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But it hadn’t happened. It would never happen.
“…disgusted…annoyed….” The words the women exchanged in the bathroom had been expertly administered poison, a drop here and there to infect her soft tissues, invade her organs, and quickly and efficiently kill her. Murder every bit of confidence, self-worth, happiness, hope, and dreams of a future with the man she’d fallen in love with one conversation, one smile, and one look at a time.
And none of that meant anything to Patriot.
She meant nothing to Patriot.
“Goodnight,” she’d muttered to a glazed-eyed Cluster, and easily maneuvered around him, heading to the exit door leading to the parking lot. And on her way through the partying throng, she’d caught sight of Sasha, Marci, and Kiki standing by a pool table, watching her, smirks and knowing looks on their faces.
Cilla gasped, realization slamming into her like a drunken biker.
They’d known she was in there when they’d started in on her. They’d known she would hear. They’d known they were ripping her apart—flesh and vein—and they hadn’t cared.
Pushing back the burning behind her eyes and the tingling in her nose that told her tears were imminent, she’d raced from the building.
She’d gotten in her car and hadn’t looked back once.
Cilla couldn’t remember how she got home, or how she got that dress off, but she knew she was wearing only her bra and panties.
Her stomach growled, breaking the oppressive silence in her bedroom, and she groaned. She hadn’t eaten yesterday, too nervous about the party and seeing Patriot and him seeing her in her stupid dress to have any appetite at all.
Her body wanted food, but she didn’t know if she could swallow a bite.
She waited, her stomach continuing its unhappy noises, and finally her demanding bladder dragged her from the cocoon of her bed.
After doing her bathroom business, Cilla avoided the mirror and headed into her closet. She stripped off her underwear and bra—two expensive pieces of sexy lingerie she couldn’t really afford but had bought when she was hopeful about her night. God…how freaking dumb was she really, to think a man as beautiful as Patriot would give a crap that she was wearing lingerie? He had Jaime—long-legged, trim, blonde, with firm tits, tight ass, and a blinding smile. No wonder Patriot was intent on claiming her—she’d make the perfect ol’ lady for him. They looked perfect together. His dark features with her golden ones.
They would make beautiful babies.
Something twisted in her chest, making her breath catch. An image—a little girl with Patriot’s dark hair, and eyes with central heterochromia—flashed through her mind. She captured the sob before it escaped.
That wouldn’t be her future. No matter how much her heart wanted it. No matter how her soul hoped for it.
He was with Jaime, the goddess in high-heeled boots. She could admit that Patriot and Jaime, together, were stunning. A couple written in the stars.
Beside him, Cilla looked like an overweight pug, gazing up at him adoringly, begging for any scrap of attention he would give her.
Sighing, Cilla donned her Netflix and Nutterbutter attire—sweatpants and a hoodie—and headed into the kitchen to get the Nutterbutters. She might not have a real appetite, but peanut butter cookies always made things better.
She had to believe that, anyway. Things couldn’t get worse, right?
The universe decided to test that theory because not even an hour later, there was a decisive knock on her door. Stunned, she halted with a cookie, inches from her mouth.
So close to peanut butter oblivion!
She paused the episode of the K-drama, My Demon, she’d been visually devouring, and glanced at the door.
Maybe if she sat quietly, whoever it was would go away.
Another knock dashed that idea.
Grunting, she slowly put the cookie back, then rose to her feet. She shuffled to the door and got up on her tiptoes to gaze through the peephole.
Her whole body locked up at who she saw.
She gasped, her heart racing.
Patriot was on the other side of her door.
