Chapter Fourteen. Ember #2
“Forgive me if I overstep, Ember, but with you being here this past week and not at the lab, I’m assuming something happened between you and Asad,” Perla hesitantly says. “With you nursing your injured hand, we didn’t want to pry, but…”
“But your hand is on the mend, so what she’s so delicately trying to say is, it’s obvious he pissed you off, and it must’ve been pretty bad for you to say fuck even the pretense of going into work and focusing on your own project,” Jaq adds.
“I don’t think she was trying to say exactly that, but neither one of them are wrong.” Gus returns from storing the subject and leans back against the counter.
“You’re not wrong.” On reflex, I cradle my injured hand to my chest. “But there’s more going on here that I can’t really get into—”
“Oh, we already figured that out once you turned up engaged to the human version of Thanos.” Jaq snorts. “And we’re not asking for the details, but since I’ve just been elevated to partner status, I’m going to say it. You would be making a mistake not going to that ball.”
“Is that right?”
I don’t see how they came to that conclusion, but then again, none of them have all the details. Or the nightmares of the man they’d come to trust and believe in trying to break them.
“Hear me out, and don’t slip anything toxic into my afternoon smoothie.
” They point a warning finger at me. “I’m not asking any more questions because, frankly, I don’t want the answers, but your finger was fine when you left out of the Castle a week ago.
Then we showed up here to work and you had a busted finger.
So by the power of deduction, I’m guessing your lovers’ quarrel involved that.
So all’s I’m saying is, it would be a miscalculation and sign of weakness on your part to not go.
You need to go to that thing and show him and everyone there—including that heffa mother of his—what a bad bitch you are. ”
Jaq doesn’t have the details—is missing torture, near death, and murder—but they have the gist of the situation.
The last time Asad—and maybe, more importantly, the members of the Cross organization—had seen me, I’d been strapped to a chair, under interrogation, and then walked out of that basement, bloodied and hurt.
I’d been weakened.
I’d been humiliated.
But … I’m not ready to see them again. Not ready to look all of them in the eye knowing they saw me at my weakest. Knowing they’ve probably told others that Asad thinks so fucking little of Marcus’s daughter, his new fiancée, that he damn near cut off her finger while accusing her of being the worst kind of traitor.
Knowing they probably believe I am that traitor.
Usually, I don’t give a fuck about people’s opinions of me, but having to spy the disdain and suspicion in their eyes—the unwarranted and unfounded disdain and suspicion …
I’m not ready to see that ho Michelle. It didn’t take a lot of digging to figure out she was behind the video. Stepping into that ballroom and facing her glee, the gotdamn triumph? She wounded me through her worst and most effective weapon—her son.
I’m not ready to see him again. When I told him I needed space, I meant it.
Other than that text about Gus, Perla, and Jaq, I haven’t reached out to him.
And I’ve blocked his contact so he can’t contact me.
And I can’t be tempted to call or text him.
The pain is too fresh, the hurt, the humiliation too close to the surface.
I’m not ready to look into all that dangerous, deceptive beauty and accept that I’d fallen for it like a na?ve-ass bitch who should’ve known better.
Somewhere, Maya Angelou’s sucking her teeth at me because Asad has shown me over and over exactly who he is, but I chose not to believe it.
Consider me baptized and saved because I’m a believer now.
“You’re not wrong, but I’m good,” I say to Jaq, entering the code for the door and exiting into the main lab. “Besides, I didn’t bother buying a dress or any of that. And it’s a little too late to go shopping.”
Perla scoffs, waving a hand. “As far as excuses go, that’s a pitiful one. Especially since Jaq and I kind of foresaw this and have a stylist on standby ready to arrive with several gowns, shoes, and other accessories for you to choose from.”
I blink, lips parted.
“You have what?” I blink again. Because … what? They made all these plans, went to all of this trouble, for me? Love for them blooms inside me, even though I still have zero intention of going to this farce. “When?”
“Bennie.” Jaq shrugs. “She does too much way too often, but bae comes through with this kind of shit. She knows everybody.”
