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Chapter 20
Vivienne
I’m pissed. And not necessarily at him. It’s more me that I’m pissed at.
I’m sure it looks like I’m running away from my problems, and maybe I am. You can think whatever you want, really, I don’t care. But I know that this whole situation is too fucked up beyond repair.
I’m the professional here, after all, so I should know. At least, I was before I let myself get wrapped up in this pretend, mind-fucking world. But it’s not like I haven’t tried to fix it. It is my job, and I do know how to spin anything; like I said before, I’ve had some sleazy-ass clients.
I looked over those pictures—all those fucking pictures—again and again. I scrutinized the hell out of them, and there’s just no way I can re-frame them into something positive and that’ll work with our arrangement.
He looks like the bad guy. Fucking around on his fiancée and drinking himself to oblivion. There’s no way around it.
It’s the opposite of the doting fiancé image I tried to create. Once a bad boy, always a bad boy. Oh, great—that fucking saying again. It keeps chiming in my ear and now, it’s biting me in the ass.
Spreading all the documents—stories and pictures of David—across the hotel room floor, I sit back and try to rearrange the pieces of the puzzle for the umpteenth time.
Christ, this is so fucking aggravating. I know I can do this, but I can’t get over why I let him get under my skin.
Why him?
Uhh.I know why. He’s the only man that knows how to make my toes curl, make me feel like a goddess, and treat me as if I’m the only person in the room all at the same time. It’s a dangerous and addicting combination that I couldn’t say no to, as much as I tried.
Yeah, I know…I didn’t try that hard.
And I was very aware of this when I took the job.
That’s what’s so damn frustrating. I knew this about him; I did my research and came in with all my armor—more than I thought I needed—but I still got mixed up in his games. I thought I’d be able to distance my heart from my head…and well, my cunt, too.
But, apparently, they’re all connected. Who the fuck would’ve thought?
And of course, I’m just finding that out now. Though, I suppose, it’s a lesson I have to learn on my own.
I get up, kicking some of the more provocative pictures of him and that fucking blonde, and grab my bottle of wine.
I don’t even pour it into a glass; I drink it straight out of the bottle. Eco-friendly, right?
I stare down at the mess and then make my way to the balcony, bottle in hand.
How sad. I haven’t even had time to roam this city—other than when I tried on that wedding dress. Fucking idiot.
And I barely got to know the country my client ruled. I read about it, of course, but I didn’t get to experience it firsthand.
Too bad; it looks like I won’t be getting to know it, after all.
I know I’ve already fled to a hotel, but I need to put more distance between me and the hot mess that he is.
He pulled me under once. I won’t let him do it again. The farther away I am from him, the safer I’ll be. I mean, my defenses pretty much suck, but I know that now, so why voluntary stay in the battle zone when I’ll lose?
What hurts the most is that I thought he really, genuinely cared about me. He seemed to actually want me, to possibly even enjoy my company. He couldn’t have been faking all that.
But he is the expert at this game, making women feel like a million bucks and then discarding them when he doesn’t need them anymore.
That’s exactly what he did to me. I thought I was immune, given that I knew his strategies, but he’s too strong. He’s the mastermind, dictating his pawn pieces and their every move.
Just like with those bribes to the gala. It’s all puffery.
I swig back a large gulp of wine, finishing the bottle, and I laugh at the tiny droplet left.
