7. Alexandria
CHAPTER SEVEN
alexandria
My thumbs fly across the screen of my phone, hard and fast, nearly cracking the glass.
Not really, but I’m so damn mad it sure feels like I could.
I’m practically vibrating with rage as the elevator descends to the lobby.
Dante’s arrogant, handsome face is burned into my retinas, but ordering me around, essentially giving me an ultimatum, is making my blood boil
“Tell your friends before I do,” I mock-mimic the infuriating man.
Alex: CODE RED. I REPEAT, CODE RED. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.
Alex: Get to my apartment as soon as possible. Bring your appetite. I have food and wine. Don’t ask questions until you’re inside.
I tell the group chat with Cory, Romy, Mischa, Gennie, Seraphina, and Jett.
Cory: Holy shit, who do we need to kill?
Romy: I’m on the move, although it’s not that fast.
Mischa: On my way!
Gennie: Grabbing a bottle of wine from the cabinet now, then I’ll be there.
Jett: Guys, I’m in LA until Thursday Someone FaceTime me or record this because whyyyyy.
Seraphina: Shit, I’ll be there as soon as I’m done with this appointment. Don’t start without me and @Jett we’ve got you covered.
I stare at Jett’s response, hating that she won’t be there as I walk through the glass doors of Sterling Capital, and instead of flagging down a cab or calling a call, I decide to walk.
I don’t notice the others as I walk, the blaring of city noises, horns, cars, the vibrating thrum of everyday life as I march nearly twenty minutes in high heels until I make it to my apartment building.
I unlock my door and push it open with more force than necessary, causing it to nearly fly into the wall until I catch it at the last possible second.
Jesus, that would be interesting to have to explain to the maintenance department.
Once I have my door closed, leaving it unlocked for my group of besties, I go about taking off my corporate armor immediately.
I storm into my bedroom, rip off my blazer, unbutton my blouse, then shed off every last article of clothing that resembles work attire.
I dig through my dresser, grabbing a pair of oversized, baggy gray sweatpants, and pull them on, rolling the waistband down until they sit low on my hips.
Next comes a top, which means taking off my bra; the damn contraption is the bane of my existence but also a necessity.
At least the spaghetti-strap tank top has a double-layer and functions like a bra without underwire or structure, just pure comfort.
Now that I’m able to breathe a little easier, I’m a woman on a mission, this time for sustenance since I missed breakfast and dipped out of work earlier than I ever have before.
“Shit, I need to text Vik,” I mutter aloud in the empty kitchen.
I haul out a couple of cutting boards, blocks of cheese, prosciutto, cured salami, grapes, crackers, and fig jam.
I’m a single woman, or I was, hell, maybe I will be after today, so these ingredients are an absolute staple in my life.
I start slicing, dicing, and arranging the goodies on a charcuterie board to channel my nervous energy.
Considering I still have a good amount of annoyance running through my veins, I abandon my task for a moment, walk to the living room, pick up the remote to the television, turn it on, and open up my playlist.
I find the app, and instead of going for music that will make me angrier, I pick one that mellows me out.
A playlist I have downloaded: New York State of Mind Vintage Jazz.
A melody fills the air, the sweet sound of a saxophone, trumpet, and piano.
I turn the volume down a few notches, then move back to my task at hand.
The wine.
I reach for a couple of different bottles—a Pinot Noir, a Riesling, and sparkling flavored water in case the others don’t or can’t drink alcohol.
What I do bypass is the champagne, that bitch is dead to me.
It’s now considered the devil’s juice, responsible for bad decisions, neon chapel lights, and massive rings.
Speaking of rings…
I look down at my left hand as I set the wine glasses out. The damn things have completely derailed me, and yet I’m still wearing them. Right when I’m contemplating taking them off, I’m interrupted.
The sound of a door opening, shuffling feet, and hushed murmurs are coming from the foyer.
My girls. I take a deep breath, wipe my palms down my sides, and walk toward them.
They trail in like a glamorous, frenzied whirlwind.
Romy’s first. Her sharp eyes scan my face, and before she says hello, her gaze drops directly to my left hand resting at my side.
“I knew I saw Dante making eyes at you the last time we were all together,” she says, stopping dead in her tracks with absolute shock as she stares at my hand. “What I didn’t know is that you reciprocated!”
“Holy mother of god,” Cory gasps, shoving past Romy, albeit carefully because she’s not an asshole. She lifts my hand and gives a long, low whistle. “At least he’s got great taste. That thing costs as much as a home, and not a small one, either.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mischa interrupts, toeing off her heels and striding straight into the living room toward the wine. She pours herself a glass, turns around, and points a finger at me. “Start from the top, Alex. Right now.”
“Um, no, we have to get Jett on the line first,” Seraphina says, already dialing Jett and waiting for her to answer the video call.
“TEA!” Jett answers on the second ring.
“Yes, spill, right this instance.” Gennie walks in last, shutting the door behind her, her wide eyes taking in the spread, the wine, and my lack of professional composure.
We pile into the living room after pouring drinks and grabbing snacks.
I’m not hungry, but the crisp Riesling with a few grapes dropped into the glass is calling my name.
I settle cross-legged in my beloved velvet armchair, clutching my glass, while the girls crowd onto the sofa and floor around the coffee table.
