12. West
“ I know love when I see it,” Evan, one of the most annoying pains in my ass, declares, a gruff laugh following his ridiculous statement. “And you two young people are clearly head over heels for each other. None of us can figure out how you managed to keep this under wraps for so long!”
All it took was a single kiss in front of that wheezing, brainless crowd of puppets for everyone to become obsessed with this fake idea of Venetia and me. My phone is blowing up with calls and messages, and I’m sure hers is too.
As much as I want to grab a gun and start shooting them one by one, I can’t deny one thing—the passion they’re rambling about is real.
I felt it.
I tasted it on her lips, heard it in the weak whimper of protest that escaped her mouth, and sensed it in the way her hands pressed against my chest—pushing me away one moment, then searching for more the next.
God, it felt good. A simple kiss—nothing special or mind-blowing to others—was soul-crushing, life-robbing, and utterly fucking addictive. My mouth still tingles from the spark of hers, and my tongue lingers on the memory of her softness.
I never thought I’d enjoy kissing Venetia Ross this much. First time for everything, I guess.
What makes it feel so unique is the burning, passionate hatred we share. Obviously, she didn’t kiss me because she wanted to; it was an act to steal the spotlight, to silence me after I showed up late on a bike—something she despises. It was selfish, wrong, and childish, but I don’t care. Venetia is trapped in this with me, and it isn’t about what either of us wants.
It’s about concocting new ways to spite each other and keeping that hatred alive—light and intense as always. Because without it, we won’t be the same.
The kiss was perfect, and the bliss from it still clouds my mind and numbs my body—except for one part. My cock hardens every time I think about it, making it difficult to walk around while trying to hide the large bulge in my pants. I just need her to do something she enjoys—like setting my fucking car on fire—and then it’ll pass. Once that happens, my cock will finally settle, and my thoughts will clear.
Maybe.
Tonight, we’re stuck in a meeting with local leaders. While we’ve essentially done our job—secured support for my father—we still need to sit through their pointless chatter if we want to maintain their sympathy.
People dream of jobs that allow them to be self-reliant instead of working for a big boss, but here’s the kicker: even though we’re at the top, we still have to run around, plastering wide, fake smiles on our faces to please others.
I want Venetia to be on my side for this, but tonight, she’s been oddly quiet. True to form, she exudes confidence and power, but her face betrays a hint of melancholy, as if she’s removed from the world.
I don’t like that. Not because I care about what’s in her little head, but because I fucking need her here with me. I’d take her snarky remarks and insults over this suffocating silence any day. I tighten my grip on her waist as Evan drones on about something, edging her closer to me. Maybe she’s plotting a trick—the reason behind her quietness—and I don’t fucking like that at all.
“It’s good to finally see Venetia with someone after that… tragic incident with Zayden,” says Alex, a friend of Evan’s—an elderly man with veneers so unnaturally bright that they’re almost frightening. “I don’t want to dredge up old memories, but I must say, we’re all still angry for you, Venetia—angry that that murderous bitch got into a psychiatric facility instead of being in jail forever.”
I observe Venetia’s reaction, my gaze scanning her face, searching for… something. I want to step in and tell him to shut the fuck up for bringing up such an uncomfortable subject—that’s what a loving fiancé would do—but she doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Her expression stays neutral, and I can’t tell if she’s in pain or if she’s just learned how to not give a shit.
After all, it’s been the main topic of conversation ever since Zayden passed away. The locals became fucking obsessed with their story and how tragically it unfolded for her. And, of course, idiots like Alex are more than happy to see her in a relationship again, even though back then, everyone thought she was too shattered to ever move on.
“Ah, to hell with her. Better tell us, how long have you two been together?” the idiot pries when neither of us responds, his stupid smile stretching across his face, his wrinkles twitching with the movement.
“A couple of months,” I reply, not waiting for Venetia to catch up. She chose to play the silent game, so I doubt she’ll be surprised if I speak for both of us. “A couple of wonderful months.”
“Ah, still in your honeymoon phase. No fights?”
A thought cuts through my frustration. Nothing beats a bit of an idiotic joke. “Like any couple, we argue. The usual stuff. It’s manageable, but sometimes,” I trail off, dramatically forming a fist, “it feels like we might kill each other.”
A disgusting, rich laugh bursts from their chests in unison. “Oh, West, that humor! That’s why we love having you here so much,” Alex says, tripping over his words, a tear sliding down his cheek from laughing so hard. I don’t find anything I said funny, but for these clowns, it doesn’t need to make sense, I guess. “Come on now. You two are many things, but murderers ? Definitely not.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Venetia glance at me briefly, but when I turn toward her, she’s already back in her silent cocoon, unaware of the world around her. Alex follows up with another pointless question, but I tune him out. My annoyance flares, reaching an unbearable level. It’s unsettling to see her like this, completely out of character.
