60. Now
SIXTY
now
Ruined .
I’ve felt this way many times since that one horrible night at that one horrible party. But I don’t think I ever truly believed it until now, when I find myself shuffling through Stryker my mortification is complete. I’m torn, tear-stained, fleeing the scene after hate-sex and my subsequent abandonment.
And Marco caught me.
With no other options, I turn to face him, doing my best to smooth out my puffy, reddened features and offer him a small smile. “Hi, Marco.”
His expression is full of pity. My stomach twists as he replies, “I saw you on the security cameras by yourself. Do you need help?”
“Do I need help ?” I’m not even sure how to respond to that question. A maniacal giggle almost bursts out of me. “Well…”
His face furrows. “Let me get you a car, Miss Callahan. Do you have… anything? Your coat or a purse, maybe?”
“I had both,” I admit. “But I—There’s a problem with my dress, as you can see, so I really just need to leave now.”
The truth is, even if my dress weren’t in pieces, there are almost half a dozen reasons why I can’t go back into that ballroom. And all of them make me feel sick.
Unable to stand the seething nausea in my middle, I turn and start to walk away. He hollers after me again. “Miss Callahan?”
I keep moving, not sure I’ll even make it out of the garage before I vomit, and Grayson’s security catches the whole humiliating ordeal on camera.
“Miss Callahan!” Footsteps come closer behind me and a warm hand settles on my shoulder. “Ella.”
It’s the very first time he’s used my real name. Surprised, I pause just long enough for him to lightly grip my forearm and pull me toward a row of waiting Mercedes.
“We have a ton of extra drivers for tonight; I insist you take one of our cars,” he murmurs, low and concerned. “I’ll do my best to get your personal bel ongings back to you after we clean up the event.”
His kindness sends another rush of tears to my eyes. “Thank you, Marco.”
In the comfort of a white sedan, my ride back to Brooklyn passes in a blur of deep breathing and sob swallowing. Our apartment door is unlocked, and I don’t even have the energy to be annoyed. Instead, I shuffle inside and stand on the threshold, looking around our place as though I’ve never seen it before.
Like a deluge, the enormity of everything that just happened crashes over me. For the second time tonight, I drop to my knees.
Sometime later, Maggie emerges from her bedroom. Her footsteps dash across our living room. She drops to my side and holds fast, waiting for the last of my weeping to subside.
When I finally sit up, she sighs. Sympathy fills her dark eyes. “Did your carriage turn back into a pumpkin?”
I sniffle. “Yes.”
“And Price Charming?”
“A dickhead on a donkey,” I quote, not meaning it. But wishing I did.