Page 52 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

And I don’t want them to ask.

I steel myself against the moment they turn to me, realize I’ve been with all of them, or wanted to be, in Graham’s case. If they all want me back—which I feel like they do—they’re going to make me choose between them.

How could I possibly choose? How could I decide to just be with one of them when each of them has helped me move on from Alex in different important ways?

Maybe they would be okay with something more casual. Maybe them finding out about each other doesn’t mean this has to end. Ryan and Travis are both with a lot of people—surely they’d be okay with keeping it casual. I don’t know about Graham, but a constantly traveling man surely can’t be looking for something serious?

Not that I want them to be with other women. In fact, the thought of that makes me sick.

But how can I ask them to commit to only me when I don’t want to do it myself?

Ryan turns, tilting his head and taking a breath—surely to point out everything I’m thinking about—and I get lightheaded, swaying slightly on my feet.

Before Ryan can say anything, though, the door swings open again. And now, it’s not just one person, but two, barreling in through the entrance, while Dianne calls after them in the hallway.

“What thefuck?” Alex snarls, staring right at me, his finger pointed accusingly in my direction. Worse than that, though, worse than my ex-boyfriend spitting mad, standing before me after months of dead silence, is the person behind him.

The person tugging on his arm.

The woman saying, “Alex,please, don’t?—”

But Alex doesn’t listen to her. Instead, he jerks his arm, sending her stumbling backward, bumping into the door just as it clicks shut again.

Then her eyes fly up to meet mine, and I stare over my ex-boyfriend’s shoulder at my best friend, tears streaming down her face, the look on her face so guilty it makes me sick.

Chapter 28

Serena

It’s complete chaos.

Graham instantly steps between Alex and me, like he’s my hired bodyguard. On the far side of the room, Travis calls for security, curses, and yells something about everyone being “Totallyfuckinguseless!”

Ryan walks toward my ex-boyfriend with his hands up, like he can talk Alex down from the fit of rage he’s currently in. And Alex, himself, the man I spent more than a year of my life with, the man I thought would be my husband, maybe even the father of my children—he looks like a stranger to me.

The only thing I feel when I look at him is a distant, latent anger about my record player. He didn’t have to ruin that. Didn’t have to go as far as he did.

When security doesn’t come through, Travis is at Graham’s side.

“—fuckingassholes!” Alex spits, shoving Graham in the chest. It must be infuriating to him that his brother doesn’t so much as sway under the force of his push.

“Let’s try and calm down,” Ryan says, “or we could always go to a bar—lots more chairs and bottles for smashing there, far more fun?—”

Alex alternates shouting at each of them, even taking a shot at Ryan, calling him a “pretty boy,” which doesn’t seem like much of an insult.

His copper hair is standing on end, his face flushed and ruddy, his eyes practically popping out of his head. He looks deranged. Far angrier even, I note, than I was when he threw all my stuff out on the lawn.

Alex might be the one screaming, the one whose flashing eyes land on me for a second before jolting back to his brothers, but he’s not the one I’m focusing on. He’s not the person in this room whose presence feels like a sucker punch directly to my gut.

“Alex, please, don’t do this—” Bianca tries again in a whiny voice, reaching for him, but I catch her gaze, and her words peter out on a whimper. Today she’s wearing a sundress, a nice pair of heels, and I wonder where the two of them have been together.

Were they having a nice lunch on a sun-drenched patio? Was the breeze rustling through her hair? Did she reach across the table, put her hand on Alex’s arm, and tell him how handsome he looks?

The men continue shouting around us, but Bianca and I just stare at each other.

It’s like we’re standing amidst the crashing of violent waves, eyes locked through it all. “Bianca,” I hear myself say, finally, but it’s like I’m floating outside my body. “What are you doing here?”

It’s a stupid question, and we both know it. Suddenly, everything falls into place. Her obsession with the Oakleys. How absent she’s been lately. Our other roommates not knowing what’s going on with her. I asked the question to get her to say something. To get her to come up with some sort of explanation that makes sense.