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” I cut in, nudging her forward with my hand. She complies, taking a step on her own, which only fuels my frustration. I need her to fight me. “We’ll be right back.”
Still supporting her by the waist, I pull her toward a less crowded area of this chandelier-lit space. The purple velvet decor makes my eyes itch. There are two types of places the wealthy like to build: modern, expensive buildings—my preference, usually minimalistic—and this medieval nonsense that seems designed to impress with historical flair, even though the owner knows next to nothing.
“What do you want?” Venetia asks, slapping my hand away from her waist. It’s a pointless gesture that only makes me grip her tighter. “Let go of me. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
I lean in, my lips just millimeters from her ear as I whisper, “Stop this. We need to project a pretty picture, remember?”
She clicks her tongue in irritation. “That doesn’t mean you need to keep your hands on me all night, West.”
But it does. What kind of ‘relationship’ is it if you’re not showing off your love by touching your partner? “It’s a fucking love language, or whatever they call it, Netia,” I say through clenched teeth, frustrated that I have to spell this out for her. She should understand.
“Look at you, getting all soft for your fiancée,” she mocks. “What did you drag me here for? Can’t hold back your desires?”
“I already told you. I need you to fucking help me, not just stand there like a statue,” I reply, dismissing her last jab. It sounds so dumb that I can’t even be bothered to respond. “Why do I have to explain this? Isn’t it easier to avoid all of these,” I gesture around, “sneak-outs? The sooner we talk to them, the better. Don’t you want to get home?”
Her eyes lock with mine, a flash of something indescribable lighting up the emeralds before she looks down and shakes her head. “I didn’t sign up for this. You want a pretty picture? Choose—me with my mouth open, telling you and those idiots everything I think, or me standing silently, lost in my world, trying to drown out the noise while holding a little smile.”
I lean my shoulder against the nearest wall, feeling the softness of the velvet that does nothing for my comfort. “This fucking velvet,” I groan, rubbing a hand across my face as exhaustion sets in. “It’s?—”
“Tasteless,” she finishes for me, and I blink, momentarily stunned. “Fucking disgusting.”
A moment passes before my smile breaks through the tension, a hint of amusement lifting the weight of negativity that lies between us. It takes just those three words from her pretty mouth to lighten my mood a bit.
“Yeah, but—” I pause, hating to be the one to ruin the moment. “I just need you to try harder, okay? We need to be perfect.”
Her soft, genuine chuckle escapes, soothing my tension and leaving me wanting to hear more. “Oh, please, West. Get a grip. Not all couples are perfect, and I promise you that despite all the papers, images, vows, and whatever else, we’ll never be more than two strangers sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
It’s clear she wants to hurt me, evident in her choice of words and the sharpness of her tone, and all that effort makes me want to laugh in her face. This little serpent tries too hard.
“That’s what you want to believe, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice dropping a notch. I feel her stiffen, every muscle tensing as I lean in closer, and fuck, I can sense my cock stirring in my pants again. “Say it, Venetia. Say how much you hate me after you practically begged me for more during that kiss you initiated.”
I watch as her slender throat bobs with a swallow, and I struggle to resist picturing all the ways I want to mark that pale, perfect skin. “You know better. It was just to take control back,” she whispers, her words trembling like leaves caught in a storm. She tries to sound commanding, but right now, so close to me, she’s nothing but scared little prey.
“How much control did you take back, Netia? Huh?”
She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. The gleam of defeat in her eyes tells me everything I need to know.
“Let’s go,” I urge gently. “The night isn’t over yet.”
Venetia isn’t truly Venetia unless she’s acting like the snake she is. I wanted her to start participating, and she fucking did—she sent one of the brokers my way, and while that fucker stole my attention, she disappeared into thin air.
I pace around the room, my eyes scanning for a glimpse of her in that ridiculously large-skirted dress. I doubt she chose her outfit for the night—she would never wear a ruffled skirt like that. Nonetheless, I’m hoping it will help me find her.
I crack my joints, anxiety creeping in as the room feels increasingly stuffy. The combination of fake lighting, luxury perfumes, and sweat pushes me closer to the edge, making me feel like I might snap and actually fucking hurt someone.
The room is filled to the fucking brim, yet it feels utterly empty because I can’t find her .
But when I finally see the damn dress, the tension begins to ebb away. I prepare to launch myself toward her, to grab her hand and make sure she won’t trick me again, but she storms over, clutching the oversized skirt to keep from tripping, her face flushed and swollen like she’s been crying.
