Page 4 of Songbird
I hesitate, thinking of the spending limit on my credit card. I’ve got more than enough funds to cover it, but Chip will see the purchase on the statement and want to know why I spent thousands of dollars on lingerie. Out of habit, I prepare my excuses.
I was thinking of him and how much he’d like to see me wearing it. I promise I won’t buy anything else for another six months. It’s all returnable, so no harm done, right?
Ifeela hush come over Lauren, a gleeful silence that rolls off her in waves, and I grit my teeth. Chip will know what I did today long before he receives the credit card statement because Lauren will tell him the first chance she gets.
My muscles tense at the thought of it, and I wonder what glitch in the universe put me outside my bedroom door at the exact moment they thought they were alone and decided to screw in my bed. And what’s wrong with me that it’s been six weeks and I’ve been too afraid to confront either one of them?
It’s the dress, I decide. This magnificent dress that will go to waste. It’s the wedding invitations and the thousands upon thousands of flowers. It’s the press releases and the contract for exclusive pictures withCelebritymagazine. It’s the social media scrutiny and the pain that’ll come with having my humiliation splashed all over the people’s screens.
It’s my fear of being alone.
But then Lauren makes a noise. A deep kind of hum in the back of her throat that sounds a lot like satisfaction, and I see it again. A flashback of betrayal tangled up in my two-thousand-dollar ivory silk sheets. My personal assistant naked and moaning and wearingmyshoes.
Lauren and Chip. Chip and Lauren.Chip. Chip. Chip.
Better late than never, something snaps, and I’m suddenlymad.
Screw her. And screwhim. Buying new underwear is a small thing, but it feels so big.
“One of everything,” I confirm. “And add a few more pieces in powder blue and cherry red.”
“Absolutely, Miss Thorne.” Violet’s brown eyes are wide and there’s a breathlessness to her voice. “Thank you.”
I give Violet a small smile, but at least this time it feels genuine. “You’re welcome.”
Wondering if my racing heart is a result of anger or anxiety, and then deciding it’s probably a mix of both, I move down the wall a pace or two at a time, stopping when something catches my eye and letting myself be distracted by the diary of Violet’s career. It’s fascinating, and I forget myself long enough that I’m taken off guard by a trio of candid Polaroids. Each one is a picture of Violet James and Chord Davenport, her famous hockey player boyfriend, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Their happiness is a stark reminder of how hopeless my own situation is in comparison, and panic hits me hard and fast enough that my head spins.
How did I get here? How could I be so weak? So dependent? Sostupid?
“The driver will be here in twenty minutes,” Lauren announces, and I glance at her as she raises an eyebrow in Violet’s direction. “Unless you need more time?”
“No,” she replies. “I think we’re done.”
Violet turns to me, beaming over hands clasped underneath her chin. I bet that’s the face she gives to all her clients, but I wish she wouldn’t look that way at me. I’m about six seconds from a full-blown anxiety attack but, apparently, I hide it well.
“We’re finally finished, Miss Thorne,” Violet says. “Your dress is ready for Saturday. I’ll have it pressed and boxed and delivered to your Los Angeles address by end of day tomorrow. Is that all right?”
Is that all right?Is that all right?No, it’s not all right. But how do I say that? How do I tell her this dress and this wedding andmy whole entire lifeare all huge mistakes?
As I concentrate on breathing at a steady pace, my gaze slides to a framed photo on the wall. It’s new, or at least, I haven’t noticed it before, and the joy it captures practically hurls itself at me. The picture was clearly taken on a farm or a ranch somewhere. A pretty redheaded bride and her good-looking groom clasp each other mid-laugh in the foreground. Violet and her boyfriend are mid-kiss to one side. A young blonde woman grins, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and the grasp of a happy little girl in the other. A pretty brunette is on the far side, smiling down the barrel of the camera, next to a man so broad and so tall his tux can’t hide his size. Neat blond hair, warm eyes the color of cognac…
I gasp, then belatedly raise a hand to cover the sound. Lauren’s head whips up from her mirrored compact, an opened stick of bright coral lipstick halfway to her mouth.
“Lauren,” I say, struggling to keep my voice smooth. “Run out and find me a salad. And a filtered iced water with lemon.”
“Now?The car will be here soon. We can pick something up on the way to the airport.”
It’s hard to stay calm, but I need her to go before I lose it. “My blood sugar feels low,” I lie. “I’ll be lightheaded in half an hour.”
“There’s an organic delicatessen just down the street,” Violet suggests. “They make great salads. Gluten-free muffins too.”
“That’s perfect.” I shoot Lauren an exasperated look. “You should hurry.”
I can tell she wants to argue, brow furrowed and mouth unhinged, but she gives in with an exasperated glance at her smartwatch. “Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Violet walks Lauren out of the private studio and through the display room of her flagship store, releasing her into a throng of people shouting and holding up cameras, and at the click of the door closing behind her, a little of my anxiety disappears. One less problem to worry about.
Now for the bigger, and more stubborn, obstacle. The six-foot-five slab of animated marble standing just inside the studio door.
