Page 101 of Sins of a King
“He just didn’t want to marry you.”
Lana sneered, an ugly expression marring her beautiful face. She reached out and grasped me by the wrist, squeezing the bones until I felt them grind. I couldn’t even hold in a grimace. The woman had a death grip on me. My eyes met calculating blue ones.
“He’ll get sick of you. He’ll discard you without any thought, without any care. You’ll be devastated, brokenhearted, and never the same again. A man like Flynn will burrow so deep into your heart, you’ll never get him out.” She flung my wrist away from her as if the feel of my skin suddenly disgusted her.
“Why are you sharing all this with me?” I wondered aloud, rubbing my wrist, not even attempting to hide the hurt Lana had inflicted.
“You deserve to know what you’re in for.”
“Thank you for being the one to enlighten me,” I said. “But what makes you think I’d listen to anything you have to say?”
Lana’s eyes blazed with anger. “Suit yourself. I just thought I was doing you a favor. The man can’t open up. He won’t trust you with any of his secrets.”
“He already does.” So I stretched the truth a bit. He was trying, which I hoped meant something.
“You’re delusional.”
“Not as delusional as you.”
I attempted to move past her, but her hand shot out and she grabbed my hair, causing me to cry out and tears to leak from my eyes. Lana laughed, enjoying my pain. I clawed at the hand that held me, but she was relentless.
“You’re a flavor of the month. You’re stupid if you think you’re anything else.” She thrust me away from her and let go. With one last glare, she turned and stomped out of the bathroom.
“Women are crazy,” I muttered, wincing when I looked in the mirror. My hair was completely askew and coming down from its bun. I touched my sensitive scalp and winced. Lana’s fingernails had dug into my skin. My wrist throbbed, and I was suddenly exhausted from all the interludes I’d had that evening.
I took my hair down and ran my fingers through the hair-sprayed waves, hoping it did something to the slight headache that had begun to form. I was ready to find Flynn and leave. Unfortunately, by the time I found my way back to the party, people had begun the speeches, and there was no way to find Flynn in the crowd. Flynn had my phone in his tuxedo jacket, so I couldn’t text him. I stayed by the doorway and gestured to a waiting attendant. The young blond man came over to me, looking sharp in a crisp waiter uniform.
“Yes, ma’am?” he asked. “Can I get you something? A drink?”
I shook my head with a smile. “No, thank you. I need a favor. Do you know who Flynn Campbell is?” When he nodded, I went on. “Would you find him and tell him Barrett has gone back to the hotel?”
“Of course,” the man said eagerly. “It will be my pleasure.”
I smiled. “Is there another exit around here? I don’t want to disrupt the speeches.” I also didn’t want to alert the media that Flynn and I were leaving separately.
He gave me directions to the elevator that would take me out through the parking garage. After saying a quick thank you, I scurried toward the elevator even as I heard the applause signaling the end of the speech.
The parking garage was quiet and a blend of gray concrete with rows and rows of cars. I looked for the street exit, picking up the skirt of my dress. I was rushing to find my way out, not paying attention when I stepped in a little divot and my left heel snapped off. My ankle twisted, and I cursed, feeling a twinge shoot through my leg.
Fuck.
I wobbled a few steps on my broken heel before stopping. Even though it was a few short blocks to the hotel, I refused to take off my ruined shoe and walk barefoot on the streets of New York. It was not an option. I had no choice but return to the gala, find Flynn and demand he come to my shoe’s rescue.
I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.
“Barrett,” a voice whispered.
I whirled.
Chelsea stepped out of the shadows, looking completely different since the last time I’d seen her. Her long blond hair had been dyed a deep chestnut and cut into a pixie style. She wore a long-sleeved black thermal shirt, cargo pants, and army boots.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
She strode closer. Her boots and my heels put us at eye level. “Dolinsky wants a word with you.”
“Dolinsky?” I asked in confusion.
“Igor Dolinsky,” she clarified. “You’ve heard of him, right?”
