Chapter 1 #4
His entire body has gone rigid, and his gaze is fixed on my hands that are currently clutching the fabric of his suit. It’s not a shocking reaction, considering I’ve noticed him tense like this before. We could be three feet apart, and he’d still consider it too close.
He’s uncomfortable, and I should be too, because this kind of physical proximity usually rattles me. But my brain seems to be malfunctioning, and I’m having difficulty moving at all.
We remain in that awkward moment for too long, until a welcome distraction arrives as a server rushes in to clean up the mess. But one look from Cristian stops her in her tracks.
“Don’t,” he tells the woman, redirecting his gaze over my shoulder. “Libby will do it.”
I pry my fingers off him, attempting to regain my composure as I turn to see the woman in question trying to scurry off. I’m not even surprised it was her who tripped me, most likely at Isobel’s bidding. But any amusement she may have had disappears as the onlookers block her escape.
With no other choice, she scans the crowd in a silent plea, as if one of them might speak up on her behalf. When none of them do, she lifts her gaze to Cristian’s, quiet indignation warring with her humiliation.
“I think it’s time you learned to clean up your own messes,” Cristian says, his voice unwavering in its authority.
I doubt there’s a person in this room who would defy his order. Though I’m certain I appreciate that tone far more than Libby does right now.
With trembling hands, she sinks to the floor in disgrace, her face reddening as the server gives her the cleaning supplies. It takes her a few minutes of scrambling around on her knees to mop up the champagne and shards of glass, and when she’s finished, she lifts her gaze to Cristian for approval.
“Now apologize,” he says.
She opens her mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. “Not to me.”
Her humiliation burns hotter as she forces her gaze to mine and swallows the words she really wants to say.
“I’m sorry,” she clips out. “It was an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Cristian corrects her. “Try again.”
Libby releases a shuddering breath, lowering her voice as she apologizes a second time. I’m aware that it’s not even remotely genuine, but I accept it nonetheless.
“What the hell is going on over here?” Marco cuts through the crowd, his gaze bouncing between the three of us.
“Something you should have dealt with a long time ago.” A note of irritation bleeds through Cristian’s tone.
Marco observes the narrow distance between Cristian and me, and laughably, his eyes take on a territorial gleam as he approaches.
He dismisses Libby without even glancing at her, telling her to go find Isobel. Then he meets Cristian’s gaze as he grabs me around the waist and yanks me against him.
“Jesus, Marco,” I hiss as my ankle throbs in agony.
I was hoping I hadn’t reinjured it in the near-fall, but Marco’s assholery has just confirmed it. As usual, he’s completely oblivious to the issue as he initiates a bizarre display of male posturing with Cristian.
Marco has always been a man who needs validation, but I’ve never seen him act like this toward Cristian, and I have to assume it’s because he’s drunk.
If he had two functioning brain cells, he would not be challenging his friend, and especially not Cristian Vitale. While Marco may be rich and his family name carries a lot of weight in this city, there’s no question Cristian could squash him like a bug if he started a rift between them.
Eventually, Marco backs down, and Cristian levels him with his icy gaze before he walks away without another word.
I’m still staring after him, trying to make sense of what just happened, when Marco grinds his erection against me.
“Let’s go upstairs and fuck,” he growls.
“What is wrong with you?” I try to extricate myself from his grasp, but he tightens his grip on me.
“What’s wrong with me?” he mocks. “How about the fact that my girlfriend’s acting like she wants to whore herself out to my friends in front of everyone? Do you have any idea how that made me look?”
My stomach revolts at his words, and for a second, I’m too shocked to respond.
Marco has said and done some stupid things before, but most of it was harmless. He’s never called me names, and he’s never looked at me the way he is right now. After his standoff with Cristian, he wants to stake his claim on me, whether I like it or not.
I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or if he’s just become a completely different person, but I don’t even recognize him anymore.
Either way, I want nothing to do with it.
“Let me go.” I steel my voice, even though my heart is racing.
“You’re not walking away from me,” he bites out. “You fucking started this.”
“I didn’t start anything, and I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”
“You were so desperate for some attention a few minutes ago,” he sneers. “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll give you some.”
There’s no mistaking the implication of his words or the bruising grip on my arm. He wants me to pay for this perceived slight, and I can only assume this is a result of his increasingly fragile ego. Regardless, he won’t be taking it out on me.
“Marco, you’re hurting me,” I say, loud enough for his friends to hear. “Let me go.”
“You owe me this,” he hisses in my ear. “I haven’t touched you in months.”
“I don’t owe you anything, asshole.” I shove at him. “Leave me the hell alone.”
He grabs my face and forces me to look at him, and for a split second, I think he might actually hit me.
“Marco, come on, bro.” One of his friends intervenes. “You’ve had too much to drink. Just let her go. Everyone’s watching.”
Unsurprisingly, that last part is the thing that gets through to him.
Because at the end of the day, what Marco cares about most is how people perceive him.
And when I glance around, I realize his friend is right.
Everyone is watching, including Isobel. She looks pissed, and the only reason she’s not over here already is because Libby is holding her back.
When Marco finally releases me, it feels like everyone takes a collective breath. They might not like me, but even for them, Marco’s behavior right now is a step too far.
I scrap any thoughts of telling him it’s over because I’m not putting myself at further risk right now. But as I try to leave, he follows me.
“Chantel,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go up to my room and talk.”
“You’re insane if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”
“Just stay the night,” he bargains. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
Despite my best efforts, a laugh escapes me. “Five minutes ago, you forgot I even existed. I think it’s best we keep it that way.”
“You just need some time to cool off,” he grits out. “Why don’t you go to the guest room, and I’ll come up when the party’s over.”
“The party is over for me,” I tell him. “Stop following me and let me leave, or I’ll really make a scene.”
Finally, that threat gets through to him, and he backs off. But when he realizes how many people are still watching, he makes one last attempt at keeping up appearances.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, babe.”
I don’t respond, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I make my way toward the door. I just want to get the hell out of here. But as the guests clear a path for my exit, I can’t help noticing a shift in the way they’re looking at me.
I expected some smirks on the way out, or maybe even some pitiful glances. But that isn’t what I’m seeing.
As I make eye contact with some of them, they nod as if they’re actually acknowledging my existence. It’s not exactly respect, but it’s definitely not the disdain I’m used to either. It’s more like they’re now conscious of the fact that I’m not a free target for their judgment anymore.
I swallow past the knot in my throat as it occurs to me that the man who chose to make that clear wasn’t even my boyfriend.
It was Cristian.