Chapter 6
six
VANESSA
It had been a week since the engagement party, and I hadn’t moved from my bed except for bathroom breaks and pantry raids. At that point, the blankets felt glued to my skin.
The dip beside me was what finally made me check the clock.
A big dip. That, and the smell—my mom’s rice.
Something meaty. Carne asada. Damn it, that was my favorite.
My mouth instantly watered. If someone had brought this in here to taunt me, it probably meant my siblings had already gotten their grubby hands on the rest, and by now, it was gone.
Figures. Lately, my food pyramid had consisted entirely of Cheetos, Oreos, and whatever flat soda I could find in the back of the fridge.
I dragged the blanket up and glanced at my phone. Almost one in the afternoon. Twenty-two missed calls. Thirteen texts. Thirty-four voicemails. I sighed. For the first time in my life, I totally got why Carrie Bradshaw tossed her phone into the ocean.
This was rock bottom. I had a junk-food zit on my chin, orange dust probably still caked on my fingers, and I was in dire need of a shower.
I was also pretty sure my mom had someone watching me at all times.
Just in case. Not that she was easily rattled; when my little brother went through his emo phase and threatened to die if he didn’t get his way, she didn't even flinch. She just said, “Don’t get any blood on the carpet.”
“Mom doesn’t allow food outside the dining room,” I grumbled into my pillow. I buried myself deeper, ignoring my salivating taste buds. Whoever was on my bed, I wasn’t engaging.
“Rules don’t apply to me, I guess.”
My eyes snapped open. That voice. I would have recognized that silk-wrapped gravel anywhere.
“Lucifer,” I grunted, turning to confirm.
He tipped his fork in a silent salute. “Present.”
“What the hell are you doing here? In my house? In my room? In my bed?”
“Hello to you too, Ness.” He glanced at his watch—a piece of platinum that definitely cost more than a Honda. “And what a lovely mood you’re in this… afternoon.”
Heat rose under my skin, prickling from head to toe.
I wrapped the blanket tighter and huffed a stray hair out of my face.
He was lounging against my headboard, a plate of food balanced on his lap.
Of course my mom had fed him. She still thought he was the boy from our childhood; she didn’t know he was the devil incarnate who had fired me and wrecked my life.
I hadn't told her. It would only make her worry.
He set his plate on my stack of abandoned romance novels and flashed a shit-eating grin. God, I hated him.
“You need to crawl back into whatever hole you came from,” I snapped. “We have a crucifix over the door—I’m surprised you didn’t burst into flames on the way in.”
He snorted. “Is that any way to talk to someone who’s here to save you?”
I leaned in, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why would you ever think I need saving?”
For a second, something almost human flickered across his face. Remorse? Then it was gone, replaced by that cold, corporate mask.
“Don’t lose sleep over it, Beelzebub. I don’t need saving. But if I did, I’d do it myself.”
“Is this what saving yourself looks like?” He gestured to the room. “Twenty-seven, back at home, sleeping all day, not eating?”
“I eat.”
“I’m sorry. I meant real food. Not neon-orange dust.”
Insulting the Cheetos was the last straw. “Please don’t pretend you care. Just tell me why you’re here so I can throw you out and move on with my life.”
“I have a proposition. Give me two minutes. Hear me out. If you say no, I’ll leave.”
I laughed bitterly. “What makes you think I’ll say yes? I’m not one of your flavors of the week, Elliott. I don’t find you charming, I don’t melt when you smile, and I definitely don’t work for you anymore. You don't get to give me orders.”
“If you were ever obedient, Vanessa, that would be a terrifying day.”
He was right. Me and obedience didn’t belong in the same galaxy. But then I froze. He had used my full name. He almost never did—to him, I’d always been Ness, the Loch Ness Monster. Hearing Vanessa felt like a warning.
“Give you what?” I asked, distracted.
“Two minutes.”
Neither of us blinked. In any room, he had always been my equal, and I’d rather die than admit it. We were fire against fire. Nobody won—just scorched earth.
“Fine. Two minutes. Put on a timer. Not a second more.”
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a click, and set it on the mattress between us. His knees nearly brushed mine. His gaze drifted down to my bare legs—specifically, the scar on my left knee. My chest tightened. I yanked the blanket higher.
He didn't start the timer. Before he could drag this out, I reached over and hit Start myself. “Go.”
“I’m interested in a capsule bridal collection,” he said, his voice shifting into business mode. “A handful of gowns. Ten, maybe. Any style. I want you to design them.”
My eyes narrowed. Fury surged, hot and fast. “You fired me. You fired me. And now you want me to design gowns for you on the side? Are you out of your damn mind?”
I snatched his phone and tossed it at him. I jumped off the bed, flung open the door, and pointed toward the hallway. “You didn’t even need two minutes. It’s a hard no from me.”
Unbothered, he got up slowly, shut the door again, and planted his hand against the wood, blocking me. He leaned in until my back was pressed to the wall. Our faces were inches apart. My pulse went haywire.
“Out. Now,” I growled.
“You’ve always been such a stubborn ass,” he said softly. His gaze flicked to my mouth. That’s when I remembered—I probably still had Cheetos crumbs on my face.
“Takes one to know one,” I snapped. Real mature.
The door rattled. He dropped his hand immediately, stepping back just as it opened.
“?Qué pasa aquí?” my mom asked, her eyes darting between us.
I didn't have an answer for what was "happening here" that didn't involve me strangling Elliott. She looked at me—bed hair, oversized high school T-shirt, tiny shorts—and gasped. “Vanessa!”
“El diablo was just leaving,” I said, smiling sweetly at him.
“Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Miranda. Delicious,” he said, kissing her cheek like he was the perfect golden boy.
We both watched him walk away. When the front door closed, my mom turned to me, horrified. “Maleducada! How can you have a visitor dressed like that?”
“I don’t know, mom. Why did you even let him in?”
She just huffed. “What? Am I screening at the door now?”
“Yes! From now on, you’re the bouncer. If anyone shows up asking for me, you bounce them. I don’t care if it’s the Pope—bounce him.”
She hissed at the mention of the Pope and smacked the back of my head, but she was laughing. “C’mon. I saved you some carne asada.”
She hooked her arm around my waist and led me to the kitchen, pulling a covered plate from the microwave. The pile of food was huge and still steaming.
“Eat,” she commanded, shoving a fork into my hand. “You look like a ghost. A ghost with very bad hair.”
I sat at the chipped wooden table—the heart of our loud, crowded, messy home—and shoved a piece of steak into my mouth.
It was exactly what I needed. If Elliott’s intention had been to get under my skin in my own territory, he had succeeded.
I had a feeling I’d be smelling his expensive cologne long after the scent of the carne asada was gone.