Page 95 of Ruled By Rivalry

He wanted to be mad at me, and I wanted to believe him. So badly, my heart fluttered wildly. “I don’t believe you.” How could he not know something that seemed so obvious to everyone else? To the lowest Adeline Ashwood employees? It made no sense. “I can’t believe you.”

Believing him had me lose sight of what mattered most in this world, and that was making my mother proud. Even if she wasn’t here to witness it.

I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. Waiting, wondering if he should say what’s on the tip of his tongue, and eventually deciding against it. His eyes cut back to me. “I don’t know what else to say to you. I don’t do lies. The rest of my family loves them, but—”

He was doing it again. Justifying himself in front of me. That’s why he cut himself off. That’s why I felt so bad. “There’s nothing more I can tell you besides the truth: I didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing more I can say either.” And I meant it when I squeezed past him and muttered, “I wish there was.”

I stayed at the venue until the last guests left, keeping myself busy to avoid accidental contact with Elliot. I helped clean up, then wished the Ashwood team a great night at the afterparty. Instead of going with them, I went back to the office.

Maybe because I couldn’t get that picture of our head designers on stage out of my head. Or maybe because I knew the studio was the only place Elliot definitely wouldn’t go to.

Thanks to Allegra’s need to share every part of her life on social media, I knew both of them were at the afterparty, and I’d made a good choice by not going. She was laughing, dancing, and batting those beautiful eyes at her camera.

I reached for the bottle of cheap wine I’d gotten at a liquor store on my way over. Nothing compared to the stuff I’d had with Elliot, but it was getting the job done. I only felt half as miserable as I continued working on Daphne’s dress. The soft, calming pink of the fabric probably had as much to do with that as the fact that I was tipsy.

By myself. I’d never been drunk by myself.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted into the speaker the second my best friend picked up her phone. There was rustling on the other end of the line, the sound of her heading from the bedroom into what I assumed to be Henry’s kitchen, or living room, or study. If she’d been at her place, she wouldn’t have left her bed at all. There wasn’t another room to go to in her studio apartment.

“Are you drunk?” she whisper-shouted, sounding just as confused as I felt.

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I think so. But I’ve never done this before—drink my feelings away.”

“What feelings?” Concern worked its way into her tone. “Are you alright? What happened?”

I groaned. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she basically screeched. “You always know! Everything! Where are you? I’m coming over.”

My phone was about to die anyway, so I simply hung up and sent her my address.

Chapter 37

“My best friend’s coming over,” I told Amir, like this was my apartment, not an office. Like he was my doorman, not a security guard who didn’t seem like my biggest fan.

He blinked at me from behind the reception desk, where he’d gotten comfortable for the night. Or, I guess, as comfortable as you could be in a suit at three in the morning, playing Candy Crush at work. “Does wearing a suit all day not become annoying? Is it like tights, where if you wear them for too long, they become itchy and don’t seem to fit quite right anymore?”

In emphasis, I scratched the knee of mine. The pattern in them might be making it worse.

Apart from the game’s music coming from his phone, the lobby was dead silent as I leaned against the counter between us. He put his phone down, and I was about to add something, just for the sake of it, when he finally said, “Are you . . . drunk?”

“No.” But my head shook too vigorously, and what I’d interpreted as slightly tipsy had done a number on me in the twenty minutes I’d been waiting for Paula. “Maybe,” I amended. “You won’t tell on me, will you?”

“I should tell someone. Call them to pick you up.” His brows drew together, not quite in concern but—confusion? Amusement?

I waved him off, and I didn’t mean to pat his shoulder in the process. It just kind of happened. It was right there, in the trajectory of my hand. “Paula is coming, silly.” The smile on my face didn’t feel loopy, but I imagined it was. “I just told you.”

“Did you?”

“Remember when I said ‘My best friend’s coming over’ like two minutes ago? Are you drunk?”

Thankfully, Amir was great at ignoring stupid things coming out of my mouth. “My job is quite literally not to let anyone into the studios. You can’t just . . . invite friends over. There’s classified stuff in there. Probably.”

“But she’s my best friend. Surely the job entails not letting anyone into the studios unless it’s Maeve Peterson’s best friend, Paula Castillo.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I can’t let her in—”