I admitted to having dropped the ball, and I had wanted to be the one to rectify the error, but my father had taken me off the project and put my brother on it. Since then I’ve been trying to earn back the trust I lost. Having my younger brother come in and take over was another punch in the balls. It’s not his fault he’s inherently good at everything he does, but sometimes his golden-boy status pisses me off, especially on top of my already shitty shit sundae.
My father takes his glasses off and folds the arms while my mother yawns. “I think we’re all tired here, so it might be best to call it a night and we can discuss any questions in the morning.”
“Sounds good.” I push up out of the chair and my mother rises. She’s still in her heels, but even with them on she barely reaches my chin. Her smile is pained as she steps up and straightens my tie, as is her habit. She purses her lips and adjusts my collar, then rubs at a spot on my neck.
Fuck. I know exactly what that is.
“Is that a—”
I put a hand over hers, hoping my expression conveys the silent message not to finish the question.
Pursing her lips, she moves her palm to my cheek. “That girl has no self-respect at all. I’m so sorry, Lexington. I promise not to play matchmaker with you anymore, obviously my choices lack class.”
I clasp her hand in mine. She’s shaky. “It’s not your fault, Mom. Please don’t blame yourself.” I’m certainly not going to tell her the hickey isn’t from Brittany. Since Brittany is already a villain, it doesn’t hurt to throw some extra fuel on the villainous fire.
She gives me a sad smile. “Thank you.”
I don’t think she’s referring solely to my comment, but also possibly my lack of fight over being sent out of the country for something that essentially isn’t my fault. “Just for you, though.” I hug her, hoping this whole thing doesn’t cause another rift between my mother and my aunt. Just as Armstrong is an ass, Gwendolyn can be a bitch.
I wait until the elevator is heading to the hotel lobby before I pull up flight info for Bora Bora. The elevator doors slide open and I step into the lobby, thankful it’s virtually empty. I should’ve asked my driver to meet me at a side entrance. I walk briskly, keeping my gaze locked on my phone to appear engaged and to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might still be here.
“Lexy!” The shrill, unwelcome voice almost trips me up.
I accelerate and pretend I don’t hear her, but the clip of approaching heels warns me escape is not possible. She reaches me just as I push through the doors and step into the blustery New York night.
“Hey!” Brittany grabs my arm.
“Don’t.” I yank free of her grasp and she stumbles back a step, wide eyes sad and glassy.
She clasps her hands in front of her chest and drops her head. “I’m sorry.”
I ignore the apology. “What’re you still doing here?”
She lifts a shoulder. It’s cold and she’s not dressed appropriately for the weather. The shawl covering her arms does nothing to stop the wind blowing up her too-short skirt. “My parents left without me. I thought maybe I should wait for you . . . but that was probably a bad idea, huh?”
I take a deep breath. A headache knocks against my temples. “Yes, it was a bad idea, Brittany. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused tonight?”
She fidgets a little with her purse and her hair, then sighs before she says something that makes me hate Armstrong even more. “Armstrong said he could help me get a modeling contract through Moorehead Media.” She rushes on. “No one was ever supposed to find out, and no one is ever really faithful anymore, and it’s not like you were all that interested tonight what with how mopey you were. And then you just up and disappeared after dinner, so I took the opportunity. I didn’t mean to ruin the wedding.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Armstrong and Brittany definitely deserve each other. I really don’t have the energy to manage this situation right now. My anger is too big, and if Brittany keeps talking I’m going to say something regrettable. “You should go home.”
I take her by the elbow and lead her to a waiting cab. I open the door and motion for her to get in. She slides over as if I’m joining her. “You have a credit card to pay for this?” I ask.
“So you’re not coming with me?”
“No, Brittany.”
“Why not?”
I rub the space between my eyes. “Do you honestly need to ask?”
She adjusts her skirt so she’s not at risk of flashing me or the cab driver. “But Armstrong said you wouldn’t care.”
I bark out a laugh. “You blew the groom at a wedding that wasn’t yours. Even if I didn’t care, what you’ve done is morally reprehensible.”
Her brow furrows. I assume it’s because I’ve used a word that has far too many syllables. She cocks her head to the side, her gaze focused on my neck. “Is that a hickey?”
“Good night, Brittany.” I slam the door and knock on the roof, then drop into the backseat of my own waiting car. This has been a miserable night, and I feel like the coming days are going to be more of the same until I’m out of the country and away from Armstrong’s drama. I wonder if it’s going to be as easy for Amalie.
Five: Anti-Honeymoon
Amie
I think I’ve cried more in the past three hours than I have in my entire life. What’s most telling is that my tears are primarily over how I’m going to manage this humiliation, not that Armstrong cheated on me. I think it might be shock. I’m sitting in Ruby and Bane’s living room nursing a glass of Perrier.
My luggage had been in the bridal suite, still waiting to be brought to our honeymoon penthouse for the night, but we’d run out of time and I’d forgotten to ask someone to take it up. Turns out that was for the best. Bane grabbed the luggage when he left the hotel and brought it back here.
Ruby felt her and Bane’s place would be a safer bet than mine, since there’s security and a doorman to prevent Armstrong from gaining access. And then there’s Bane, of course, who seems to be more than happy to act as my bodyguard.
Armstrong has been texting me incessantly. The messages have grown increasingly desperate over the past couple of hours.
The latest ones read:
Please respond, Amalie, we need to discuss how to manage this misunderstanding.
I’m certain we can find a reasonable way to handle this if you’ll just answer me.
We need to present a united front to alleviate the negative media attention.
I’m at your apartment but since you never gave me a key I can’t get in.
He’s never had a key because he never wanted to come to my apartment on account of the lack of amenities. I don’t respond, but a few minutes later I receive another series of messages:
I can see that you’re reading my messages. Are you home? Can you hear me knocking?
Where are you? Why aren’t you home yet?
We need to talk.
This wasn’t intentional.
The police are here. Did you call them? For God’s sake, Amalie, answer me!
I toss my phone on the couch and sigh. In the few hours I’ve been at Ruby’s I’ve only spoken to my mother, and very briefly. I was surprised, and relieved, when she didn’t mention forgiving Armstrong for his transgression even once during our conversation. She only wanted to know if I was safe, and to make sure I wasn’t with that “perverted liar of a husband.”