Lily Seven days later I’m slumped over the toilet in between puking sessions. Once I’m no longer projecting vomit from my mouth, I attempt to straighten up from where I’m crouching, but another violent wave of nausea hits me. Oh, God. I manage to kneel down just in time. With my hands cupping my tummy, I empty the contents of my stomach. That Italian sausage pizza I had a couple days ago is doing a number on me. Was the cheese off? The sausage? But it was a high rating pizza joint. Unless it was the take-out lasagna I ate last night? Message received. I’m steering clear of Italian food for a while. I try to get up, but I’m hit by another wave of nausea. I angle my body and puke my guts out. I try again to straighten up. This time I manage. Victory. I don’t even need to check to know I’m late. My father is going to be furious. I need to get out of here. Fast. I st ep in front of the mirror and gasp in horror. Puke stains my shirt and some of it is clumped to my hair. Fuck. I brush my teeth twice for good measure. Once my breath doesn’t taste like rotten milk, I strip out of my soiled clothes, dump them on the floor in a messy pile, and jump into the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I’m clean, but I don’t feel perked up. St epping out of the shower, I tiptoe to the mirror, apprehending the face that will be reflected back at me. Yikes. Even with my California tan, there’s a sickly tinge to my skin tone. To avoid frightening young children, I do a five-minute face. I select a bright shade of hot pink blush to liven up my complexion.
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I sigh. This will have to do. Since there’s no time to blow dry my curtain of hair, I pull it back in a ponytail and braid it. I assess myself in the mirror. I don’t look like myself. Heck, I don’t feel like myself. I don’t have the luxury to dwell on it for too long or else my puppet master will rip me a new one. Go, go, go. I rush to my bedroom and have a panic attack when I see the time on the clock sitting on the nightstand. I sprint into my walk-in closet, slip into underwear, grab a purple maxi dress with three-quarter sleeves, and slip it on as I st ep into a pair of white Hermes sandals. I exit my bedroom, snatch up my bag and my phone, and run out the door. As I descend the stairs, I open the taxi app to book a ride. Thank God, I won’t have to wait too long. I shoot my father a quick text. His response is instantaneous. Puppet Master: I loathe tardiness. Why can’t you be on time? Go-getters show up on time. I roll my eyes. Lily: Sorry. Rough morning. Puppet Master: How rough can it be when I’m footing the bill? You don’t even have to show up for a goddamn job. Excuses will ke ep you in the same dead-end position as the average American. Being average shouldn’t be your life goal. I want to hurl my phone against the asphalt. Instead, I grunt in frustration and stomp my feet like a three-year-old. I don’t care if my neighbors witness my meltdown. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. When I reach ten, I fire off a response. Lily: See you soon. Puppet Master: Get here before my patience runs out. I can’t wait to live on the other coast, far, far away from my puppet master. Since returning to the Big Apple, I’ve been busy contacting different headhunters and temp agencies in Los Angeles. I also spent time checking out different neighborhoods where I could live. More than once, I was tempted to text Mikki, Keira, or Dom and ask them for help, but I refrained. I need to do this on my own. Since LA’s subway system is a joke compared to New York’s, and distances are triple the travel time, I’ll have to buy a car to get around. Gridlock traffic will be a bitch. Being closer to Gage will more than make up for it. I lift my eyes as a taxi comes to a screeching halt in front of me. I jump into the back seat as a text message appears on my screen. Puppet Master: Are you close? I don’t have all day. I have a company to run. Lily: I texted you two minutes ago. I’m on my way. Please don’t text me again. You’re stressing me out. I dump my phone at the bottom of my bag. “Fuck!” The driver meets my gaze through the rearview mirror. I roll my eyes. He nods. I’m about to rub my hands over my face, but catch myself. Smearing my makeup would only get me another verbal lynching from my puppet master.
