Page 172 of Going Viral for Christmas
I blink hard, willing it all away, but the sting behind my eyes is real.
Soren straightens. His gaze cuts from me… to her. “Lena,” he says, coolly, like her name tastes wrong in his mouth, even if it once didn’t.
Thirty
SOREN
Lena.
Fuck.
That bitch’s mouth is curved into that smug little simper she saves for men who ghost her and women she wants to psychologically decapitate.
“Lena,” I say, voice flat.
“Soren,” she replies sweetly, batting her lashes. “Long time no tongue. I’ve been missing you since our little romp at the Great Booksgiving.”
Fisher makes a noise that sounds as if he’s swallowed a wasp. But I don’t look at him. I’m watching Ava. She’s gone completely still. To anyone else, she might look unaffected. But I know better.
It’s in the rigid set of her shoulders. The way her fingers tighten around her glass. The barely-there flare of her nostrils as she forces herself to keep breathing.
Booksgiving. Fucking Lena.
I knowexactlywhat she’s doing. She’s planting doubt, twisting the timeline just to make it sound recent. And intentional. Like I left her bed and fell into Ava’s the next morning.
I didn’t sleep with her this year. Hell, was sheeven there?
But last year?
Yeah. We did.
Biggest goddamn regret of my life. It was meaningless and ended when Lena tried to pitch me her novella idea mid-blowjob and asked if my agent reps reverse harem.
Haven’t touched her since.
But Lena didn’t saythat, did she? She let it hang. Vague enough to hurt. Sharp enough to cut.
I inhale slowly, forcing down the heat slithering up my neck. “Funny, don’t remember seeing your face there.”
Lena’s smile turns wicked, her teeth practically glinting. “Well, maybe that’s because your head was between my legs at the time.” She laughs—a cruel, sugar-drenched sound that lands like broken glass in my gut.
Ava moves, excusing herself, polite and breezy, like she’s going to powder her nose, not go completely feral in a stairwell.
I know better for that too.
The moment Ava’s out of sight, I round on Lena. “What thehellare you doing?”
Lena lifts a shoulder. “Making conversation.”
Fisher’s on his phone, typing erratically. I catch a glimpse of the screen—Group text:Mayday. Shitstorm level ten. Suite 811. Bring a mop.
“Leave,” I command Lena.
She leans in. “I warned you. If you wanted to see unhinged, I’d show you. And I’m just getting started. ShelfSpace is going to hate you once I’m done.”
“Not more than I hate you.” I storm off.
By the time I catch up to Ava, she’s barreling into the suite. Camille and Renata rush in behind me, panting. Fisher slams the door and presses his back against it, acting like we’re barricading ourselves in a war zone.
