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Allthese months, I struggled with whether to accept it or not. Donnie had shown me video and pictures of Foster delivering packages and asking to be invited to Sunday dinner, but still, my foolish heart believed Foster was a good guy and there must be some other explanation. Now the life-size proof sits across from me at my father's table. He's an unscrupulous bastard and he played us all like a symphony. Well, watch out, Foster Dunham. Hell hath no fury like a rich girl scorned.
"I don't know," I reply to Renzo's question, pretending to be flippantly coy. "Is there a ring amongst my birthday presents?"
Foster's eyes blow wide open and he chokes on his wine. Renzo's head snaps back. "Would you be happy if there was?" He wipes his mouth with his napkin. He's chomping at the bit hoping I mean what I'm saying.
"All girls love to receive jewelry on their birthday. Don't they?"
Renzo blinks and turns his attention back to his plate as his lips tighten in a short grin. "Of course."
Foster has finished coughing and is now gripping his fork like a weapon. A vein in his neck twitches. Fine. Be angry. What do I have to lose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
My dad clinks his glass with his fork and commands everyone's attention. I can barely control my anger long enough to look up at him.
"Listen to me for a second. Three generations of Bianchis sacrificed their balls for Bianchi Industries. When the road gets dark, it's your family who remains faithful. When you're alone, the sole light in the tunnel is the one who carries your blood, the one who will shed that blood to save yours. I know one thing; fidelity is its own reward. You got true family, you'll never be alone."
What the hell is he talking about? My father has a way of adding a heavy dose of guilt to his unconditional love, but this is beyond the pale. He's got me shaking in my boots and I have no plans to abandon him.
His speech seems to have affected Foster. He's looking down at his plate. When he looks up, I catch his gaze for a second and I see pain like he's burning from the inside. He would love to be part of this family, even if it is dishonest and dysfunctional, and my dad just made it clear he is not part of it and never will be. Foster clears his throat and breaks our stare.
I want to feel sorry for him, but I can't. He chose this path. He connived and manipulated his way in here and if he gets excluded by my dad, he deserves that and everything else for lying to me and breaking my heart. He twisted himself into someone he's not just to get ahead and that never pays off.
Renzo peers at my dad with stars in his eyes. He must think he's part of the family, or he's going to be soon, because he's eating this up.
As we move through the courses of fine Italian cuisine, the pressure between Foster and I builds like we're frogs sitting in a heating pot of water.
Foster looks at me across the table and the skin on my arm grows goosebumps. Something evil and convoluted is going on under the surface, and it's breaking what little resolve I could muster tonight. I feel terrible for flirting with Renzo. I'm confused why Foster is here. I have to flee this dinner and whatever Foster's cooking up with my father. My heart needs to run and hide under a pint of ice cream and a handful of melatonin.
My hands shake and my voice cracks as I place my napkin on my plate and stand up. "I, uh, I have to go."
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" my dad asks.
As Foster stands, everything about him mocks me. He laughs with his tall body, his trim waist, his broad shoulders, and the green fabric of his shirt playing off his eyes. He's gorgeous. He fits in here. He used me to get his spot at the table. I'm the fool.
This is too much. I can't stand it. "I'm sorry. I feel ill." I step away from the table and scuffle to the door. "My stomach didn't take the food well."
My dad stands. "Don't be silly, sweetheart. Stay and have cake. Presents."
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really not well. I need to go get some medicine at the store." I lean forward and press my hand to my stomach as I leave the dining room.
My father follows behind me. "We'll send someone for whatever you need."
"I'll just go. It's faster."
Foster appears and holds out his hand, palm up. "Please, Mila, stay." Foster's pleading voice slices my heart like a box cutter through cardboard. He expects me to stay and suffer through this torture? No. Never. He can carry on with his Machiavellian plan outside of my presence.
Before he can say another word, I have my keys and bag and I'm at the elevator.
Foster moves toward the elevator with his mouth open like he wants to say something, but he's too late. The doors close with me inside, him out there. Two different worlds, never to be meshed.
The elevator takes forever to reach the parking garage. My dress pulls tight as I run to the safety of my car. The beep of my vehicle and the silence inside when I close the door feels like a refuge. I made it. It's over and I'm never going back. If Foster is going to be at Sunday dinners, I won't be there.
I hate him and I never want to see him again.
He wanted to sit at the table with the Bianchis and pretend I meant nothing to him? I hope he gets everything hedeserves. I hope my dad messes with his head and casts him away like Foster did to me. Foster looked so damn arrogant in his tailored suit! He had the nerve to stare me down like I had done something wrong. I did nothing! He's the one who betrayed us and what we were building.
A flash of something hits my windshield and the car skids to a stop.
Oh my God. Foster is lying flat on his chest on the hood of my car. His arms are wide out to his side and his palms are flat. He's clinging to the car like Spider-Man, his eyes wild like a demon possessed!