I wish his business trip to Washington DC had extended even longer. Sigh. Since I have to eat––if I can hold anything down––I intend on killing two birds with one stone. I might not be there by choice since he summoned me, but I sure as hell will leverage this face to face. The typical lunch or dinner with my father is the same old song and dance––it’s me sitting there, trying hard not to roll my eyes at what comes out of his mouth. Not today. By the time the salad is served, I’ll have informed him of my plans to move to LA. Here goes nothing... Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Jean-Georges near Central Park—the three Michelin starred restaurant my father favors these days. As I follow the maître d’ through the elegant eatery packed with the lunchtime crowd, the different aromas hit my nostrils all at once. I place a hand on my stomach. I’m going to be sick. Holy shit, what’s going on with my stomach today? I take several de ep breaths, praying to God, I don’t have to rush to the bathroom. That does the trick. When I regain my composure, I scour the restaurant, searching for my father. Where is he? I wouldn’t put it past him if he had left. “Mr. Edgington requested a private room,” the maître d’ says from over his shoulder as if he could read my thoughts. Whatever he has to say must be important if it has to happen behind closed doors. The maître d’ arrives in front of a room, knocks three times, and opens the door. With a hand gesture, he ushers me in. “Thank you,” I say. With a curt head bow, he scurries off. When I enter the room, my father isn’t alone. Crap. Two men dressed in impeccable bespoke suits rise to their feet. “Finally,” my father says. “At this rate, it’ll soon be happy hour.” Asshole. I force a smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.” I ke ep it simple. Excuses will only earn me a lecture. “Lily, do you remember Gius eppe De Maro?” My eyes shift to the man with dark brown hair and coffee-colored eyes that stands a foot over my father’s five-feet-nine-inch frame. His wide smile takes over his face. “You’re Dario De Maro’s son.” “Yes,” he says, extending a hand. I shake it. “Please call me John––the English version of my Italian name. All my friends do.” We’re not friends. “I’m flattered you’d remember me.” He smiles. “A stunning woman like you must meet so many men, far more memorable than me.” Gius eppe De Maro is right. Other than his expensive tailored suit, nothing about him stands out. The same applies to his three older brothers. His younger sister is pretty in an artificial way. In my opinion, she’s way too young for collagen lip injections. I let go of his clammy hand and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress. I can’t find it in me to match his smile, so I don’t even try. “Your father had donated a large amount to the charity that supports the advancement of black youth from poor neighborhoods in New York’s five boroughs in the technology field,” I say. “Dad is all about a good tax deduction.” So is my father. “His interest doesn’t go any de eper?”
“Supporting anything black-related is big on social media, so it makes us look good. Whatever makes us look good, makes us more money. More money, more power. Power is everything.” My eyebrows hit my forehead. “Why not support a cause your dad believes in?” “My dad believes in money. Native Americans, whites, blacks, Eskimos, Australian Aboriginals, indigenous people from the Amazon rainforest, purple people with yellow hair.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter as long as that means less money going into Uncle Sam’s pockets,” Gius eppe who would rather be called John says. Alrighty then. Gage comes to mind. The way he helped that transition house was so selfless. I’m sure he got a whopping tax adduction, but that wasn’t his motivation. His donation had significance. He wanted to do his mom proud. “That’s why Dad is a hundred percent behind Chandler as the next mayor of New York City,” Gius eppe says. “It’s a great tax deduction that will help get the right man for the job in office.” I didn’t expect this to be a working lunch. Not that I had much of an appetite, but the little I had, disappears. “This conversation is way above Lily’s pay grade,” my puppet master says. “She doesn’t even need to work for a living, which is why she’s a half hour late.” How condescending. It’s one thing for him to put me down, but another to do it in front of a stranger. My retort dies on my lips when there’s a knock at the door. A waiter appears, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a silver bucket in the other. “Mr. Edgington you’re in luck,” the waiter says, “I snatched the last bottle of chilled Krug Grande Cuvee Brut.” He claps. “Excellent! This celebration calls for the best champagne.” What are we celebrating? My father checks his seventy-five-thousand-dollar Audemar Piguet watch before returning his attention to the waiter. “Give me twenty minutes or so before opening it. Please set it on the table.” “I can come back,” the waiter says. “It’s best if this particular champagne is served cold.” “If it isn’t too much to ask,” my father says. The waiter smiles. “Not for one of our best customers.” “Thank you.” My father swings his attention to the other man in the room. “Gius eppe, do you mind st epping out so I can talk to Lily? Go have a drink at the bar. I’ll get the maître d’ to summon you when we’re ready.” “No problem, Fisher.” Gius eppe-slash-John reaches out and touches my arm. I flinch at the contact. Who the hell told him he could touch me? “I’ll catch you later.” He winks and flashes me a seductive smile. I hesitate. “Sure.” Gius eppe-slash-John follows after the waiter, waving at me from over his shoulder. What the hell? My questioning gaze traps my father’s. “You didn’t mention this would be lunch for three.” “It was a last-minute decision. Lucky for me, Gius eppe was available,” he says. “Take a seat.” I sit, placing my handbag on the chair next to mine. The private room is appointed in the same tasteful airy décor as the rest of the restaurant. Other than an array of colorful flowers placed in vases, white is the predominant color.
