36. Lilly
CHAPTER 36
LILLY
I slam my front door and drop the suitcase.
As I look around, I find another reason to be pissed at Bruce: thanks to being in his mansion for so long, my place now looks like a hovel.
And I want to cry more than ever.
I’m also weirdly numb.
And still angry.
So, so angry.
How could I have been so stupid as to sleep with a guy I so recently considered my nemesis? Or to develop feelings for his dog? Just his dog, mind you. Not him. No way can it be him.
Unbidden, images of our Netflix and chill sessions appear in my mind as my chest starts to ache and pressure builds behind my eyes.
When I started to pack my stuff back at the mansion, I hoped I’d feel better when I got home, but I feel anything but. A part of me must’ve also hoped that Bruce would stop me—but he did nearly the opposite.
Come to think of it, that was a bit odd.
What was that bit about charades?
Also, when I told him the thing with Champ was his fault, his reply was confusing.
How did he even know what happened with Champ in the first place? I can’t imagine Angela’s boyfriend told on himself.
Wait. Why am I thinking about Bruce again?
He doesn’t deserve it.
My phone rings, and Bruce is the first person I think of.
The caller is Prudence—and that might be for the best.
“Hi, Lilly,” she says, sounding oddly guilty. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For whatever Bruce said,” she says. “After I gave him the note, I regretted doing so.”
I nearly drop the phone. “What note?”
“I was about to do your laundry,” Prudence says. “And I always check all the pockets before sticking anything in the washer because I once ruined Mr. Roxford’s?—”
“When did you give him that note?”
She tells me.
“Shit.”
“Again,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ve worked for Mr. Roxford for?—”
“It’s fine. But I do have to go.” With that, I hang up.
I try to recall what I wrote down, and it’s not good. The idea of Bruce reading that stream of vitriol fills me with dread. Obviously, I don’t mean a word of it anymore, but it’s too late.
He knows about the foreclosure and thinks I hate his guts. Hence the word “charade” and the line about not being involved. He meant he doesn’t personally foreclose on houses—he’s got people for that.
My heart squeezes as I picture how I’d feel if our roles were reversed. No wonder he looked so pissed when he barged into my room. He must’ve been coming to fire me and tell me that he never wants to speak to me again, but I spared him the trouble.
Fuck.
What have I done?
How can I fix this?
Can it even be fixed?
I sink into the couch as the dam that was holding my tears at bay breaks.