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Luc holds up his hand in protest, his face bearing a look of disgust. “I don’t have time for this shit today. Some of us have jobs to get to.”
“At their daddy’s company.”
The dresser drawer he’s riffling around in slams shut with bang. Luc stands, his jaw tightened in anger as he spins to face me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead where I stand. Yet I raise my chin in defiance, continuing to challenge his gaze. Fuck him for acting like I don’t do shit. Once I’m done with this final semester at Vassar, I’ll be launching my own business.
Our stare down is brief, ending when Luc decides my little tantrum is no longer deserving of his attention. He disappears into our walk-in closet, reemerging several minutes later in one of his power suits. It’s his armor, his way of compensating every time we go toe to toe. Some would accuse me of emasculating him. Fuck that. Don’t bark at me then get pissed when I bite.
He retrieves his watch from the dresser, fixing it around his wrist as he strolls past me, seemingly unfazed. “Goodbye, Daphne.” Luc’s tone is dismissive, his expression blank as he passes, not bothering to look back.
This interaction is nothing new. It’s played out enough times that I can map out how the next twenty-four hours will unfold.
Luc’s pissy attitude will follow him all the way to the cushy corner office his dad handed him at his high-profile accounting firm the second he graduated college last year. He’ll fire off passive aggressive texts to me all day, some of which will be sent while his secretary’s mouth is wrapped around his dick. I won’t see him for dinner, as he will undoubtedly now opt to go out for drinks with his douchy friends, and he’ll stroll in here sometime well after midnight reeking of perfume and scotch. If he’s feeling exceptionally petty, he won’t bother to hide the lipstick stains on his collar.
I don’t know what’s sadder. The fact that I have to fuck my fiancé with condoms because I can’t trust where his dick has been… or the fact that I truly don’t give a shit. One thing’s for sure, though—I’m pathetic either way.
My phone rings on the nightstand, drawing my attention to the name flashing across my screen.
SATAN
Realizing if I don’t answer she’ll just inevitably show up, I reach for my cell and accept the call.
“Mother.” I don’t even attempt to mask the unenthusiasm in my tone.
“We’re having lunch together to discuss wedding plans. I made reservations at Savor.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
She sighs loudly, making her annoyance known. “If you’re going to throw a hissy fit today, Daphne, I’d rather you do it now. It won’t be tolerated at the restaurant.”
“Is there any part of this phone call that couldn’t have been a text message?”
“12:30. We’re meeting the wedding planner. You will not be late.”
“Lo siento. No hablo inglés.”
“Daphne!” she snaps. “We have a lot of details to cover and only seven months to do it.” She pauses, her voice softer this time when she speaks. “I know you and I tend to not see eye to eye on things, but you’re my only daughter, and you’re getting married. Let me plan this wedding with you. Please.”
I clutch the phone tighter, internally groaning at my weakening resolve. My mother has close to zero redeeming qualities. It’s a fact she’s proven repetitively without fail over the last twenty-three years. I am ninety-nine percent positive today will end like all the others—in disappointment.
But then there’s always that one percent, and for some reason the possibility of it always seems to be just enough to keep me holding on.
“Daphne?”
“Yeah,” I exhale in defeat. Fuck. I’m gonna regret this. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”
“Wonderful!” she exclaims, her praise delivering a brief surge of endorphins. I curse the involuntary reaction, desperate instead for one of indifference. I don’t know why she still has this effect on me. I know better. Trust me, I stopped getting my hopes up a long time ago when it came to Belinda Burke. But like I said… that damn one percent.
“Remember, twelve-thirty. And Daphne? Dress appropriately. I know you have a particular style preference, but this isn’t a brothel.”
And there it is. God forbid we actually have a moment.
***
I’m not on time, but by my standards I’m also not terribly late. I pull up in front of the restaurant and hop out, not waiting for the valet to open my door.
“You trying to get me fired, Daph?” Franco, the valet who’s younger than me, whisper-hisses as I round the front of the car.
Chuckling, I toss him the keys to my Lexus, patting his chest as I pass. “Breathe, Franco. I’m capable of opening my own doors.”