My father sits down and reaches for the bottle of red. He’s about to serve me a glass, but I stop him. “It’s too early—” “It’s not that early, but if you’re only rolling out of bed, it would be.” I’ve had enough. “For your information, yesterday or the day before— I’m not certain—I ate something that didn’t agree with me and I’ve been sick all morning. Both were Italian meals, so it could’ve been the cheese. Since I barfed all over what I was wearing, I had to take a shower, wash my hair, reapply makeup, and get dressed. That’s why I’m late. It’s not because I think tardiness is acc eptable, nor is it because I was being lazy.” A fleeting flash of embarrassment darts in his gray eyes, but the remorse evaporates in a flash. He squares off his shoulders, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “Why didn’t you say so when you texted me?” “Would you have believed me?” He considers me with his lips pursed. No, you wouldn’t have. “You have a valid reason for being late—” “Why are we having lunch with Gius eppe De Maro?” I cut to the chase. “You haven’t bought a PR firm yet, so it’s not as if my presence here is necessary if the two of you are going to talk about Chandler’s political career.” “This lunch isn’t about Chandler. It’s about you. Specifically, it’s about you and Gius eppe.” “What do you mean?” My stomach is acting up. Crap. To will it to settle, I reach for the bread. Not bothering with butter, I tear off a piece and shove it into my mouth. “Dario and I think Gius eppe and you would form a good couple.” I stop chewing. I place a hand over my mouth. “I don’t understand.” “Dario is a powerful man. We’ve brokered a few deals together lately and we’d love to see our alliance extend further.” “That still doesn’t make any sense to me.” “The best way for you and Gius eppe to get to know each other is by dating.” I choke on my saliva. “What?” “The De Maros plan on being important players in Chandler’s campaign. Gius eppe is single and you’re single. It makes sense.” This isn’t a suggestion. It’s a decree. “Let me get this straight”—I lift a hand up—“you decide the trajectory of my career. You decide which film school I’m going to attend. And now, you take it upon yourself to play matchmaker? When does it end, Father? Are you going to dictate who I marry next?” “Yes,” he says. “The plan is for you and Gius eppe to get married.” My mouth drops open. “It will be the wedding all of New York talks about.” That sets me off. “I’m not getting married to that man.” “You don’t even know him.” My father frowns. “He’s a good guy.” “He’s malleable. That’s why you approve of him.” “Dario and I both grew up poor and made something of ourselves. Now that we’ve gained a certain amount of success, we want to make sure it’s passed on to the next generation, and the one after that. The fastest way to increase your wealth is to marry into a wealthy family. Gius eppe understands that. He’s willing to put the interest of his family first. He isn’t selfish.” But I am? “Good for him. I’m not dating him. Forget about marrying him.” My father’s nostrils flare. His glacial blue eyes are glaring at me, but I hold his stare. I refuse to cower. I shove more bread in my mouth because I’m this close from being sick again. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with this bug that’s creating havoc on my body, but everything to do with this ridiculous arranged marriage idea.
