Page 14 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

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CASSIA

Sometimes I wish I could stop thinking, stifle every worry, memory, and inner monologue until there’s nothing left, but I’m stuck trying to find a way to be normal while my own mind tortures me. This morning, the pounding in my head amplifies every thought.

By the time the second cup of coffee kicks in, the headache starts to subside, but the self-loathing lingers, a splinter in my finger I can’t quite dig out.

I drank way too much last night. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up mid-morning in Mace’s room, with his side of the bed cold and a note that he had to go take care of something and he’d be back.

If he thinks we’re sharing a bed because he said so, he’s wrong.

Last night was a mistake that won’t happen again.

At some point, my things were delivered, and I must’ve slept hard, because my clothes are already hung up in his closet.

Determined to make a point, I pick out the guest room farthest away from his and move in my toiletries and clothes, my little act of defiance, and then go in search of more liquid ambrosia.

The front door opens as I’m nursing my coffee, contemplating what to eat. I freeze on the barstool, heart slamming against my rib cage. Should I call out or should I hide? Is this the mafia coming to get me? Did Mace change his mind after last night?

A stout woman with gray hair, that gives hints of the brunette it used to hold, and round cheeks bustles into the kitchen. Reusable shopping bags full of ingredients dangle at her side. Her brown eyes meet mine and she pauses. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Cassia. You?”

Her grip on the straps of the bags tightens. “I’m the chef.”

“No name?”

“You can call me Chef,” she says, eyeing my messy hair, but she’s too polite to comment on my appearance. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can make something.”

That earns me a glare that has me shrinking in my seat.

“No.” She points to herself. “Chef.”

I don’t know if it’s clear, but I think she’s the chef.

“Right . . . um, sure then. I haven’t had breakfast.”

With a harrumph , she nods and places the bags on the counter. “I’ll bring it to you.”

That’s a dismissal if I ever heard one. With a soft sigh, I grab my mug and slip off the barstool, padding through my new house.

There are a few boxes of my things by the front door.

I peek into one, curious to see what the movers grabbed.

Sorrow suddenly grips my chest. Carefully reaching inside, I grab my favorite picture of my parents, one taken before I was even born, and smooth my fingers over the rough wooden frame.

What would they say if they could see me now?

Biting my cheek, I force back tears and stand, searching for a good place to set their picture. I’ll worry about the rest of the boxes later. Part of me hopes that if I leave them, maybe someday, I’ll get to go home.

Hope is a vicious beast, though. I can cling to it for another day or so before reality rips me apart.

With my parents’ photo clutched to my chest, I meander through the mansion, ending up in the den.

The moody, dark green walls are strangely comforting.

The mantel above the fireplace holds a few picture frames.

Curiosity drives me toward them. There’s one family portrait where everyone appears properly miserable and severe.

Haven’t you heard? Rich people don’t smile.

But that doesn’t hold true as my gaze traverses over the rest. They’re all of Mace with the two girls who clearly look like him.

Sisters . In those pictures, they’re all smiling.

On the beach. In a cabin next to a Christmas tree.

On some Ferris wheel. Memory after memory.

They’ve had years together.

Jealousy gnaws at me, warring with the grief that sends a dull ache radiating through my body.

My mom and grandpa both passed away when I was young.

Dad lived a little longer, but the heart attack stole him from me way too soon.

A parent should never have to bury their child, and after losing her husband and daughter-in-law, it was too much pain for Mimi to handle in her frail state.

She followed him to the grave. My grandparents on my mom’s side are estranged.

I don’t have a family to build memories with. Rose has been the only constant in my life, but she has a husband now. She obviously hasn’t abandoned me, but they have a different level of intimacy our friendship can’t compare to.

Looking at my parents’ smiling faces, I swallow the agony of living without them and carefully place the picture frame in a vacant space.

“There you are,” Chef says with a huff.

Spinning away from the mantel, like I’ve been caught sneaking cookies, I paste on a smile. “Here I am.”

Chef’s attention moves from me to the pictures. The worn wooden frame sticks out like a lawyer wearing a hot pink power suit. “Is that your family?”

Pushing aside the grief, I nod. “My parents,” I say with an aching rasp.

