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I hate this.
Some senator’s wife flutters her fake lashes at Pasha and giggles so incessantly, her turkey neck wobbles. “Oh, stop! You’re too much!”
You’re too much, lady. Too much surgery, not enough moisturizer.
I almost slap myself for the thought. I cannot stoop to their level. It’s too easy, though, especially when half the table is making eyes at Pasha like he belongs on the fucking menu.
The other half is eyeing me like I belong in the dumpster.
Pasha leans back in his chair and makes a show of wrapping his arm around the back of mine. “If you’ll excuse us…” he says while standing. He offers me his arm. “It’s been a pleasure.”
With all the charm and grace of a practiced socialite, Pasha sweeps us away from the table and into the flow of conversationalists eagerly looking for new connections to schmooze.
“Who was that old guy sitting next to you?” I whisper to him out of pure curiosity. “He looked like he'd seen a ghost.”
“When you’re that close to death’s door, you see a lot of ghosts,” Pasha jokes. Smile disappearing, he adds, “He’s also someone who owes me more than he can afford to pay.”
“Is he even going to live long enough to pay you back?”
Pasha grins at me. “Listen to you. A woman after my own heart.” He turns me to him in a graceful move. “It’s like you were born for this life, Daphne. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I wish so much I could ask him to clarify. There are two lives happening simultaneously here, but I don’t know if he realizes he’s not the only one walking between both of them.
If he means this world of tittering dignitaries and glittering gowns… what is he going to think when he finds out I literally was born for this life?
And I threw it all away?
I don’t get much time to dwell on it before he glances at his phone and winces. “Stay here,” he orders. “I’ll be right back.”
“Everything okay?” After the past few days, I’m ready to run at a moment’s notice.
Hell—please, please give me an excuse to run from here.
Pasha cups my face in his hand and kisses me tenderly.
Is it for show? Probably.
Do I still love it? Absolutely.
“Everything’s fine. Just need to make sure the transition between guards goes smoothly, that’s all.”
“Okay. I’ll wait right here.”
He’s gone in a whiff of cologne. I know I could mingle, and maybe I should. But I really don’t feel like schmoozing, so I pluck a glass of water from a service table and sip from it as delicately as if it were champagne.
Ugh. Champagne. How I miss thee.
“Well, well, well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
I hide my sigh as best as I can. Here we go. But when I turn to shoo off the sleazeball sidling up to me, I pause.
He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him in the newspapers, sure.
No… he looks really familiar.
How do I know him?
“I never knew Pasha was into pregnant whores. But hey, who am I to judge?” He downs what’s left in his martini glass. “The man’s like a fucking STD. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get rid of him. But I guess I can’t complain about tonight.” He slides his gaze over my body. “He brought you.”