“It’s time for you to pull your weight in this family, Lily.” His voice is as cold as ice when he says that. I’m surprised I don’t see his frosty breath in the air. “What the hell does that mean?” “I’ve provided you with a charmed life. The best schools. A wardrobe full of designer clothes. A collection of red sole shoes.” I tear off another piece of bread, chewing on it as if I’m mad at it. “You have an enviable collection of jewelry, even though you insist on wearing that thing all the time.” He points at my medallion. “It lacks the sophistication of the pieces I’ve offered you.” That’s like a slap in the face. “When you were in Paris you lived in a multimillion-dollar apartment in one of the best arrondissements. You live in an enviable zip code in New York. You have a Black American Express card at your disposal and you don’t even have to worry about paying the balance.” “Things, Father. Those are all things.” I’m fuming. “Things most people will never have.” I stuff more bread in my mouth, storing the morsels between my cheeks like a chipmunk. “After your mother’s death, you could’ve ended up in the system. Foster kids have it rough. Instead, you’ve been living in the lap of luxury.” His words have the same effect as a catastrophic earthquake. I masticate like a cow and swallow. “Why would I have ended up as a foster kid?” He forced me here to insult me? He could’ve done it by phone or text. This conversation is beyond aggravating. “You’re my father. When a parent dies, the other parent st eps up to the plate.” “And I did. And now, it’s payback time.” I blink. “If you were to become Mrs. De Maro, it would help further the family not only financially, but also in the political arena. Dario knows the right people.” All this vomiting must’ve affected my hearing. “Heading a PR company isn’t my dream career.” My hand cups my medallion. “I went along with your grand plan because I was hoping you’d acc ept me. I won’t prostitute myself for the good of the family––a family that would prefer I never existed––” “Prostitute is a strong word. It’s a marriage––” “If I was stupid enough to marry Gius eppe, I bet it still wouldn’t be enough to earn your respect or your love.” My father lifts both of his brows, his attention fixed on me, his posture stiffening. I ke ep offloading what’s on my chest. “This craziness stops here. I won’t do it.” I shake my head. “If you want to form an alliance with the De Maros, ask one of your sons to marry Dario’s daughter.” “She’s a handful.” “I see.” I nod. “I have to sacrifice myself, but your sons don’t?” “They’re—” “I’m seeing someone.” The evil smile stretching his lips should come as a warning. “And who is that?” I lift a defiant chin. “Gage Hollingsworth.” “He lives on the other side of the country.” “He has an office here.” “Los Angeles is his home. Not New York. A week here and there doesn’t make for much of a relationship.” “I’m going to film school next year. Speaking of which, I plan on getting a job in PR in LA, so I can cut my teeth sooner rather than later.” He levels me with a glare that could freeze an iceberg. I soldier on. “The more experience I have under my belt, the better I’ll be at my job. And that will benefit Chandler.”
I sit straighter, my glare matching his. “There’s been a change of plan.” He plays with his cufflinks. “You’re no longer attending film school in LA.” “You’ve been campaigning hard, citing Los Angeles has the best film schools in the world. ‘It would be a waste of time to consider any other option’.” I throw his words back at him. “I’ve reconsidered. The New York Film Academy is more than suitable. No need to go across the country.” Wh—what? My molars grind together as my hands fist. “I had my heart set on LA—” “On LA or on being in the same city as Gage?” “Both.” We enter a Mexican standoff for several beats. “You may hate me now, but you’ll thank me in the long run.” That sounded Greek to me. I’m about to say as much, but he pulls his phone out of his suit jacket and checks it. I let out of frustrated sigh. He meets my gaze. “You’re willing to give up your life and move across the country for a man you know nothing about.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Did you know Gage is in love with another woman?” The pain is as sharp as being stabbed in the heart with an ice pick. “In fact, Gage and his girlfriend were spotted hand in hand entering Van Nuys Airport a couple days ago.” My father continues his torture. A couple days ago? He was supposed to be in Sweden. His trip was delayed? My heart is beating so hard. “You’re lying.” He smirks. “There are two ways to know someone. One, the person is truthful and forthcoming. