“You know what? Never fucking mind. I guess I should’ve expected this. The game’s over and no longer fun for you.” I clench my teeth, stopping my jaw from trembling.
“Stacia...” Talon says, messing with his tie.
I throw my hands out. “What?” I wait anxiously for him to come to his senses and tell me otherwise. I need him desperately. I’m afraid I’ll fall apart otherwise. I refuse to be a dirty little secret. I’m worth more than that.
Scrubbing his jaw with his hand, he shakes his head. “Just text me if you need anything. I’ll bring some things for dinner, okay?”
A part of me wants to scream and call him out. Another part of me wants to burst into tears, feeling as used as I did when Christos broke my heart.
But Leandro clears his throat, cutting the heavy silence. I don’t want him to see me fall apart over another one of my bad choices. I guess it’s better this way. Talon won’t get dragged down with me if everything continues to spiral out of control.
“Okay,” I manage to rasp out. “Whatever.”
Without waiting, I spin around and head back into the master suite, slamming the door.
I slump onto the bed and cover my face, sucking in a few breaths.
I refuse to cry. I refuse to let this get to me.
I build an imaginary steel wall around me.
It’s time I stop letting anyone in. It’s the only way I’ll never be left disappointed.
“Knock-knock, beautiful.” Leandro’s voice sounds through the door. “I have dinner. Don’t make me unscrew the hinges and barge in. You gotta eat. You’ve already skipped lunch.”
I remain curled up in bed with the blankets wrapped around me like a burrito. Am I being immature by ignoring Leandro? Most definitely. But I don’t feel like eating or moving. I roll over and snatch my new phone off the nightstand, tapping my finger to the screen.
Me: I’m sick. Just put it in the fridge for later. Thanks.
Leandro: What are your symptoms? I’ll bring you something.
Me: That’s okay. I just want to rest.
Leandro: Vomiting? Diarrhea? Both?
Is he serious?
Me: Jesus, no. I wouldn’t tell you if it was either.
Leandro: Headache? Stomachache? Nausea?
Damn, he’s persistent.
Me: No. It’s nothing. Just let me sleep.
Leandro: So you’re fatigued. Sore throat? Cough? Congestion?
Me: It’s the plague. Go away. I don’t want you catching it.
Leandro: Well, I’m not letting you die on my watch. So open the door.
I toss the phone and flip over. There’s no way in hell I’m opening the door. He’ll get bored and leave me alone. Pulling my knees to my chest, I hide under the pillow and try to ignore Leandro’s knock. Like I assumed, he stops and the hallway goes quiet.
I grab the TV remote and turn it on, wanting to lose myself to mindless TV. I used to watch reality shows until I was on one and made to look like a huge slut, but that never bothered me. I’ve always hated that perception. It was when they couldn’t get the reaction they wanted, and then they decided to bring on some other heiress to instigate me. It’s not scandalous when you stand up and speak out about the double standards instead of crying with mascara on your face with the camera rolling.
I would never do that, and so that was that. The show runners moved on.
I stop on a cult documentary, wondering if people would think the Society of Secrets was a cult. My chapter checks quite a few culty boxes, but I knew what I was getting into with my initiation. I gave up nothing and gained more. Maybe I’m a bit brain washed, but my rosy glasses that I’ve looked at the world through for years are a permanent accessory.