Page 114 of The Love You Fight For
I raise my eyebrows and bat my eyelashes.
“Hello to you, too, Ashton. Is something wrong?”
He leans into my space, reaching for my arm, but I halt him with a single finger.
“Ah, ah, Ashton. You don’t want to make a scene on Daddy’s big night.”
That pleasure will be all mine.
He drops his hand to his side, nostrils flaring as he pants. He grinds his teeth together. I take another sip of my champagne.
“You drugged me,” he seethes, and I cock my head to the side.
“Are you upset that you weren’t able to rape me, Ashton? Mad you didn’t get as far as you wanted before you passed out?”
His nostrils flare and his eyes dart from side to side, movements much more alert than they were in his brownstone once the sleeping meds kicked in. At first, I was worried I didn’t use enough, but when he finally passed out, I thought maybe I’d killed him.
Bummer he’s still alive.
“Shut up,” he snaps. “Where is it? Where the fuck is it, Samantha?”
I furrow my brow.
“Where is what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Samantha. Where the fuck is it?”
He whisper-hisses at me through his teeth, leaning so far into my space that if I step back, he might topple over. I release a small laugh at the mental picture, and his face flares red.
I smile. When I speak, I don’t lower my voice. I keep it conversational, but if anyone around wanted to hear, they could without trouble.
“If you mean where my underwear is, Ashton, the answer is in the trash can. I had no use for it after you ripped it while forcing yourself on me.”
His eyes dart around the crowd.
“Shut up, Samantha.”
“Or perhaps you mean your human decency? I couldn’t tell you. You certainly didn’t have it when you tried to choke me, or when you forced your fingers into my vagina.”
Someone gasps off to the right. Ashton lunges for me beforehalting abruptly, as if being yanked back by a leash of self-awareness because we now have an audience. He scowls at someone next to us, then gives them a strained smile.
“She’s had too much to drink,” he says, then turns his beady, wild eyes on me.
He steps up until he’s inches from my face, and he forces out a strangled threat. “If you don’t behave, I will have to speak to your father?—”
I laugh, cutting him off. “Yes, Ashton, do run and tattle on me to Daddy. I’d love to hear what he thinks about whatever it is that you’ve lost.”
He glares daggers at me. I bring my champagne to my lips and take another small sip.
“You won’t get away with this,” he threatens.
I sigh. “I already have.”
I brush past him, making sure to bump my arm into his side, and do another serpentine lap through the crowd. All the while, I watch the clock. After the cocktail hour, we’ll sit for dinner, but before dinner, there will be welcome addresses and blustering speeches blowing smoke up my father’s ass.
How fun.
To kill time, I wander along the edge of the large banquet room. I study the paintings and ornamental mirrors on display, following the long wall until I spot a hallway leading to the restroom. I go in. Check my second phone. Apply fresh lipstick. Practice my detached stare in the mirror. Then I walk back into the hallway.