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that’s rare. Two, you have them investigated.” My eyes grow wide. My father hands me his phone. “Here’s proof I’m not lying.” I reach out for it and pray my father doesn’t notice how much my hand is shaking. A paused video flashes on the screen. My father places his weight against his folded elbow, reaches out, and presses the play button. There’s no mistaking it’s Gage. I lift my eyes. “You paid a private investigator to follow him?” He points to the phone. “You’re going to miss the good part.” Like a masochist, my attention returns to the screen. Gage is holding a woman with black hair in his arms. I can’t see her face. The camera zooms on his mouth. There’s no sound. He tightens his hold on the woman. She lifts her head up at him, revealing her profile. I squint. She’s a woman with tawny brown skin. Is she part of the sisterhood? I didn’t meet her while I was in LA. If her striking profile is anything to go by, she’s gorgeous. Nope, I’m not jealous of her perfect curly hair or the insane volume. Gage wipes away her tears. Why is she crying? The camera zooms in on her mouth. I ignore her full lips, focusing on what she’s about to say. “I love you.” My heart sinks when I read her lips. No, no, no. This is a bad joke. It has to be. “I love you, too.” Four words that ripple out of the mouth of the man I’m so crazy about, landing in a lake like a cannon ball. The air turns to concrete in my lungs. I’m living a nightmare. For several seconds, all I can do is choke on the shock of those words. My panicked thoughts spiral. Blood roars in my ears. The jealousy I felt before is dwarfed in comparison to the cyclone whirling inside me. An invisible hand wraps around my heart and squeezes hard. Gage kisses her forehead with tenderness. He cares for this woman. No, Lily, he loves her. Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom. There’s a chaotic chorus
going on in my head––and in my heart. My poor heart. I fight not to bring my hand up to it to rub at the pain at my chest. The video stops and jumps to another scene. Gage and a short man in a suit that doesn’t look as sharp as Gage’s is stuffing designer luggage in the trunk of a car. The tall woman he professed his love to is standing next to him. She doesn’t travel light. The short man closes the trunk and rushes to open the passenger door. Gage reaches out for the woman’s hand and guides her inside the vehicle. Before he closes the door, she reaches out and caresses his face. My heart shatters in a million pieces. The video cuts again. The next shot shows the driver pulling out his and hers luggage from the trunk. In the next shot, Gage embraces the woman in his arms, and together, they walk towards the entry to Van Nuys Airport. As they’re about to enter, Gage drops a soft kiss on the woman’s forehead. She smiles up at him. What. The. Fuck. He said he hadn’t been with a woman since his mom died three years ago. He said he was going to Sweden and South Korea alone. He had nothing but contempt for cheater Judson and his deceiving ex-girlfriend. He lied? I thought I could trust him. I’m such a fool. No wonder I haven’t heard from him in days. I figured between the time difference and his demanding schedule, he was overwhelmed. Since I didn’t want to come across as needy, I didn’t push. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe. I feel the weight of my father’s stare on me. My eyes lift up to meet his. His smirk suggests he’s proud of himself. It would’ve been less painful had he pushed me in front of a moving train. I will my hand to stop shaking, and give him back his phone. He takes it, the smug expression on his face turning sinister. A long, heavy silence passes between us before he deigns answering my question. “You weren’t rec eptive at the idea of going to California to check out film schools. Alder sees you in Malibu hand-in-hand with Gage, and a few days later, you inform me after the fact, you extended your trip. It was clear film schools weren’t the reason why.” The disappointment in his tone is clear and cutting. “So, I decided to do a little digging into Gage, since I had a sneaky suspicion he prompted your decision.” Manipulation comes naturally to my father, and this is further proof. Who needs a gun or a knife when backstabbing is your weapon of choice? Conniving weasel. “I told you to be careful with those Hollywood-slash-LA men.” He shakes his head, tsking. “She’s the one he loves.” He points at his phone. You”—he points at me—“were nothing more than a plaything.” He leans back against his seat, his gaze slithering over me. “Now, do you still want to move to LA, Lily?” I can’t speak. “Sending you to Los Angeles was the biggest mistake.” His eyes slash through me like a sword slashing through my withering pride. Spine stiffening, I force my lips not to tremble. Don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see how much he’s destroyed you.
