Page 162 of I'm sorry, Princess
I inhale through my nose, trying to keep my face blank.
“And then,” she continues, her lips curling, “there’s your poor progress. Don’t get me wrong, sweetie. Your face and body? Absolute art.” Her eyes rake over me with a hunger that makes my skin crawl. I feel dirty under her gaze. “But brains? Not so much.”
My nails dig into my palm under the desk.
Blakely leans forward, her perfume cloying, her smile a perfect weapon. “I think you need a break. A long one. Let this… scandal fade away. Take some time to sort yourself out. When you’re ready to be professional again, maybe then you’ll be worth the space you take up here.”
Her words drip like venom, slow and deliberate.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Am I being fired?”
She tilts her head, smile widening. “Suspended. Think of it as… a vacation. Until you figure out your priorities.”
It hits me like a slap. Not just losing Lorenzo, not just my parents’ betrayal, but now this. My job. My dignity. Everything chipped away until I’m standing on nothing.
My jaw clenches. “Like getting married to the Chief’s son?” The words come out sharp, spitting acid back at her.
She throws her head back and laughs, high and shrill, like the sound of glass shattering. “See?” she says when she regains breath. “Not as dumb as I thought.”
Her eyes gleam, her lipstick-red smile cruel. “Ian’s a good man. Just stop fighting it. Sign the contract. Marry him. Everyone will be happy.”
“How does this make you happy?” I ask her, my voice trembling more with disgust than fear.
Blakely tilts her head, pity dripping from her face like oil. “Darling,” she coos, “I’m on your father’s payroll. We’re all suffering because of your little tantrum. He’s furious, and he should be, especially after what that brute did to Ian.”
Her words twist my stomach. My fingers tighten on the pen in my hand, and my throat goes dry.
“What?” My voice cracks. “What do you mean?”
Blakely rises, smoothing down her painted-on dress. “Go ask him yourself.” Her smirk widens as she gestures toward the glass doors.
I turn my head, and my breath catches.
Through the haze of the office light, I see him. Ian. Sitting with the receptionist, half his face hidden in shadow. But even from this distance, I see it, his swollen eye, his bruised jaw, the stiffness in his movements. My chest caves in.
Blakely glides out of the room, her heels clicking against the floor, leaving poison in the air. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself, fighting the urge to hurl the lamp at her retreating figure. Fired. Stripped of my income. Humiliated. And now this?
I gather my things, clutching the box of my life in this office. But when I step into the hall and get a clear view of Ian, the box crashes to the floor.
“Serena,” he mutters, rushing forward to help.
I freeze, staring. His face, oh God. His eye is so swollen I can barely see it. His lips split, skin mottled with bruises, cuts across his cheek and hands. His fingers, every knuckle is battered, raw. I can hardly recognize him.
My vision blurs as tears well. Did Lorenzo do this?
“What happened to you?” My voice shakes. I’m scared of the answer, scared to know the truth.
Ian offers a sad smile, almost ashamed. “You know what happened,” he whispers.
The first tear spills down my cheek. My chest tightens. “Lorenzo… did this to you?” My voice breaks. “Why?”
Eyes are on us now, colleagues staring, whispers spreading like wildfire. Ian grabs my box from the floor, his shoulders slumped.
“Let’s talk somewhere else,” he murmurs, and takes my hand.
We walk in silence for five minutes, every step heavy. My eyes can’t stop tracing the damage across his face. His pain. His humiliation.
“Please tell me.” My voice is barely a whisper as I reach for his hand.
