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"Have it your way." She sips her coffee like she’s here for afternoon tea. I’m still reeling from her reference to my serving coffee.

"Don't look so shocked. I know all about you, Alexa James," she says, as though she can read my mind.

“You're certainly beautiful; I'll give you that. However, you have an edge about you. That’s not a good thing. I'm sure Ben thinks that he likes being challenged. I'm sure it's exciting, especially in the bedroom... Pardon me…that wasn't very ladylike.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

Frigid Bitch Barbie just keeps talking, and I can’t figure out what to do. I’m shocked but still trying to work out how the hell she got in here. I don’t want to piss her off. I’ve seen lifetime movie network, and it never works out well when you challenged the crazy ex. Where is Ben?

Oh, shit. She’s still talking. I’ve zoned out, imagining the ways she could probably dismember me with a nail file.

“But, it takes a certain type of breeding to be the wife of a person like Benjamin… qualities that can't be learned in a diner or a stay at school, for that matter. Even a fancy one.”

I fist my hands, my nails biting into my palms, disgusted with hearing her talk about me like I'm nothing. But I won't give her the satisfaction.

“And let me guess…you do?” I spit out.

“Why, yes, dear, I do. That's why he gave me his ring.” She flashes her hand at me, and it takes everything in me not to go across the room and knock that smile off her face.

“Then, why did you fuck his best friend?” My hands and move to my hips as I pour out my anger on this horrible, shallow, sorry excuse for a woman.

“Was it ladylike when the closest thing your fiancé had to a brother was mounting you from behind on top of this desk… in the office at the company that he built from the ground up?” Her look turns too shocked. Gasping, she puts her hand against her chest is if I smacked her.

“Save the dramatics, Scarlett. No one here gives a damn,” I spit out, fist pumping internally.

She looks at me in confusion. “Yeah, I know all about it. I also know what you're really after. State school education or not, I'm smart enough to know that this is about HALtech, nothing more.”

“What do you know about it?” she questions.

I realize I've already said too much, potentially giving away what Ben has been finalizing before the ink even has had a chance to dry on the merger.

“Nothing,” I lie.

She seems satisfied with my answer, smug even. “Figures. He would never discuss business with you, MBA student or not,” she digs. I’m uneasy with how much she seems to know about me.

“I think it's time for you to go,” I tell her, ready to have her gone and figure out where Ben is.

“Just as well…I have an appointment, and I really should be going. Punctuality is a very important quality to possess.” She looks up at me, setting down her cup.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” she says like I offered it. Crazy. “I always loved this coffee maker,” she adds, standing and catching my startled expression. “I should know; I picked it out,” she giggles, as if she’s letting me in on some secret joke.

Reading the confusion on my face like a supermarket tabloid, she says, “Oh, dear…he didn't tell you this was our place before he decided to turn it into his little bachelor pad?”

"Leave." The whisper barely escapes my lips, as tears sting my eyes. “Ben will be here any moment.”

“Actually, he won't. We have brunch plans with my parents. Why do you think he’s gone, silly?” I’m going to be sick.

“Are you delusional?” I ask, honestly convinced that she is.

“It seems to me that you're the one living in a fantasy,” she criticizes, waving her hand in the general direction of me, then allowing the wave to encompass the room.

“I truly hate to see how invested in him you have become. Your little dance the other night almost had me fooled.” I suck in a quick breath; of course, she was there.

“Don’t worry…he made sure I kept my distance. But that’s only because he didn’t want me telling you what I’m telling you now. I saw the way you looked at him, and woman to woman, I knew I had to come to you,’ she goes on, and I can barely hear anything because of the anger ringing in my ears.

“He made his point – he got even. Enough games; we have a life to move on with. And, it would seem you do too. Here…this should say at all.” She hands me an envelope she pulls from her handbag, which probably cost more than a year’s worth of tips.

While the white, thick stationary is heavy in my hands, my heart is what is feeling the heaviest. I’m afraid to open it.

“He's not coming back,” she adds, patting my arm.