“Not only did you get entangled with Gage, you lost your virginity to a player.” Whoa. How did he know I was a virgin until LA? I sure as hell never had the birds and the bees talk with him. “On top of that stupid decision, you went and lost your phone.” More venom spills from his lips. “When you bought a phone in LA instead of calling me to request a new one, I no longer had tracking software on it—” “You had your tech guys install tracking software on my phone without my knowledge?” “Two years ago, after you called me on the landline from the Paris apartment to let me know you had dropped your phone in the Seine River by mistake, I became suspicious. When I sent you a new phone, I had a tracking device installed on it. Jean-Philippe’s wife’s waters burst at the opportune time. That baby saved your virginity.” I’m shellshocked. “I’ve been tapping into your conversations and text messages ever since—” “That’s a grotesque invasion of my privacy.” He shrugs. “It was an insurance policy.” This shows how little respect he has for me. When douchebag Jean-Philippe texted me to have sex after his wife gave birth, I was so angry, I tossed my phone in the river after I blocked his ass. I agreed to my father sending me a new one. I had no idea I was giving him a window into my life. “Virginity is a commodity,” he says. I flinch. “Excuse me?” “You have more value to a man if he’s the one to take your virginity.” My head just exploded. “In regards to your marriage to Gius eppe, we might have to pretend you used to be an avid rider growing up—” I shoot to my feet. “We’re done with this conversation.” The side of his mouth quirks. “Are we?” He’s amused? Jerk. He doesn’t appreciate being told what to do, and certainly not by me. I stick to my guns. “I don’t care if Gage Hollingsworth is in love with another woman.” That’s a blatant lie. I care. I fucking care. Tears of sorrow pool in my eyes, but I blink them away. “I’m not marrying Gius eppe.” I stab a finger on the table to drive my point. “You aren’t giving the guy a chance. Let’s have lunch—” “I’m not having lunch with Gius eppe.” His eyes widen. “Are you shouting at me?” “Yes, I’m shouting!” All I’ve ever wanted was my father’s acc eptance, attention, and love. But now that he wants to sell me off like an asset for his financial gain, disregarding my views on the matter, I wish Mama hadn’t planned it so I’d end in this man’s care. In his eyes, I’ll never be good enough to deserve his love. I’m done ke eping hope alive. My father opens his mouth to speak, but I lift a hand. “Forget about me attending film school in New York or anywhere else on the planet. I don’t want to run a PR firm.” I’m riled up. “I don’t want to have anything to do with Chandler’s career.” “You don’t get a say in the matter—” “I’m done with you being my fucking puppet master.” My father’s head jerks back. Yeah, I’m unleashed. I point a finger at him. “I shouldn’t have to bend backwards for you to love me. You’ve had eight years to acc ept me.” My voice cracks. Why is my heart not immune to the way he treats me? “Lily—” “This scenario is fucked up. If you’re that desperate for a merger with the De Maros, get your current girlfriend to marry Gius eppe. You’re going to dump her soon anyway and move onto another flavor. She might not be your daughter, but you treat her with far more respect than you treat me. Also, her life goal is to marry into way, way more money.”