I’m rooted to the spot when she catches up with me. Black streaks of mascara run down her cheeks, and a hot surge of anger washes over me at the thought that someone made her like this. That anger melts away the paralysis gripping my body.
“What the fuck happened?” I ask, hands grabbing her shoulders. “Why did you run away?”
She sniffs and shrugs off my hands, annoyance flaring across her features. “I’m not a dog to be commanded to stay with you, okay?”
Oh, for God’s sake . “Why are you throwing that in my face?” I snap. “I told you we?—”
“I went to the bathroom,” she cuts in, but my worry doesn’t dissipate at her statement. “I wanted to pee.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. “Uh—Whatever. Come on, we can go now.”
I take a step closer to her, my hand stretched out, but she recoils, shaking her head at me. “I can’t. I haven’t peed, and I feel like my bladder is going to pop.”
I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself, though it’s a struggle. What the fuck is wrong with this woman? “Go do what you need, but quickly. I’ll be right near the door.”
“You don’t understand.” She clutches her skirt and lifts it slightly. “I can’t pee in this dress.”
Disbelief settles in as the realization begins to sink in. “Wait. You’ve been crying because you can’t fucking pee in this dress? Are you serious, Venetia?”
Her lips tremble, and she bows her head, a sob wracking her body. She must have drunk too much—sober Venetia would never say something like this, let alone cry over it. “I need you to hold it for me,” she whispers, her voice heavy with defeat. “I need your help.”
“What? No,” I protest, struggling to process this absurd request.
“I don’t have anyone else to ask,” she snaps, and a sense of discomfort floods through me. She sounds as if someone in her family has died, on the verge of fucking hysteria just because she can’t pee. “ Please , West.”
Without thinking, I grab her hand and drag her back toward the bathroom. The sooner we do this, the better. I don’t want to be involved—I’m not even her fucking friend—but I can’t just leave her like this. The emptiness in my chest screams with agony when I look at her face, which is almost green from how badly she needs to go.
I slam the doors wide open, letting her inside before following suit and locking them behind us. Someone definitely saw us, and they’ll probably assume we’re up to something more scandalous. Honestly, I’d prefer it that way. If anyone finds out we came in here just to pee, our reputation will take a serious hit.
She heads to the cabin and plops down on the seat, while I move closer, completely unsure of how to handle this situation. I can feel shame radiating from her, and when she sniffs again, I realize I need to take charge to spare her further embarrassment. Lowering myself to my knees, I slide my hands under the cursed skirt, gripping the edges and lifting it.
“Who the fuck made you wear this shit?” I ask, irritation seeping into my tone. “It looks like a prom dress gone horribly wrong.”
A frown creases her brow, her eyes blazing as she glares at me. “Such a gentleman, West. Thank you for the compliment.”
“I am a gentleman,” I retort. “Or do you think an asshole would bother with this kind of nonsense?”
Her lips press into a thin line as she turns her gaze toward the wall, clearly trying to distract herself from the fact that she’s lost this argument. “My dad wanted me to wear this. And it’s pretty.”
Of course. Her dad shares a common trait with mine—they don’t give a fuck about their kids. “It’s only pretty if you’re blind,” I say, earning an annoyed grunt from her. “I prefer your matching suits or those tight dresses you wear.”
Venetia turns to me, her face reflecting sheer shock. “Tight dresses?”
I bow my head and bury my face in the itchy material. God, how the fuck did she wear this torture fabric all night? No wonder she was acting so strange. “These fucking… I don’t know what they’re called, Netia. I’m not an expert.”
“Bodycon,” she replies, and I lift my head. “A bodycon dress. It’s the type.”
“Okay,” I say, muttering that word a couple of times under my breath, trying to memorize it for some dumb fucking reason. “Jesus Christ, woman, I thought you wanted to pee.”
“I can’t do it when you’re talking to me,” she whines. “Or watching me.”
“Where am I supposed to look then?”
“I don’t know,” she stutters. “Not at my face, certainly.”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling, and a ragged breath of relief escapes her. But she just sits there, frozen. “Do you want me to run the fucking water or something?”
“Shut up, West. Just shut up. Shut your fucking mouth.”
I bite my upper lip, trying not to laugh. No matter how annoying she is right now, it’s hard not to find it funny. And when, after a quick moment, she finally starts to do what she dragged me here for, I almost feel devastated that our banter is coming to an end. Arguing with her is my favorite pastime.
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”
I shake my head, realizing just how absurd this whole situation is. “What will I say?” I ask skeptically. “That I helped my wife pee?”
“I’m not your wife,” she fires back quickly.
“ Yet ,” I correct. “But you will be. Get ready for it, baby girl.”
She turns her head away without a word, clearly realizing it’s pointless to argue with me.
She’s lost again, and I can’t help but feel triumphant.