Chapter 20
Roxy
The moment we step into the house, we're greeted by a young woman with light brown hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
"Roxanne, this is Tirana. She'll help you with whatever you need to get settled in," Damien says.
"A pleasure, Miss Roxanne."
"Roxy is fine," I tell her, my eyes still trying to take in the sheer scale of the house.
I’m a sucker for mid-century modern, and this is probably the exact style I would have chosen for my own home, if I could ever have afforded one.
Even though it's clear he had help decorating, everything is seamless, a perfect blend of taste and function.
The sleek lines of the furniture and the carefully chosen color palette soothe some of the anxiety coiling in my stomach.
I could live here, a voice I’d locked away whispers.
It’s the same voice that held out hope every time I did something right, praying my father would finally notice.
The voice that told me they didn't wait for me for dinner when I had practice because they were just too tired.
The voice that insisted they simply had to work all those times I was sick and had to take care of myself.
A voice that let them walk all over me, again and again, because I thought that was how I could earn my place in their family.
A sad laugh escapes me at my own naivety.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I hate how perceptive he is.
"I am now," I say honestly because, for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would have been like to have him in my life back then. I can be cruel to him, I can joke, but I can feel that he cares, and for me, that’s a dangerous realization.
"I wish you were always okay, Roxanne." He takes my hand in his. "Come on, let me show you the bedroom and the office, in case you need to work from here."
"My bedroom?" I ask, freezing at the base of the stairs.
He stops short and turns around, his face a mask of contrition.
"Damien, I hope we have separate bedrooms. Otherwise, you'll be sleeping on the floor."
"Okay," he answers quickly.
"What do you mean, 'okay'? It's not okay. You need to sleep in a bed, just not in the same one as me," I say firmly.
He glances left and right, checking that we're alone before taking a step toward me.
"I don't know who I can trust these days.
If anyone on the Council finds out that my fiancée, my future wife, is sleeping in another room, they'll suspect this is just a maneuver for votes.
And I can't afford that right now, sweetheart.
If I have to sleep on the floor for you to agree to this, I'll embrace the hardwood with open arms."
I study him for a few seconds and I hate that I can tell he's serious.
On a superficial level, the idea of making him sleep on the floor is satisfying.
But my heart decides to pound against my ribs at the thought of the man in front of me getting cold on that floor.
Ugh, can we please go back to being a bitch to him? But of course not.
"Fine," I say, my voice low but every word sharp. "But if you try anything, Damien, I know several ways to castrate a man."
"I promise I won't initiate my own castration, except in cases of extreme emergency. If I sense you need me…well, what can I say? I just hope you don't want a lot of kids," he says, pulling me by the hand while I'm still stuck on his response.
Note to self: book him another therapy session.
His bedroom is in the west wing of the house, perfect for sunsets. A low, natural wood bed frame sits centered in the room, flanked by two simple nightstands of the same material. A gray rug covers nearly the entire floor.
"Thank God you have good taste in furniture," I say, taking in every detail.
"Not just in furniture, but you already know that, baby," he says, and I roll my eyes at his flirting.
I feel him come up behind me, and I hate how my body wants to lean back into his. Remember you threatened to castrate him not five minutes ago.
When I work up the courage, I turn around and see he’s holding a credit card.
"I want you to use this for whatever you need, whether it's for the wedding or not," he says and I raise an eyebrow.
"Anything and everything?" I ask. I’d like to say I have more dignity than this, but I have a weakness for expensive things, especially earrings, and that black card surely has a more than generous limit.
His hand reaches for mine and places the piece of metal in my palm.
"Absolutely anything. If you go over the limit, the bank will contact me, and I'll approve it."
"And what would that limit be, let's say?" I ask, biting my lower lip.
I look up and notice his gaze is fixed on my mouth. As if I have no control, my hand reaches out and smooths over his T-shirt.
He swallows hard.
"The limit. Right. A hundred thousand," he answers.
"I can manage on a hundred thousand a month," I say, though I have no intention of ever spending that much.
He frowns, then a slow smile spreads across his face. He leans in to kiss my cheek and whispers, amused, "A day, baby."
I know my eyes are wide as I'm the one swallowing this time.
"What if I actually spend that much every day?"
"I'd be impressed," he says with a laugh. "I have to leave to handle a shipment, but make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, Tirana can help you. Or, if you miss me, you can call me anytime."
"Don't wait by the phone," I say, but a smile takes over half my face.
He shakes his head, and just before he walks out the door, he turns back, takes my face in his palms, and kisses both my cheeks.
My heart beats an alarm in my chest. He’s so sweet, so attentive, and what’s even more dangerous is that optimistic voice in my head starting to whisper that he's mine. And just like when I was little, that voice has only ever broken my heart.
I'm at one of my venues, organizing a birthday party for a businessman, when my interim assistant tells me some people have shown up who aren't on the list. The poor girl is trembling like a leaf when she explains the problem.
After telling her to go drink some jasmine tea to calm down, I head over to see what's going on.
Ten minutes later, after cross-referencing with the client's wife, I discover they're last-minute additions her husband requested.
My stomach sinks when I scan the names: my ex, along with several of his coworkers.
Of course. I clear them for entry and force myself to breathe through the knot forming in my chest.
At the entrance, I spot two of Damien's soldiers. With their grim faces, they stick out like sore thumbs, so I make my way over to them.
"I know your job description probably includes the ability to make people bleed with a single glance, but this is a birthday party and you're scaring the guests," I tell them.
