Page 85 of Empire State Enemies

She blinks up at me, her tipsy haze momentarily lifting.

“We’re out of here. It’s late, we’ve got work tomorrow. Plus Connor Quinn is an absolute bastard, and I can’t stand another minute in the same room as him.”

Kayla pouts dramatically but slides off her stool, unsteady on her feet.

“A bastard, am I?” I stiffen as Connor’s voice drifts from behind me.

Slowly I turn to face his towering, perfectly tailored frame, hands casually in his pockets. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“How will I ever get over such a harsh critique, Lexi?”

My face heats up, but I stand my ground. “Sometimes the truth stings, doesn’t it?”

He lets out a low, amused chuckle. “It’s fine, you’re free to go. Willow and I will be heading upstairs soon . . .” His words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Jealousy stabs at me, unwanted and sharp.

Don’t do this in front of me, I want to plead.Don’t rub your perfect little romance in my face when you just got done tearing me to shreds.

“Great. I’m so glad your fake romance is real,” I say, my voice strained with forced indifference.

He lazily digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. “Here, take this for the cab ride home,” he murmurs, pressing the cash into my numb hand.

How charming. I wouldn’t be surprised if he patted me on the head and called me a good girl. It’s beyond humiliating. His taunts hit me again and again, like a cruel boxer, for maximum humility. For reminding me of my station in his life, of what I am.

If I knew I was winning the Mega Millions later tonight, I’d cram the bills down his throat. Watch him choke on them like he’s choking on his own ego.

My chest tightens as I watch him saunter off toward the elevator without a care in the world, presumably to dislocate something in bedroom Olympics with perfect Willow.

I look down at the thick wad of cash crumpled in my sweaty palm. Enough to get me to the next state, never mind over the bridge. To travel far away from here. From him.

And I hate myself for slipping it into my purse anyway as I watch his arrogant back recede.

TWENTY-THREE

Lexi

“Morning, Willow!” I chirp when she answers, my tone all slick professionalism. Inside though, I’m ashamed to admit I lay awake imagining her and Connor’s hotel porn shoot in vivid detail. Because I’m a masochistic loser. “Did you see the press coverage from yesterday? It’s great!”

I wonder if her eyelashes survived the night.

“Yeah, I had a quick look at the shots,” comes her breezy tone. But there’s this little uptick in her voice, a tiny crack in the veneer. It’s broadcasting loud and clear that Willow’s been deep-diving into the social media abyss, leaving no blog unturned, no reel unwatched. “They’re good, though they made my knee look weird in one. Can you fix that?”

“Sure.” Lying flows like Connor’s expensive champagne for me these days.

I hear the swish of sheets and her footsteps echoing on floor. No doubt meandering some presidential suite wrapped in a teeny silk sheet, with a naked Connor lounging on Egyptian cotton.

It’s 10 a.m. and they’re still in fucking bed?

I grind my teeth, envisioning myself on a beach with a Jason Momoa cabana boy massaging me while Connor and Willow areconveniently lost at sea. Happy thoughts. On a different beach to Mom and her Sean Connery cabana boy, obviously.

“I’m certain it’s just the lighting. You look flawless as always.” Casually I probe, “How’s Connor feeling about the photos this morning?”

“I’ll ask him,” she hums distractedly.

He’s still there then.

Against my will, I picture her raking her nails on that sculpted torso like I did in his office that day, making him shudder. My gut twists, simmering with resentment. Why the hell do I even care?