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She was small, a couple of years younger than me. And the way my dad looked at this woman's daughter, and watched her, made me sick inside.
He didn't look at her little brother that way.
I trembled with rage every time he smiled at her.
And I vowed then, there would be no more.
Present
Whoever picked out that dress was fucking fired.
No one should ever see that much of her skin unless it was me.
Constance walks out of the guest room in the penthouse. Tight black dress, curving to every inch of her tempting body. It wraps around her wide hips, love handles and snatched waist. The neckline plunges, hugging her breasts that seem to look as if they might fall out.
Her honey hued brown strands curl away from her face. A simple eyeliner on the top lids of her eyes, her lashes as black as my soul, making her silver eyes flash brighter, like a storm. Her lips are painted a sinister shade of red.
My eyes travel from her face, over the slope of her breast down the slit that slices all the way up above her pelvic bone.
My molars grind, no way she has anything under that. My innocent bird looks more like a fallen angel. Like we could somehow co-exist in the same realm. I know we can’t though. She’s not made for my world.
So why do I keep pushing her into it?
“What do you think?” She spins, giving me a three-sixty view.
The stylist comes out at the same time, handing me a bill. “You’re fired,” I hiss.
The man smiles, giving me a knowing wink as he says, “I’m not and you’re welcome.”
Sometimes, I wonder if people forget who the fuck I am. I know I’m not giving glowing vibes, so why test me?
I glower at the stylist, turning my glare back to Constance who smiles at me brightly. That smile is dangerous.
“Oh, wait.” She walks to me, her legs looking endless and I have to tighten my fist so I don’t reach out and snatch her, throw her over my shoulder and take her to my bed. Her hands rise to under my neck, my eyes boring into her.
“Why are you touching me, again?”
“Your bowtie was tilted.” She smiles again, silver eyes twinkling up at me.
I lightly push her back, pulling my sleeves down. “Think you can keep your hands off me?” I ask, glaring so hard into her eyes I hope she feels that glare for the rest of the night.
She shrugs a little shoulder. “Probably not.”
I sigh.
“Where are we going?” She asks.
“A birthday party.” I grumble. Grabbing my keys and walking to the elevator.
“Oh! I love birthday parties.”
I toss her another glare, pressing the button for the parking garage.
We make our way to my car. I don’t open her door, I’m not a gentleman, nor am I a liar.
Constance's eyessparkle as she takes in the vintage art gallery Luca has bought out for his birthday. Thirty-two, but acts like a twenty-one-year-old that just discovered alcohol. It’s not even eleven and he already has his tie undone. I shake my head, guiding Constance to the lonely table of Andrea and Jameson. Not that I can blame anyone for not wanting to sit with the Don. He’s a scary fucker without the reputation. His eyes connect with mine, slowly sliding over to Constance and dragging down her body.
My hand tightens on her back, and I narrow my eyes at him. Andreas eyes dance as he looks back over to me, a smirk. Jameson looks between us, slightly shaking his head and taking a drink of his scotch. Something he does a lot of these days with the situation he’s been thrown into.
