Page 49 of The Love You Fight For
I check myself in the mirror.
My lipstick is perfect. My eyeliner is perfect. My blond hair is pulled into a perfect low bun with just a few loose strands artfully framing my face. My dress is the perfect blend of classy and suggestive. Form-fitting enough that not much of my shape is left to the imagination, but the neckline is high, the hem is long, and the sleeves come just past my elbows. The gaudy silver necklace is the only thing that’s ostentatiously over the top, but I ignore it.
I smooth my hands over the black fabric, then turn and check my back.
Even the zipper is hidden.
When I exit the bathroom, I run smack into a hard chest and am hit with the strong scent of alcohol. I glance up into the face of my big brother and scowl.
“You smell like you bathed in tequila,” I say to him. “I thought you were getting sober.”
He grins and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a flask. He offers it to me, and I shake my head, swatting it away.
“How’s that for a hello.” He laughs. “Areyousober?”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m a responsible prescription drug user, Chase, something I know you can’t grasp.”
He chuckles.
“Don’t be a bitch, sis. I was trying to be nice. I want to share with you so you can get through the evening with dulled senses.”
“I don’t need your help.”
I brush past him without saying anything else. Nohello. Nogoodbye. Nohow have you been?I don’t even check after his health.
I don’t fucking care.
If Chase is smart, which he is not, he’ll make the required bullshit appearance, and then he’ll get the fuck out of here. It’s sure to be a disgusting night full of blustering and bragging. It’s likely no money will change hands and no secrets will be shared, but I still have to be present. Chase, on the other hand, does not. If I were him, I’d run as far and as fast as I can.
The moment I step foot in the private room, Ashton is at my side. His hand never leaves the spot on my lower back except to occasionally lead me by the elbow from one cluster of men to another. I am the perfect arm candy. I smile, nod, and laugh politely when expected. I literally bite my tongue. I taste blood, and the metallic flavor does little to calm my rage.
But I am nothing if not a stellar actress.
I play the pretty puppet, the submissive pet, and they all fucking buy it because in their minds, that’s where I belong. Several times, I rethink the champagne, but I need to be alert in this den of snakes. I just pretend I’m my mother, and I can almost forget that I hate everyone in this room.
Myself included.
Right before dinner is served and we move to our assigned tables, I notice my brother is no longer here. I saw him a few times throughout the cocktail hour, but there is no empty chair for him. It seems he might be cleverer than I gave him credit for.
My father rises and gives a pre-dinner speech, thanking everyone for attending. He thanks my mother for her continued support, and he thanks Ashton for agreeing to take the night off from his important role as my father’s campaign manager. Then my father makes a sly remark about how I’m Ashton’s date tonight, and all I can do is smile and avoid eye contact with everyone staring at me. Ashton, on the other hand, uses the opportunity to put his hand on my thigh, and he doesn’t remove it until the first course is served. I release asmall sigh of relief the moment the contact is severed, but it’s short-lived.
At the end of the night, when I slide into Ashton’s car, he replaces his hand on my thigh. This time, though, he uses his thumb to massage my leg through my dress. I’m grateful the fabric is thick.
He leans into me, and I can smell alcohol on his breath.
“Thank you for behaving tonight, Samantha,” he murmurs into my ear, using the hand not laying claim to my thigh to fondle the strands of hair that are framing my face. He twirls it tightly around his finger, so it tugs at my temple. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
I have to swallow back a scoff and force my body not to grow rigid. I inhale and exhale slowly before speaking, and though I want to, I don’t lean away from him.
“It was a nice evening.”
He hums, and his nose grazes the shell of my ear, his heavy breathing fanning my neck. When he presses a kiss to my jaw, I remain still despite every instinct in my body screaming at me to shove him away.
“We should do it again.” He presses another wet kiss to my neck.
I fist my hand on the seat beside me and keep my eyes wide open and fixed on the rearview mirror. The driver makes eye contact with me twice but says nothing.
