg steps closer to me, hesitant.
“Don’t let him tell you what you’re worth, Freddie. He doesn’t know real value when he sees it. Everything is just business to him.”
I slump back against the wall, struggling to keep my chin up. “What would you know about feeling worthless, Falkenberg? You’re the star player of an NHL team. Do you know how many kids want to be you?”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Believe me, I’m very well familiar with feeling worthless.”
I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I have an inkling it might be related to his mother. And here he is, sharing this burden with me. This knife in his gut that he suffers alone. Without thinking, I lift my hand and brush his hair out of his face, letting my fingertips linger at his temple, then drift down slowly to brush his jaw. His expression hardens, his attention flickering briefly to my mouth.
I’m a little dizzy as I push myself off the wall and snake my arms around his neck, dragging him down to me and pulling his lips to mine. A soft groan escapes him as I recklessly thread my fingers through his hair and slant my mouth over his. My back hits the wall as he steps into me, cupping my face between his palms, and for a second my eyes go out of focus.
“Fuck,” I slur between kisses. “I need you so fucking bad.”
It’s not the kind of thing I would normally say, but my head isn’t exactly clear right now. A wave of nausea hits me, then—champagne threatens to bubble up my throat, and I pull back for air. Bracing a hand against the wall, I clap a palm over my mouth. Thank the Cenobites, I manage to keep it down. I reach for Falkenberg again, weaving my arms around his neck and pulling him to me, but his hands close around my wrists. Even as I press myself against him, he untangles himself from me, looking down at me with large pupils.
“I think we should stop,” he says.
Suddenly, I’m Icarus, burning to pieces and falling from the sun. He doesn’t want me. He probably thinks I want to be his girlfriend. I’m not so conceited to think he’d ever see me seriously. I just want him once, just this one time.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” I mumble, reaching for his shirt again. “I know you wouldn’t ever want me for real. I’m not that naive.”
I try to kiss him again, but he catches my wrists again and pins them to my sides. I stumble back, my shoulders colliding with the wall again.