They look at each other.
"Our apologies, ma'am," says the blond one, who looks older, but his expression doesn't change.
"I swear I'll make you do facial yoga," I warn.
At that, both of them widen their eyes and try to relax their features. At least now they just look constipated, not like they want to murder every two-legged being in the room.
Resigned that this is the best I'll get, I turn around and walk straight into what feels like a brick wall.
Except it's not a wall—it's someone's chest. When I look up and meet the man's eyes, I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from cursing out loud.
God, I'm really trying not to be mad at You, but of all the scumbags and ex-boyfriends in this city—and let's be honest, they're the same category—couldn't You work some magic and make this one avoid me for the next three hours?
"Roxy," Stiles's voice grates, like nails on a chalkboard.
"Who are you?" I ask, hoping he'll just leave me the hell alone.
His hand goes to his chest, and he follows me even though I’m already six feet ahead of him. "You wound me. Don't tell me you've already forgotten the best three months of your life."
I snort with laughter because they were the most miserable three months of my life. Did I even have a single orgasm in those months? I’m pretty sure I threw my hormones completely out of whack just waiting for Mr. Miracle Worker here to do something right, so I just turn to leave.
His hand clamps onto my forearm. I spin around and shove him with my free hand.
"Get your hand off me if you want to keep it," I hiss. I will not tolerate a man who cheated on me in my own bed wasting my time. "Pretend you didn't see me, and I'll pretend I don't see the first signs of syphilis on your face."
From behind him, I see one of Damien’s soldiers start toward me, but I give him a sharp nod to stay put. He looks confused, but I can handle this guy. He's an empty threat.
"You've always been a miserable bitch. And then you acted surprised when I cheated on you," he sneers. "Always at work, always nagging me. I was never enough for you."
I want to say his words don’t affect me. I want to say I'm a hundred percent sure he deserved every single complaint. But when every one of my exes has said something similar, it's hard to hold on to my own rationality.
I know I work a lot, but that’s because I’m passionate about what I do.
I know I ask for a lot, because I give just as much.
Is it so hard to ask someone to make you a coffee in the morning if they're already up before you? Is it too much to want someone to do things for you without having to be asked? When he told me he wanted tickets to a Chicago Bulls game, I called a former client who’s a manager in their administration and got them for him.
When he asked me to organize a team-building event for his company, I stayed up all night finding venues and coordinating dates that worked for everyone.
And still, I'm the bitch. I wasn't good enough to keep him from falling into the vagina of some nineteen-year-old blonde. IN MY BED.
His eyes drift to my left hand, and I know he sees Damien’s ring. Putting on my sweetest smile, I say, "It's a good thing I found someone who wants me, miserable bitch and all. And who's capable of finding my clitoris without using Google Maps."
His face floods with rage, and I know I hit a nerve.
I turn my back, but I know that won't be enough for him. If I weren't at an important event, I would have already broken one of his fingers, but I have to be diplomatic. I turn back just before his hand can touch me again.
"Look, Stiles, take your little man purse, grab your blazer, and leave."
"Or what?" he asks, laughing.
"Or I'll humiliate you in front of all these people.
I'll make sure that by tomorrow, every single one of your coworkers receives the photo I still have of you and that little girl in my bed while you were in a relationship with me.
I'll make sure the whole internet knows about that toenail fungus, not to mention the premature ejaculation. "
"You whore…"
"Ah, ah. That's not very nice. For every consonant you utter, I'll have my friends behind you," I say, watching him turn his head and lock eyes with Damien's men, "rearrange your facial features. Okay?" I pat his chest. "Be a good boy and go home before you mess up your sideburns."
I can feel him seething, and I can't stop a grin from spreading across my face as I turn away. It feels good to say what's on your mind, but it feels even better to follow it up with the sound of your heels echoing across the marble floor.
"Roxy, everything looks wonderful," Bethanny, my client's wife, says.
I look around, proud of what we managed to pull off with this event. Okay, maybe the generous budget helped, but getting hyacinths this time of year isn't something just anyone can do. Or getting one of the most famous chefs in Chicago to cook live for an hour.
"I'm so glad it turned out just as you wished."
"We'll be contacting you for our little one's birthday, too," she says with a wink before walking away to greet an acquaintance.
My phone starts ringing. When I see the name on the screen, I can't avoid the bitter taste that fills my mouth.
"Aria," I say, and against my will, I feel my heart tighten.
We were never close, not like sisters should be. She was the wanted child, the one who completed Ivette and my father's perfect family. I was the black stain that ruined it.
"Roxy, Dad told me to call and remind you about the family dinner in two weeks. Zion's family will be there, too, so we can finalize the wedding details."
I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten. Of course Dad couldn't be bothered to call me himself. The words are on the tip of my tongue—to tell Aria I’m too busy planning my own wedding to attend—but I haven't seen them in a year. And no matter how toxic they are, you don't just sever a blood tie.
Even though Aria refused to believe me when I told her that her fiancé was human garbage, she used to be sweet to me when we were little, before Ivette poisoned her mind. She would always save me two bites of her dessert, leaving them on my windowsill where her mother wouldn't find them.
"Sure, Aria," I say. She tells me the exact date and time and then hangs up.
No "How are you?" No "I miss you." Not even a "Can't wait to see you." To her, I'm just an obligation. Nothing more.
"Someone threw up in the bathroom," my assistant’s voice says from behind me.
"I’m on it," I reply. At least this job never gives me a quiet moment to wallow in self-pity.