6. Laura
laura
. . .
I didn’t have time for this.
Not for Harley and her fucked-up attention grab, and certainly not for him .
Lenard . A high-profile prosecutor with more than his fair share of cases under his belt. He’d been in the industry a bit longer than me, but like many others, not due to merit.
I liked to attribute most of his success to the fact that his father was also a once-prominent judge who retired only a year before I passed the bar.
Not that Lenard wasn’t smart—if he weren’t, I wouldn’t have kept him around for so long, five years to be exact.
I didn’t have time to waste.
I didn’t need relationships.
And I definitely didn’t need to complicate things with feelings .
So I made sure every person in my life had a purpose.
Those at the sex club were there to get me off. They were moderately good at their job, even if predictable.
Lenard was for more mentally stimulating conversations and a safe place to vent—or, well, as safe as he could be, since I didn’t really trust anyone.
Sex between us—sometimes good, most of the time subpar—was just an extension of that. And just sex.
Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the memo.
It was supposed to be a casual dinner at my house. Normal and unremarkable. The same one we scheduled almost every month so we could let off some steam.
Letting off steam had two meanings. Fucking, of course, even if not that great for me. And complaining about our jobs.
He understood. He might have been on the opposite side, but he had been through it all. Dealt with the same judges and the same crowd of people that often got on my nerves.
We both had absolutely crazy schedules, but it wasn’t hard to keep this going for as long as we had. It was one low-commitment thing a month that didn’t get in the way of our careers.
Very… practical.
Until his proposal.
And I mean a literal proposal.
Definitely didn’t get the memo.
We had just finished our dinner and were both sipping a bit of our wine before he quite literally dropped a box on the table.
There was no buildup. No grace. No words. It was like something in our conversation randomly reminded him that this was a task he needed to get through.
A fucking proposal.
I looked at the box with a raised brow.
“What do you expect me to do with this?” I asked with a scoff.
He sat back with a smirk spreading across his boyish features. His hair was light, ruffled from running his hands through it one too many times since he got here.
I suddenly wondered if he was nervous and immediately dismissed it. Lenard didn’t get nervous. He was calculated and sure in everything he did. To a fault. His level of confidence was probably a draw to most, but combined with his attitude, only left a sour taste in my mouth .
“I expect you to marry me,” he said and motioned with his wine glass for me to pick it up.
As annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help but be curious as to what ring he’d chosen for me.
Opening it, I couldn’t stop myself from scoffing.
For someone in his tax bracket, I would have expected an extravagant ring. After all, whatever I wore on my finger would be a reflection of his wealth, not mine. But the puny ring in the box would have had people assuming things about my own income.
I took the ring out, twisting it in my grip and letting the small diamond glitter in the light.
Right before leaning forward and dropping it into his half-filled wine glass.
He had the gall to look shocked.
“Look at me,” I said, my tone turning cold. “Look at my life. My house. That was an insult.” I motioned around so he could be reminded that we were in a New York penthouse that cost more than ten million, not including what it cost to import the Italian tile that coated the floors.
“It’s the logical next step,” he said and fished the ring out of his glass with a noise of disgust. Red wine splattered all over the table.
My eye twitched when he shook the wine off his fingers before wiping the rest on the expensive woven tablecloth.
“I thought you were one of those women who would appreciate a less gaudy type of ring, but if image matters so much to you, I’ll just get anoth?—”
“One of those women ?” I asked with an irritated smirk. “Never mind the ring. Why did you think I would ever marry you in the first place?”
This got his hackles raised, but his anger didn’t scare me.
“You and I both knew what was going on here,” I continued. “ Logical next step ? The logical next step would be for us to fuck, then you leave, and we go back to our lives until next time. There has never been a promise of anything more. And this change , whatever it is, is suspicious at best.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line and let out a sigh .
“I went through all this trouble. I got the ring. I even called ahead for venues. Your parents will come into to?—”
“You talked to my parents?” I asked, my voice turning deadly.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
I stood, the metal of my chair screeching against the floor.
“Well, yes, since you haven’t talked to them in a long time, I thought it would be nice t?—”
“Get the fuck out of my house. Right now,” I hissed. “You know exactly why I don’t want to talk to them. Thanks to you, not only do they know you now, but I have to assume they know where I live as well. So no, I won’t even entertain this bullshit proposal. Get. The fuck. Out. ”
His mouth flapped open, but after a few moments of silence, it would seem he finally got the hint. He stood with a huff and hesitated only a second before knocking the rest of the red wine glass onto the table, splattering it everywhere. Luckily, it missed the carpet.
Turns out Mr. Big-Time Prosecutor was a child.
“And Lenard? Don’t come back.”
I watched him leave, unable to stop my body from shaking with anger.
My parents? Out of everything, he had to go and do that ?
I had so much damage control to do, but I didn’t know where to start. I was too blinded by the rage and shock of it all.
Fucking asshole.