But it isn’t dreamless.
Visions of Electra flash in my mind. I imagine her on dates that don’t end with the walk of shame. The idea of her with someone more permanent is odd to me. Especially someone with so many green flags they could be mistaken for red in the wrong lighting.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my belly again.
I bolt upright. My pillow is soaked with sweat and my hair is matted to my face. Either I just had one hell of a nightmare or something isn’t quite right. I’m hoping for the first one.
I decide to get a glass of water and make my way to the bathroom. As I look in the mirror, I catch my reflection. My cheeks are flushed against death-pale skin, and I have dark circles under my eyes.
I shut the water off and take my glass back to the bedroom.
But just as I’m about to lay down, I freeze.
The cup of water drops to the floor and shatters. On the other side of the room, outside the bedroom window, is a man. I can only make out his silhouette, but as he shifts, I swear I know him.
Tristan.
I blink, too afraid to move, too afraid even to scream.
And in an instant he’s gone.
I rush to my nightstand, grab my phone, and call Ransome.
24
RANSOME
I hate parties.
Business parties, Bratva parties, holiday parties—all of it. Fucking trash.
Unfortunately for me, being a CEO of a massive company means I have to attend a lot of parties. Not just attend, but be in the limelight. Another thing I hate. It looks bad if the man of the hour isn’t at least smiling, which also means I have to be fake. Another thing I loathe.
Jenica, of course, is doing enough camera hamming for both of us. Which means I am nursing my third shot.
“It’s a double-edged sword, really,” Jenica says with a sugary smile that I know is laced with salt. “Being the wife of a man like Ransome is very pressing. All the cameras and interviews, not to mention hosting parties and being in the spotlight at charity events like this one. It can be very exhausting at times.”
“I can’t imagine,” says another woman, one who has had enough plastic surgery toalmostlook like Paris Hilton.
“Don’t get me wrong. It certainly has its perks too. Doesn’t it, darling?” Jenica turns to me with a fluttery laugh. All the while, her eyes are shooting a discreet threat into mine.
I force a half-assed smirk before planting a one-second kiss on her lip-glossed mouth. I fucking hate lip gloss. It’s slimy, sticky, messy, and tastes like synthetic fruit. It might as well be cough syrup.
I can’t understand why women insist on wearing it. Weknowtheir lips don’t have the same texture as Welch’s Grape Jelly. And believe it or not, we actually prefer it that way.
I respond with nothing more than a low, noncommittalhmm,and she laughs again as she places her hand on my thigh under the table. Then, as the conversation at the banquet hall table continues to buzz, she turns her head to the side so no one can see her expression or hear her voice.
“Would it kill you to pretend like you want to be here?” she snaps.
“But I don’t want to be here,” I say in a low tone.
“Well, obviously. But you could at least pretend not to be repulsed by the idea of being here withme.You’re making us both look bad. And when I look bad, daddy hears about it.”
I forced another smirk, bite my tongue—literally—and snake an arm around her too-tiny waist.
“Better?” I ask with little to no affection.
She doesn’t respond, but her rigid body tells me I’ve pissed her off. Damn.
