Acting on instinct, I take off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. And get a whiff of vanilla and lavender.
That fraction of a second seems to slow and stretch. Goosebumps of my own break out. I bite back a curse. What the hell was I thinking, putting that jacket on her like I still care? It’s a move I might have made ten years ago because I was pussy-whipped. But don’t I know better now?
Thank God I have the sense to not cradle her cheek with my palm, or run my thumb over her cheekbone like I used to. That would be the ultimate farce, especially if she closed her eyes and placed her hand over mine as though she was afraid I’d withdraw…like she used to.
She turns to face me, her fingers di
gging into my jacket and pulling it closer.
“Dominic.”
My name on her lips is poignant…even though she sounds like nothing like she used to. Ten years ago, she always sounded slightly breathless, slightly bubbly. Now her voice is all polished warmth.
And I hate it because that warmth isn’t real. She might fool others, but not me.
She lowers her gaze to look at her drink. “How did you get in?”
“The usual.”
“I don’t recall the foundation receiving a donation from you.”
“Because I never gave one. I need to be wooed. Personally. If the cause is good enough, I’m sure you can manage…unless my money isn’t good enough for you and your precious foundation.” Damn it. I didn’t mean to sound so bitter—like I give a fuck about her approval.
The sadness crossing her face causes a small twinge in my heart—and pisses me off. Why is she sad? If she can use my money for a good cause, she should just pinch her nose and take it.
Because I hate it that I might still care, I add, “The only thing you wanted from me was my dick.”
Her eyes flare, and red tints her cheeks. She stares at me as though I’m a monster.
The reaction galls me. I’ve never said anything untrue, as infuriating and humiliating as our past was. How little I meant to her became crystal clear when she started dating all the rich boys in her proper social circle soon after my world crashed and burned. She didn’t really want me back then—a twenty-one-year-old college kid with no money, no prospects and a younger sister to care for.
Humiliation still burns me every time I think of the way I told her about my dreams and plans. How she must’ve laughed in private. How ridiculous—a kid with nothing, having such grand ambition.
But here I am—with a multibillion-dollar empire I built. And I’m honest enough with myself to acknowledge I want to rub it in her face. I want to see her regret betraying me. I want to hear her admit she was wrong and apologize.
That’s the least she can do.
That’s the least I’m entitled to.
Her brown eyes linger on me. They’re sad, but not for the reasons I want her to be sad. It’s the same expression she had when she realized she couldn’t dupe me anymore. But this time, she doesn’t bother with tears. Or maybe she figures it’ll be more effective without them.
“Who brought you here?” she asks.
“Annabelle Underhill.”
Her lips tighten, but it isn’t from jealousy. And that annoys me more.
“She’s bad news.”
“Really?” Stick a knife in her and twist. “I could say the same about you.”
“If you feel that way, why are you here?”
“To make myself clear.”
She tilts her face, looking up at me with eyes so dark and deep I feel like I’m falling.
I can’t look away without appearing weak, so I steel myself and add acid to my tone. “In the last ten years, you’ve built a reputation. People call you an angel, compare you to Mother Teresa, call you the champion of the poor and suffering.”