“Okay,” I begin, taking a massive gulp of wine. “As you know, I went to Vegas in place of Vik for a conference and a side of negotiations.”
“Right, thanks by the way,” Romy says, nodding slowly. “You secured the real estate contract. Vik has been singing your praises all morning.”
“Yeah, well, before that was secured, I secured a husband, too,” I blurt out. Gennie nearly chokes on a grape and Cory drops her cracker.
“You what?!” Mischa shrieks.
“It started at the hotel lounge,” I explain, my face burning as I plunge into the story.
“I was drinking champagne—swearing to never let that touch my lips again, by the way. And then Dante was just, I don’t know, there.
Brooding, broad, and looking sinful as hell in a suit.
He pulled some kind of move, cleared the bartender out of the way, who was flirting with me, and suddenly, we were drinking together. ”
“Dante Lombardi?” Romy asks, though I don’t know why she’s bothering; the girl put two and two together the minute she walked in the door. Which means Vik has a big mouth or Dante made good on his threat.
“Yes, Vik’s friend,” I groan, pressing my hand to my warm cheek. “One thing led to another, the champagne kept flowing, and he looked at me and said something ridiculous about how I didn’t belong to something or other, I belonged to him. And then we walked past a chapel.”
“No,” Seraphina gasps.
“Tell me you didn’t,” Jett says with a wicked grin spreading across her face on the screen.
“We did,” I confess, holding up my left hand. “He bought this ring, dragged me to a minister, and married me. I woke up the next morning naked, in my bed at the hotel with a set of rings on my finger and zero memory of half the night.”
“Oh, Alex,” Gennie breathes, fanning herself lightly with a napkin. “That is… wild.”
“It gets worse,” I continue, taking another sip of wine. “I panicked after reading the possessive note he left me, packed my bags, snuck out of the hotel, and flew back home. I blocked his number and tried to pretend it never happened. I even hid the rings in my pocket at work today.”
“And?” Mischa prompts, leaning forward on her elbows. “I sense more plot holes that you’re not telling.”
“That’s because he’s an insane, overbearing, relentless pain in my ass!” I throw a hand in the air. “I’m also a glutton for punishment. I hightailed it to his penthouse, demanded an annulment. That didn’t happen, seeing as how he kissed me senseless and carried me into his bedroom.”
“Wait,” Romy chimes in, a sly smirk playing on her lips. “He carried you into the bedroom and then what?”
I can feel my entire face flush crimson.
I look down into my wine glass, biting my bottom lip.
“Well, I tried to argue. But I do have to mention, the sex is hotter than hot. Like, mind-melting, forget-your-name-and-lose-control hot.” The room erupts into a chorus of cheers, laughs, and scandalized gasps.
“I knew it!” Mischa claps her hands. “Look at him. The man looks like he was built in a lab specifically to ruin women.”
“So you went back for seconds,” Jett teases, raising a can of soda in a toast.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I protest. The memory of his hands, mouth, and weight pressing me into the mattress makes my core pulse all over again. “And then this morning, I snuck out again. I went to work, started researching about Plan B because we didn’t use protection.”
“Alex!” Gennie gasps.
“And he showed up on my floor,” I practically yell. “He dragged me into a closet after he caught me looking up birth control, lost his mind, told me there was ‘no fucking way’ I’d be taking it, and then realized his rings weren’t on my finger.”
“He did this all outside of Vik’s office, and you let him?” Romy is laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes.
“Yes, and then he marched me out after putting the rings back on my finger, sauntered into Vik’s office, summoned the guys, and told me I needed to tell you guys before he did.” I fall back into my chair, blowing out a puff of breath and closing my eyes.
“That is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Gennie declares, grabbing a slice of prosciutto.
She leans back against the couch cushions as she looks at me, taking a slow sip of her wine.
A dreamy, thoroughly amused smile spreads across her face.
“This is kind of romantic in a morally gray, possessive way.”
“Gennie!” I groan, tossing a pillow in her direction. “He’s an overbearing asshole.”
“He’s obsessed with you, Alex,” Mischa corrects, her tone turning warm. “The man isn’t willing to let you go, cornering you at work, inviting his best friends to brag about it, and making you keep your rings on. I mean, come on.”
“He said we’re tied together,” I murmur, staring down at the sparking diamond on my hand. “Annulment or not.”
“Honestly?” Romy clinks her glass against mine. “Accept your fate, sweetie. You’re a married woman now.”
We spend the rest of the day together, eating through the charcuterie board, drinking more, and laughing until our stomachs ache.
They have no problem making me recount every dirty detail, teasing me mercilessly about being Mrs. Lombardi, and when our FaceTime call ends with Jett, she promises to be in town soon.
For the first time in days, at the sound of my friends’ laughter filling my cozy living room, the tight knot of panic or lingering cloud of doom finally begins to loosen. My eyes keep lingering on my rings from time to time, a soft smile finally tugging at my lips.
Dante is arrogant, controlling, and infuriatingly possessive, yet somehow, he’s the one man I can’t stay away from. And as I listen to my friends toast me and my crazy Vegas wedding, I realize something terrifying: I’m not so sure I want an annulment anymore.