Page 55 of Wicked God
“Olivia and I... we have an understanding,” Alex says, his tone betraying a hint of defensiveness that pricks at my heart.
Understanding?
“An understanding doesn’t compare to what we had,” she presses on, stepping closer to him. The moonlight glints off her hair, weaving silver threads into her brunette locks.
“Things change, Elena. I’ve changed.”
“Have you?” Elena reaches up, her hands hovering before tracing the planes of Alex’s face.
I can’t breathe. Swallowing the lump in my throat is like trying to swallow thorns, each spike lodging deeper with the realization that whatever is between Alex and me, real or imagined, is slipping away.
The world dims as Elena’s lips part and drift toward Alex’s in slow motion. My heart screams in denial. I stumble back from the doorway, vision blurring with unshed tears, and my elbow clips a tray. Glasses shatter on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the startled waiter, crimson with shame as heads turn toward us. Any moment now, the balcony door will open, and Alex will catch me here—spying, weeping, causing a scene at his family’s event.
I can’t face him. Not now. Not with Elena’s perfume still clinging to my skin and strangers’ whispers in my ears.
I push through the crowd, no longer caring about the polite smiles and formal goodbyes expected of a Hawthorne fiancée. I grab my jacket from the coat check and head straight for the exit, steering clear of the grand ballroom where photographers linger.
All I can think is:get out, get out, get out.
“Ms. Jackson,” the valet greets me. “Would you like me to call for Mr. Hawthorne’s car?”
“Yes,” I say, then hesitate. “No—I mean, yes to the car, but don’t inform Mr. Hawthorne.” I press a folded bill into his hand. “Please.”
He gives me a knowing nod and radios quietly. Minutes later, a sleek black sedan rounds the drive. The driver opens the door with practiced courtesy.
“Where to, Ms. Carter?” he asks.
“To my apartment, please.”
Thank God I haven’t moved into Alexander’s place yet.
As the car pulls away from the hotel, I watch its lights grow smaller in the rear window. Celebrations are continuing unabated, as though my world hasn’t just flipped upside down. Only once we pass through the iron gates do I let silent, scorching tears slip down my cheeks.
I clench my fists, the cool metal of the engagement ring cutting into my skin. The driver glances at me in the mirror.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’m fine, thank you.”
We wind through the familiar streets of Empire Heights, and I replay every choice that led me here: the arranged marriage, the sham engagement, the feelings I’d convinced myself were real. It all seems like a cruel joke now. Of course, Alexander Hawthorne wouldn’t really care about me—our relationship is only for appearances. I was being silly thinking otherwise.
The car halts outside my building.
“Thank you,” I whisper, opening the door. “Have a nice evening.”
Inside the lobby, I hurry to the elevator. The slow ride up feels endless; the soft music does nothing to calm my nerves. At my door, my hands tremble as I fumble with the keys. I step in, kick off my heels, letting them clatter against the hardwood floor.
My phone buzzes incessantly, and Alexander’s name flashes on the screen, but I can’t bring myself to answer. What would I even say?
I collapse onto the plush sofa. The emptiness of the apartment is deafening.
Shower, I decide.I need a shower.
In the bathroom, I twist off the engagement ring, letting it clatter against the marble countertop. The zipper of my gown sticks halfway down, and I yank until I hear the fabric tear. I don’t care. Under the shower’s scalding stream, I press my forehead against the cool tile.
“You bastard,” I whisper as hot water mingles with salt tears on my lips. My shoulders gradually loosen as steam billows around me.
