Page 22 of King of Deception

Arabella

I givemyself the afternoon to cry.

At five, having barely eaten breakfast, and then having thrown it up in a bucket, I order from my favorite Thai place.

I didn’t have lunch either and I know I’m going to need fortification before I call Mason.

Preston hasn’t called me back.

I fire off a text to Luke, asking him to meet me for drinks. He responds instantly naming a time and place. I accept with a small smile. I’ve got to start mending my family somewhere.

Raw and in my sweats, I eat my dinner, trying to keep my stomach from revolting again. I’m not looking forward to the next conversation I need to have.

Tossing the containers out, I pick up my phone and call Preston again. It’s after six, he should be between the office and before his dinner, he likes to eat late.

But he doesn’t pick up.

I sigh out my frustration. I just want this call over with. Do I go to his hotel? Camp out until he comes through the lobby?

He’s staying under the Kincaid name. I might even be able to get a key to his room…

But I don’t have to do any of those things as my phone rings, Preston’s name popping up.

“Hey,” I say, already sounding breathless as I pick up the phone.

“Hey,” he replies back, clearly distracted. “Are you dressed?”

I blink down at the phone. What kind of question is that? “I’m not naked, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Jesus, Bella.” As usual, he sounds irritated. “For dinner. Are you dressed for dinner?”

I’m so sick of this. Sick of him and the constant implication that I’m not enough. That I’ve messed things up. “Preston, why would I be dressed for dinner?”

“Because…” he snaps back. “We’re dining with your brother and my parents tonight.”

My mouth drops open. “You might be, but I’m not.”

“I told you?—”

“You told me nothing, as usual.”

“Last-minute invitations are part of the bargain.”

“Whose bargain? Which bargain?” I feel my anger rising like the tide. “How long have you known about this dinner that you didn’t bother to tell me about? Stop acting like it’s always my fault and never yours.”

“I told you?—"

“I’m tired of this, Preston. I’m not going out to dinner tonight.” I glare at my phone, no part of me wanting to back down.

“Get fucking dressed,” he grits into the phone. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No.”

“You get dressed, or so help me God, the wedding is off.”

Is he breaking it off with me? Is this actually happening? “Fine by me. The wedding is off. Goodbye, Preston.” And then I hang up. There. It’s done. And honestly, it was far easier than I thought.

A light giddiness steals through me. I’m free.

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