Page 253 of Forbidden Billionaires: Vol 4

“You’re the new kid, right?” Robert asked.

Oh God.They had noticed me at school. They’d probably seen me staring. I suddenly wished I truly was invisible. I nodded.

“I’m Rob. This is my brother, James. And apparently you’ve already met the troll.” He gestured toward Isabella who looked increasingly more furious with each word that fell out of his mouth.

One of the older women at the table cleared her throat. “Robert, that’s enough. Stop talking to the help and eat your food.”

Rob rolled his eyes.

And I laughed. A real one. The kind of laugh I had before I lost everything.

“What are you laughing at?” Isabella snapped. “Do your job.”

She was an awful human. But she was right. I was just standing there awkwardly talking to the guests like I belonged. And I definitely did not. I grabbed another entrée and walked behind Isabella’s chair just as she pushed it back to stand.

Maybe if my arms weren’t so tired from holding a tray for an hour I could have held on to the plate. But my arms were tired. The food fell onto my shirt as everything dropped, the expensive glass shattering on the floor. It was worse than the champagne spill I’d envisioned in my head earlier. So much freaking worse.Shit.

Everyone in the ballroom was staring at me. Every single pair of eyeballs condemning me.

“Clean it up,” Isabella said.

I had been standing there like an idiot. I knelt down, hating that I had to listen to her. It was her fault. She’d hit me with her chair on purpose, I knew she had.

It looked like Rob was about to get up and help me.

“She doesn’t need assistance, Rob,” said Isabella. “She’s smart enough to figure it out. Right, darling? Isn’t that the only reason you’re at our school? Because you were smart enough to earn yourself a scholarship? You’re not one of us.”

I heard a few snickers behind me. I could feel the tears burning in the corners of my eyes, threatening to escape. She was wrong and for some reason that stung even more. I wasn’t at their school because of a scholarship. I was there because my uncle literally cleaned up after them all day, like she was expecting me to do right now. That made me fit in even less. If Isabella knew the truth, she’d be more vicious. She’d crucify me. I wasn’t ashamed of what my uncle did. But I was terrified of Isabella’s wrath.

I started picking up the food and broken shards of glass. My hands were shaking. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was embarrassed or angry. All I could see were her stupid high heels standing beside the mess. She was looking down at me in all her glory. I shoved some of the glass onto the cart and one of the pieces sliced the side of my hand.Ow.

“Brooklyn, are you okay?” Kennedy knelt down beside me, ignoring the devil glaring over us. She grabbed my hand. “Jesus. Go take care of the cut. I’ll clean this up.”

I could never repay her for letting me escape this moment. For putting herself in the spotlight when I knew she wanted to blend in at this stupid party just as much as me.

“Seriously, go. I got this.”

“Thank you.” I grabbed my hand and stood up.

“Looks like you’ll definitely have to replace your shoes now,” sneered Isabella.

I looked down. Some of the juice from the steak had gotten onto my Keds. I rushed past Isabella without looking back. If I didn’t get some cold water on them, they’d stain.

All I could hear was her vicious laughter in my head as I pushed into the first bathroom I found.

I kicked off my left shoe, turned on the faucet, and plunged my shoe under the water. I started to scrub it with soap, but the stain wasn’t coming off. The tears I had been holding back before finally spilled out. I scrubbed the fabric harder. But now the blood from my hand was mixing with the water, creating more of a mess. The sink looked like a crime scene.

“You’re bleeding.”

I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck rise. My hand stopped scrubbing the fabric. I knew that voice from class. I’d recognize it anywhere. I looked up into the mirror in front of me. Matthew Caldwell’s face was reflected back beside my own.

“Am I in the men’s room?”Oh God, why were those the first words I’d ever spoken to him?I lifted up my shoe like I was about to put the soaking wet bloody mess back onto my foot and run away. What had I been thinking? Now I’d have to walk around with one shoe.

“You can buy new shoes,” he said, ignoring my question about which restroom I was in. “You can’t buy a new hand.” He walked up next to me, waved his hand under the automatic soapdispenser, and then stared at my reflection as he slowly took my hand in his. It was like he was asking my permission. I stayed completely still.

He dipped my hand back under the running faucet and started gently washing the cut.

I didn’t flinch from the pain of the water entering the wound. All I could feel was the warmth of his hands. And how rough his palms were. Probably from football. A chill ran down the back of my spine as the pad of his thumb traced the cut.