Page 46 of Sweet Venom

LOVE’S BETRAYAL

Poe

“You can keep the flowers, I’ll take the wine. ” – P

“Prince…” I stared at my computer screen, glaring at the first draft of my new manuscript. I spent all day working on it, but after a while the thing started to mock and torture me. “I really think this is the one. I feel it.”

I mean, it’s completely different from the plot I pitched to my publisher from hell. It’s darker. Like pitch-black with morally gray characters. And instead of some painfully predictable romance spanning three books, I decided to throw in a trilogy with three separate couples. Because, really, what was I thinking? No one likes cliffhangers. I sure don’t. I swear I’m not bitter, but waiting years for a conclusion is a special brand of hell. This way I can give the readers three different stories instead of one. What was I thinking, pitching him the idea of a love triangle romance to Azariel? I should’ve known that a man that has the emotional depth of a cactus would’ve shut the idea down.

Prince, my judgmental Norwegian Forest fluff ball, glanced up at me like he could see right through me. His eyes, practically white from the amount of judgment radiating from them, had this “Girl, we’ve been here before” look. Okay, fine, I said the same thing about my last manuscript—the one Azariel had graciously called “garbage.” Not that he said it in those exact words. He was more subtle, his usual level of contempt was practically an art form. But that look on his face?It said it all. He hated it and had no intention of publishing it.

I’m not being a brat, I swear. I can take criticism. I even welcome it. My dad reads everything I write, hell, even my grocery list, and he loves it all. He does. He’s the best dad, seriously. But he’s also a very successful author, and his love isn’t sugar-coated. He’s tough. So yeah, thick skin? I got it. But the man who holds my dream in his hands? He’s the reason I’m channeling my inner seven-year-old again. You know, the one standing in a rose garden, holding up a Valentine’s Day card I’d made, my face redder than the heart-shaped paper he tore up in my face as I watched red paper be blown by the wind when he destroyed not only the card but my tiny little stupid heart. I felt like that naive, hopeful girl who believed in love. The girl with tears in her eyes who believed in him.

She was too trusting, and she believed he was different. He wasn’t. But then I think of the last image I have of him in his car while he asked ever so softly for me to continue singing. He looked… at peace. Hell, even his hard edges seemed to soften at that moment that felt like we were trapped in a bubble just the two of us. At that moment I got to see a glimpse of the boy who I always found in the darkness staring at the roses like they gave him some sort of comfort and peace.

That boy had made my heart do a thousand flips, and now the man had me contradicting my every thought. Prince got me out of my head when he meowed at me, licking my chin in whatI knew was his half-assed attempt at comfort. My asshole cat could be sweet when he wanted to be. Honestly, he reminded me of a Sour Patch Kid—sweet one moment, sour the next, and always hard to swallow. I swear, if he had thumbs, he’d have been posting shady memes about me on the internet. No doubt in my mind.

Sure, Prince was a diva. But ninety percent of the time? He was the biggest asshole.

And, of course, once he decided he’d done enough emotional labor for the day, he strutted off like he was done with my mess and about to start his daily podcast on the fine art of pretending his human didn’t exist. So lovely, my charming Prince.

Clearly, I was a magnet for assholes.

I sighed and glanced around my apartment, cringing at the disaster zone of crumpled papers, empty wine glasses, and takeout containers. The view did not make me feel better about life. It was nothing like the Pinterest-worthy haven my parents and brother had helped me set up. But to be fair, I’d been a little busy—like intensely busy—trying to create the most twisted, gloriously fucked-up romance that would shut Azariel up. Lately, it had been my mission to come up with the best damn story—not just for the success of the book, or for my readers’ delight—but to prove to that handsome devil that giving me a shot hadn’t been a mistake.

Was it a little petty?

Yes.

Unprofessional?

Eh, maybe just a smidge.

But this was Azariel Solonik we were talking about—an emotionally constipated, cold-hearted jackass. I mean, I believed that beneath all the ice-cold judgments and detached attitude, there was just one giant, angry, and deeply unhinged baby. But hey, a baby was still a baby, right? And that giant babyhad been running rampant in my mind ever since I set foot in this city—and, of course, God or the Devil had decided to throw him in my path like some kind of twisted, hellish prank. Or, you know, a lovely blessing…

Nope. When it came to Azariel, definitely the latter.

Anyway, it had been days since I last saw Azariel, and even longer since he had shot down my plot idea.

Sleep? I looked like a sleep-deprived raccoon, with chocolate crumbs from all the Snickers bars I’d been scarfing down stuck in my hair—proof that I’d completely lost control of my life over the past few days. I hadn’t showered either, something Prince made sure to remind me of every hour when he popped his little head around the corner, shooting me a look that said,‘I’m embarrassed to be in the same room as you.’But honestly, who needed a shower when they were alone, buried under a mountain of character arcs and drowning in dark romantic angst?

But finally, after two days of driving myself insane, I had come up with something I was pretty sure was pure romantic insanity. It was so good. I could feel it in my bones. This was the one. A tortured Korean American MC, broken by a tragic past, and his equally fucked-up high school sweetheart. She was both his salvation and his ruin… until they both messed up, and their choices ripped them apart. It was deep. It was heartfelt and twisted. A rollercoaster of angst with a dark ‘happily ever after’ that was basically guaranteed. There’d be so many twists and turns, the reader’s head would spin, and their soul would be left questioning its existence.

Yeah, this was the one that made my author heart swell with pride, so if the unfeeling asshole hated it, I might have just stabbed him in the eye with his precious knife or run him over with his sexy-as-hell blue Maserati. Feeling good about the plot draft on my screen, I took another bite of my Snicker’s bar just asa joint video call notification from Allegra, Artemis, and Verali pinged up. Their stunning faces popped up, each wearing the same unimpressed look they always had when we talked about my oh-so-thrilling life.

My cousin Allegra, the voice of sarcasm in our group, arched a thin blonde brow at the chaos that was my apartment. “Girl, you look like you’ve been possessed by the corpse of bad decisions.”

I ran a hand through my messy blue hair and let out an exasperated groan. “Don’t judge me. I’ve been going through it. I’ve had to work on this plot idea for days, and I’m barely hanging on.”

Artemis, ever the one to soften a blow with more sarcasm, snickered. “Barely hanging on? Poe, sweetheart, you didn’t just get swallowed by it—you drowned in it. The only thing missing is the three-day shower you’re long overdue for. I can practically smell you from here.” She dramatically covered her nose and pulled a face, clearly enjoying herself.

See? Assholes, every single one of them.

“Shut up,” I muttered, glaring at her. “I didn’t call you just to have you point out how messy my life is at the moment.”

“You didn’t call,” she shot back sarcastically.

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost pulled a muscle. Verali, the wild card of the cousin group with Aunt Cara’s fiery red hair, Uncle Enzo’s razor-sharp tongue, and borderline psychotic personality, leaned forward, clearly amused by our petty clap-backs. “P, is this the plot the Dark Lord himself called boring and uninspiring?” she practically purred the words, like she was savoring every drop of my suffering.

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