Page 17 of Delayed Penalty

“Well, hello there,” I finally say from my spot on the couch.

He stands in the kitchen and looks over to me, but it’s like he’s barely even seeing me. “Hi.”

Is that all he’s going to say? Bail on me then show up plastered drunk. Fuck this. I’m so over this shit. I could’ve been out with Kelly tonight. Hell, I could’ve gone out with Harris, I mean he’s texted me how many times trying to get me to come hang out, but I won’t because I’m trying to be respectful to the fact that I have a fiancé.

But do I really have a fiancé, or do I have the title and a cage disguised by a shiny ring?

“You never came home and you couldn’t call me?” I start, doing my best to keep my voice level so he can’t say I’m yelling my favorite, being a ‘bitch’.

He shrugs, grabbing a water bottle and draining half of it before finally looking at me.

“Marie wanted to meet me there, so I figured I’d go with her instead. Besides, you’re not even dressed for a dinner.”

Is he actually telling me that he ditched me—and couldn’t even tell me—for another woman?

“I sat around waiting in my dress and heels until I realized you were bailing on me,” I growl, standing up from the couch and making my way to him in the kitchen.

“Maybe next time.”

The second I see him up close, I feel this sense of calm that I haven’t felt in years. I’m finally going to be free on this man.

All over his neck are hickies, big purple hickies he’s not even attempting to hide, with pinkandred lipstick marks all over his crisp white shirt. I might’ve been able to handle him ditching me, but not for him to also cheat on me—with more than one woman, if the lipstick tells me anything.

Fucking prick.

“There’s not going to be a next time,” I say, my voice coming out shaky and I try to get up the courage to do this. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Peter.”

It takes a moment for my words to sink in, but the moment they do I can see the rage fill his eyes, his nostrils flaring as his anger comes front and center.

“You don’t exactly have a choice. I mean, unless you plan on looking for a new job next school year, but my parents were already saying everything good has been snatched up.”

I tell him I want to be done, and instead of telling me no and that he cares, that he wants to fight for us, or whatever bullshit they say in movies when they try to save their relationship, nope, he goes straight to blackmailing me with my job—the only thing I’ve worked for my entire life.

“What, are you going to convince your mom to fire me?”

“Yeah, it’ll be easy when I tell her I caught you cheating on me.”

“That’s really your argument when I tell you I’m done? The man standing here—covered in marks wherewomenobviously sucked on his neck—is telling me he’s going to claim I cheated?”

“She’ll believe anything I tell her, she always has. Plus, she’s never quite been a fan of the fact that she gets to see me less since you’ve come around.”

“Well, good for her, she’s going to get a lot more time with you in the future.”

“Oh, lay off the drama, Avery, it’s not a good fucking look. I’m going to go have another drink in my office. Why don’t you go calm down and we’ll talk about this in the morning,” he says, the slur in his voice just pissing me off, yet knowing he’s going to his office to have more to drink means I’ll have plenty of time to get some stuff ready and get out. Just have to play nice for a little while longer.

“As you wish,” I say calmly, which apparently is his signal to walk away and shut his office door.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve thrown together two bags and slipped them out the front door by our elevator and changed into a cute pair of jeans and a crop top just long enough I can still wear my lingerie. Not that I have plans for anyone to see it tonight, but if I’m going to call off my engagement, I’m going to do it feeling hot.

Doing one quick walk through, I head back to our room, and pulling my engagement ring off I set it front and center on his dresser.

I’m done.

With everything I’m able to grab this time shoved into a backpack, I grab my purse and quietly shut the apartment door behind me making my way down to the parking garage where my old Honda sits next to Peter’s Corvette… and Porsche. I throw the two suitcases in the trunk to come back and get when I’ve sobered up, and take the rest with me and grab a cab.

“Where to?” the cab driver shouts.

Without a second thought, I say, “Hudson’s.”

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