My father’s eyes are so wide, they take over his face. “And, she’s as malleable as Gius eppe. It’s a win-win—” “In this family, the good of all, trumps the good of one.” He thinks I owe him for the fact he took care of me. I went from being a dirty little secret to a pawn? Fuck that. “I’m not marrying Gius eppe.” I stand my ground. “If you want to disown me, go right ahead. I’m done begging for scraps.” I snatch my handbag from the seat next to me and rush towards the door. “You need a little time to mull it over,” my father says from over my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll have a change of heart by the time we all gather out East for the important party I’m throwing for Chandler. Big players will be present—including the De Maros. You and Gius eppe can get to know each other better while you’re in the Hamptons.” I halt my st ep and turn around. “Did you hear a word I said?” He brushes off invisible lint from his suit jacket. “Talk is cheap, Lily. If I disown you, you’ll have nothing to your name other than a degree from a Paris university. You can’t even boast being bilingual since your French is broken at best.” Wow. “You don’t have any work experience. I doubt you have what it takes to survive on a minimum wage salary. If I were you, I’d think long and hard before saying anything that might come back and bite you in the ass.” His treacherous words are as murderous as bullets, even though his only weapon is his mouth. “You’re a manipulative monster.” “I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich. The latter is much better. Being flat broke in New York City is no joke.” His eyes harden when he says, “You were dirt poor in a shitty town in a shitty apartment in Alabama when I sent for you. You want to live hand to mouth again? Once you cool your jets, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.” That stupid smirk again. “Go to hell, Father!” With that, I run out of the room. I slam the door behind me so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t come off its hinges. As I rush down the corridor, my stomach re volts. Oh God, I’m going to be sick again. Panicked, I search around until I find the bathroom sign. I bolt towards it, bursting through the door so hard, it crashes with a thundering bang against the wall. I don’t make it to the stall. I bend over the sink and throw up. For a few agonizing minutes, it’s hell as my body freaks out on me. When my stomach settles, I wash my mouth and press cold water against my cheeks. It’s in vain. My face is on fire. With a hard sniff, I push myself off the counter I’m gripping for dear life. When I catch sight of the sadness reflecting in my eyes in the mirror, I break down. My body shudders as I sob. I’m inconsolable. Fisher Edgington is a horrible man. And Gage Hollingsworth is a two-faced asshole. A river of tears floods my eyes, blurring my vision, and I’m crying in earnest now, my body trembling with sobs as sorrow eats at my heart. I was nothing more than a dumb virgin Gage could feed lies to. I’m across the country. How was I ever going to know he was leading a double life? My de ep-seated fear of rejection that’s plagued me since my mom died, rears its ugly head. An overwhelming surge of sadness hits me, and my throat tightens up. I’m certain I’m about to throw up again, but no, it’s only heartache.
I hate myself for having succumbed to Gage’s charm. I’m pathetic for allowing a man to reduce me to this. I promised myself I’d never follow in Mama’s footst eps and fall for a guy who was taken. I’ve done it twice. Gage was a grumpy bear from the moment I met him. I should’ve welcomed his cold attitude like an omen. I should’ve k ept it to scoping out film schools. I should’ve never gone to Rhys’s birthday party. I should’ve never kissed him. And I should’ve never sl ept with him. I cry so hard, I give myself a headache. It takes a while before my sobs quiet. I wipe away my tears and blow my nose. My puffy face is it telltale sign I’m having a shit day. I need to go home and sle ep for the next week. Or month. I compose myself, breathing in and out a few times. Don’t waste your tears on that man. He doesn’t deserve them. As broken as my heart is at this moment, I need to muster up the energy to get out of here. I pull the strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and march towards the door. I search for an exit sign, but I can’t find one. Crap. I was hoping to avoid going through the main restaurant. This day ke eps getting better and better. With my head hung low, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I trail towards the restaurant. No one pays me any attention as I pass by table after table of patrons. I’m home free— “Hey, Lily!” My eyes shoot up. Gius eppe waves. Bouncing off the barstool he’s sitting on, he rushes towards me. Dammit. He stops in front of me, his frame tensing. His smile disappears and his eyes widen. “What happened?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “We could go somewhere else and hang out. We don’t have to talk. I want to be here for you.” Man, this guy drank some of my father’s Kool-Aid. Scratch that. He probably had an immersion baptism in said Kool-Aid. This madness has gone too far. “Listen, Gius eppe, whatever arrangement your father and my father have, I want no part of it––” “Our fathers are dead set on this union––” “I don’t care.” “It will benefit both our families. That’s how dynasties are built.” “I. Don’t. Care.” He reaches out for me. I jerk away from his touch. A few patrons stare up from their plates, eyebrows cocked. “Okay.” He nods. “You need a little time––” “I don’t need more time to acc ept this pr eposterous idea.” I’m making a scene and I don’t give a damn. “I’m not dating you. I’m not marrying you.” I set Gius eppe-slash-John straight. “And I don’t want to see you ever again.” Like a demented woman, I bolt out of the restaurant.