“And my sister should be here in about”—Gus glances down at his Grand Seiko watch—“an hour and a half to do your nails and feet. She’s also bringing a friend who does hair.
” I frown, and he shrugs. “She owns a nail shop, and when I told her I’d pay triple her regular price, she agreed to make a house call. ”
“Gotdamn. If that’s the family discount, just treat me like a regular-degular customer.” Jaq winces.
“She’s about her business first, so I can’t be mad at her.” Gus hikes up an eyebrow. “So, you’re fully taken care of, literally, from head to toe. Are you going?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, I appreciate all of this. And you. I appreciate you for arranging all of this for me. But, why is this so important to you? What does it matter if I go to this thing or not? C’mon, we all know this ball is less about my engagement and more about House of Cross business and flaunting its wealth and connections. I’m just a sideshow.”
And I was tired of being other people’s entertainment. Their joke.
To the man whose one job was to love me, protect me, nurture me, he only used me. First, for an heir. And when I bombed that assignment by being born a woman, then later for his wealth and gain. But not before turning me over to the tender mercies of his wife.
My pain, my torture was her favorite pastime. And her son continued the hobby last night after he made me believe he’d once been my savior instead of my tormentor.
So no, I’m not tired. I’m fucking exhausted. Of being their punch line. Their toy. Their scapegoat.
“It matters because they don’t want you there,” Perla quietly says.
“Ember, since we’ve been working here, you’ve made it a point not to mention anything family related.
But we’re not ignorant or blind. We’ve all witnessed how the employees here act toward you when they come in contact and how they behave toward Prince, Kareem, or Michelle.
Either they’re incredibly disrespectful or they have no clue who you are—Marcus Cross’s daughter.
We witnessed that for ourselves at the funeral.
You weren’t allowed to sit with the family but with us, as if you were just someone who received a paycheck and didn’t possess half of that man’s DNA.
” Perla’s voice trembles with fury, and it’s such a juxtaposition with her sweet, bespectacled pixie appearance that in other circumstances, it would’ve been funny.
But she’s enraged on my behalf, and there’s nothing humorous about that. There’s nothing amusing about someone loving you.
I squeeze my eyes closed against the embarrassing sting of tears. Against the burn in my heart that goes a little way to exorcising the hurt.
“I can’t speak for Prince,” she continues, “but all of us here know Michelle doesn’t want you anywhere near there, and everyone else doesn’t think you belong.
That’s why you need to go. To show that cunt and those privileged one-percenters that not only do you belong at the table but you own that muthafuckin’ table. ”
Well. Damn.
“And go be on your ratchet bald-headed ho shit to make Mr. Asad Prince pay for whatever fuckup he committed and rub in his face what he’s been missing,” Jaq cosigns.
“Please don’t be on your ratchet bald-headed ho shit.” Gus sighs. “But everything else, hell yeah.”
I look at the circle—no. My circle. I look at my circle of support and smile.
At my courage in physical form. If they believe I can do this, that I should do this, then damn, maybe it’s about time I start believing in myself.
“Fuck it. I’ll go.”
“Miss Ma’am, you are giving.” Bennie steps back, a grin stretching her full, glossed lips. “I knew this dress was the one as soon as Sheri pulled it.” Without glancing away from me, she bumps fists with the statuesque redhead with the ebony skin and lush curves. “Great job, friend.”
“Of course. You know I don’t do anything but win,” Sheri gloats. “But she’s not wrong, boo. You are wearing this dress, and it looks even better than I envisioned. And I can admit when I’m wrong. I thought those glass shoes were giving P-Valley, but they work. They really bring the look together.”
I turn and take in my reflection in the tall cheval mirror.
And I’m … in awe. One would expect the daughter of a fashion mogul and the head of a billionaire drug empire to be blasé about gorgeous evening wear.
But one would be dead-ass wrong. This is my first. As is this ball.
I’ve never been to a formal occasion that called for a gown or jewelry. Not a dance. Not a gala.
How pathetic is it that I’m twenty-five years old and am attending my first prom?