She pauses, searches my face, and nods in understanding. “My dad died a few years ago. It doesn’t really get easier, does it?”

“No,” I confess, looking away before I start crying.

“Have you met Mace’s sisters?” Chef asks, changing the subject with ease.

“Oh, um, no. Not yet.”

She places the steaming plate full of eggs, hash browns, and savory bacon on the table. “They’re nice. Trouble, but nice.”

“That’s good,” I say awkwardly. Does she know about Mace and me getting married?

“If you have food preferences, I need to know so I can prepare.”

Guess that answers that question. “The only thing I don’t like is mayonnaise and pickles.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Octopus?”

“Who eats octopus?” I ask with a nervous laugh .

Chef pointedly glances around, as if to remind me of the mansion I’m standing inside of.

“Right,” I say with a frown. “I’ve never tried it. But I like Chicken French.”

Her eyes soften, the first hints of her being human. “Honey, these people don’t eat Chicken French. How about steak or fish?”

Right. Silly me.

“Those are great. I promise, I’m not picky.”

Chef tips her head and considers me.

“What?” I ask, worrying I’ve said something wrong again.

“I’m glad you’re not a spoiled brat,” she confesses.

“Thanks, I guess?”

She grins, then glances at the food, which I have yet to touch, and scowls. “Eat,” she demands.

“Yes, ma’am.” I scurry over to the table, and she chuckles, leaving the room and mumbling about octopus.

I’m way out of my comfort zone here.

My phone dings multiple times, the notifications persistent enough to drive me out of the water.

With nothing better to do on a Sunday, and no desire to figure out how to go about leaving the Astor compound, getting in the heated pool was the natural choice.

I cut through the water to the stairs, warm water dripping off me as I make my way over to my device.

The fluffy towel I grabbed from the stand near the front door chases away the chill of getting out of the water. I clutch it to my chest and plop down in a lounge chair, unlocking my phone. There are a bunch of missed calls from Rose and a flurry of texts. I check those first.

ROSE

Oh my god. Did you see NYC Socialite’s latest update?

For the record, your ass looks fabulous.

Holy shit, it’s at ten thousand views.

Don’t read the comments.

Guess the cat is out of the bag.

Cassia! You can’t be MIA while your life is being dissected online.

My stomach drops. Oh no, no, no, no. Aside from kissing Mace’s ass most of the time, NYC Socialite isn’t exactly known for being kind. I still don’t understand why they always post nice things about him but terrible things about Rose.

With trepidation tightening in my chest, I pull up the site, my eyes fluttering closed when a picture of me and Mace at the jewelry store loads.

Dammit.

Gathering my courage, I look at the page again, reading the headline.

Has NYC Socialite’s favorite prince finally found his princess?

I’m grinning at Mace in the picture, actually looking like I’m enjoying myself, and he’s gazing down at me like I’m something precious.

Or, at least, that’s how the camera angle makes it seem.

We both know the truth. I was pissed, while he was bored and amused by my irritation.

The angle of the picture is awkward, as if the phone was held down by someone’s leg and taken close enough that either another customer took the photo, or one of the staff did. My ass is, indeed, front and center.

The article itself is short, detailing what we were caught buying, how much they think we spent, and a promise to figure out more about Mace’s mysterious redhead.

Unable to help myself, I scroll down to the comments, bracing myself.

Experience with articles written about Rose wasn’t enough warning.

The comments are similar to what she always received, only they’re pointed at me, ripping apart my appearance, the clothes I’m wearing.

Then there’s the thread that’s already at two hundred comments about who I am.

Someone identified me as Rose’s best friend. From there, links to my social media accounts were shared. Some asshole from that stupid private high school we used to attend made a dig about me being the scholarship kid, and the rest of the comments are vicious and, frankly, disgusting.

Oh my god. Is she poor?

Of course she is, look at her outfit.

What’s a billionaire doing with the maid?

Gold digger.

She must suck dick like a champ.

Grip tightening on my phone, I scroll and scroll through the hate that’s flooding in, my body heating the more they make fun of me and tear me apart.

I knew Rose struggled with this website, but fuck me, this is brutal.

My eyes start to burn somewhere around the one-thousandth comment.

I barely register the door to the pool room opening and don’t look up when I feel the familiar weight of Mace’s gaze.