Chapter 14
“Hai dormito con mia sorella?”
Scream.
Antonio ducks just in time for the vase to go flying over his head, smashing into the wall behind him as he stares at his wife Sofia in earnest.
“Non sapevo fosse il tuo gemello! Pensavo fossi tu!”
Ha, I snort at the screen. Why is there always an evil identical twin in soapies that no one can tell apart?
Sofia launches at her husband, ready to attack him for sleeping with her twin sister, but Antonio grabs her by the wrists just as I paint my last toenail a pretty baby pink.
Perfect.
As I admire my handiwork (who needs to pay for a pedicure?) and listen to Sofia and Antonio fight in Italian on tv, my phone rings again with a number I don’t recognise.
“I’ve already told you,” I answer the phone, frustrated, “I won’t go lower than two thousand!”
The same lady has called me four times in the last hour, trying to hustle down my price on a Prada bag I’m selling on Marketplace, apparently not taking no for an answer.
I sold one yesterday for three grand, so not only can I sleep easy knowing I can afford to feed myself for the next month, but I’m also not desperate enough to let this one go for less than what it’s worth.
“Two thousand?” A deep, smooth voice comes through the line, setting off goosebumps along my skin. “I’m starting to think I was ripped off.”
The shock of his voice makes me accidentally knock my open bottle of nail polish onto the couch. I yelp, then rush to pick the bottle up, not wanting it to spill all over the white fabric. I make a mental note to save Zayn’s number into my phone so I can screen his calls in the future.
“Fuck!” I set the bottle back down and screw on the lid. “That’s not about what you think it is,” I clarify, trying to settle my racing heart. Even over the phone, he has this crazy effect on me. “I thought you were someone else. Obviously. And I’m selling something. Not me. I’m not selling me.”
I force my mouth shut to physically stop myself from talking.
“What are you selling?” he asks, surprising me.
“None of your business. I don’t want to talk to you.
” Another thought pops into my head and I voice it out loud before I can stop myself.
“And you didn’t pay anything that night, if you remember.
” As soon as the words are out, I want to kick myself, hard, right in the shin.
I don’t want to discuss that night with him.
In fact, I don’t want to discuss anything with him at all.
“I remember everything about that night.” The way he says it, soft and vehement, makes unwanted heat blossom through my core.
I need to change the subject.
“I’m busy,” I say, glancing between the half-eaten bowl of twisties beside me and the Italian soapie playing out on my TV. Sofia and Antonio are now having passionate make-up sex on the kitchen floor, and I’m missing it. “Can we have this conversation another time? Never, perhaps?”
“Don’t hang up. This is about your divorce,” he says smoothly, making me halt. “I need you to come in and sign some papers.”
I prop the phone between my ear and shoulder and run one hand over my unwashed hair while simultaneously wiping Twistie dust onto my robe with another.
It’s not like I spend every morning slothing on my couch watching trash TV, but the emotional toll of the last couple of weeks seems to have caught up with me and I woke up already exhausted.
“Come in? Haven’t you heard of DocuSign?” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s this wild new concept where you sign documents online and don’t have to pretend you still live in the Stone Age.”
There’s a pause on the other end and I can practically hear Zayn’s annoyance through the phone. Good. Frustrating him is my new favourite hobby.
“Gianna,” he says, rolling every syllable of my name off his tongue like he’s savouring it, “I need your wet signature on these forms.”
The way he says ‘wet’ makes me instantly that between my legs. Bastard. He knows how to work me just as I’m re-learning which buttons to push with him. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“No. I can come to you if it’s easier.”
My eyes fly around my apartment in a panic. The thought of Zayn being here in my personal space is too much to handle. I need to keep our relationship strictly professional until my divorce is settled and I can excavate him from my life for good.
You see, I’ve had time to ponder why Zayn returned now, after all this time, and I’ve concluded that he feels like he owes me closure after what happened between us. He doesn’t, and I don’t want it. I just want to survive my way through my divorce and then continue to push through life without him.
I definitely don’t need to hear how he changed his mind and didn’t want to be with me anymore.
I definitely don’t need to hear how he’s sorry.
And if the only way to keep him and his petty excuses at bay is to keep him at arm’s length, then that’s what I’ll do.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll come to you. Tomorrow, when I’m not otherwise engaged.”
“While it certainly sounds like you’re doing something, I suggest you un-engage yourself and come today. It’s important.”
It’s then I realise, with pure mortification, that I haven’t muted the TV. Sofia’s soft moans while Antonio plows into her on the kitchen tiles are filtering through the speakers so loud I’m sure even the elderly couple living next door think I’m partaking in some afternoon delight.
I almost fall off the couch, lunging for the remote. Fumbling with the off switch, I school my voice because I absolutely refuse to let go of my composure in front of Zayn again.
“Isn’t it your job to un-engage me?” I retort, finally killing the volume and sinking back into the cushions.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. See you soon.” His voice garners no room for objection before he hangs up on me. Charming.
I take my time getting ready. It’s petty, but it gives me a tiny bit of satisfaction knowing I’m making Zayn wait when he made it clear he wanted me in ASAP.
The fact that I’m washing and blow-drying my hair, applying make-up and choosing an outfit instead of chucking on my default tights and hoodie has nothing to do with wanting to look nice for Zayn. Nope. Not in the slightest.
It’s a whole three hours since Zayn’s phone call when I finally walk into the ground floor lobby of the building that houses his firm. Lunch time, no less. Perfect. If he’s going to disrupt my day, then I’ll make him work through lunch.
The thought forces my lips to quirk up as I wait for the elevator doors to open, and when they do, there’s a familiar face waiting to step out.
“Hello, David,” I smile at the man I’ve only seen once before. His brows lift in surprise a moment before recognition flashes across his handsome face.
“Hello, Mrs Sanders.” He greets me with a nod, then smooths down his tie as we step around each other.
“Please, it’s Gianna.” I swivel on my heel inside the lift, press the button for floor 38 and flick my hair over my shoulder, pleased when I look back to find David’s eyes are doing a not-so-subtle slow perusal of my body.
I’m wearing a black high-waisted mini skirt, a tight black blouse and black heeled ankle boots.
My camel coloured coat is flung over my arm and I left my hair down and straight so it falls all the way down to the small of my back.
Last time I was in Zayn’s office, I was blindsided and left feeling inadequate next to him. This time I came prepared.
David’s eyes flick back to mine just as the lift doors begin to close, and they look like they’re about to fall out of his head. Perfect. Just the look I was hoping to achieve.
“Bye, Gian -” He says, but the doors close, shutting out his voice with it.
There’s three other clients sitting in the reception when I breeze in and head to the front desk. The same blonde receptionist is sitting behind the desk, and I remember with a frown thinking she had a crush on Zayn the last time I was here.
Had she acted on her crush? Had he?
I throw the thought aside. None of my business, regardless of the sick feeling that creeps over me at the thought of them together.
“I’m here to see Zayn,” I say politely when she lifts her head at my approach. Is it just me, or did her smile falter when she saw it was me standing here?
“Take a seat, Mrs Sanders. Mr Romero shouldn’t be long.”
Her claws are showing when she corrects me.
“Do you know how long Zayn will be?” I ask with a saccharine smile. My claws can be just as sharp. “I don’t have much time.”
I have all the time in the world, actually. But I don’t want Zayn knowing that, or thinking he can just summon me whenever he feels like it. I’m not a dog.
The receptionist, whose name plate says Abby, gives me a smile as sickly sweet as my own. Let’s just say I’ve been around enough WAGS and women hoping to become a WAG that I can spot a fake smile from a mile away.
“I’m not sure,” she says, before visibly perking up. “He’s taking lunch at the moment.” She thrums her long, pink fingernails against the desk and a sprinkle of unease flutters beneath my skin.
“Lunch?” I cross my arms against my chest and resist rolling my eyes. “Can you let him know I’m here please?”
“Er,” she says, biting her lip and looking away in an obvious attempt to look sheepish, like she’s giving up some gossip.
“He’s with someone. A…personal meeting. In his office.
” She tacks on the last few words with innuendo, and an avalanche of anger hits me squarely in the chest, threatening to knock me off my heels.
He’s having sex in his office after he asked me to come here?
Is he trying to send me a message? Because it’s been well and truly fucking received.