Page 22 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?

After yet another eternity went by, I finally made it off the mattress, both feet firmly planted on the floor. My legs wobbled beneath me—not from the late hour but from the insane mix of anticipation and dread clawing up my spine.

Adrenaline spiked through me because here was the risky part.

What if he woke up right as I was rifling through his pants? What could I possibly say to diffuse that terrifying situation?

I had nothing.

However, my motivation was so strong that all this fear couldn't stop me. I needed to know.

Shuffling my bare feet along the carpet, I ever so slowly moved toward the foot of the bed where I saw a shadowy mound on the floor. That had to be it.

I'd already spotted my dress draped over a chair, along with his suit jacket.

Right next to his pants were my shoes. That was convenient for after...ifI didn't get caught.

I swallowed against the dryness parching my throat. This was insane. Absolutely insane. But I couldn't stop myself. I needed to see this through.

My poor heart pounded against my ribcage, so loud I wondered if he could hear it. I stole another glance at the bed, and he was still out.

As quietly as I could, I took a shaky breath and leaned down to reach for the pants, willing my fingers to work in silence. I felt my way from the front to the back, reaching into a rear pocket where I hit the jackpot.

Another surge of nerves shot through me as my greedy little hand clasped his wallet.

Oh, God. This was it.

Holy shit. I was about to find out who this man really was.

All that time I'd been waiting for him to shift his body from mine, I'd done a mental roster of every single man in this city that I could think of, comparing features, voice, mannerisms, and I'd come up blank. Even though there'd been that slight thread of familiarity, I still couldn't place him, and it was driving me up the wall.

Slowly removing his wallet—a sleek, leather Tom Ford that spoke of money and privilege—I thought I might have a heart attack as I brought it up closer to my face and opened it. As per most men's wallets, there was a clear window slot made specifically for a driver's license, and his was right where it was supposed to be.

The only problem was I couldn't quite make out the words or the photo.

I angled it toward the window, the only source of light, angling my head a bit as well to see it better.

Aha, success!

My eyes soaked in the picture first, and sure enough, the man looked familiar. Too familiar. My pulse slowed, and my stomach clenched, uneasy, like my body already knew before my brain had caught on.

But I still couldn't place him. The name would surely help.

I shifted my focus to the words, squinting to read them, cursing this darkness. And then, all of a sudden, the letters took shape, and I nearly fell to the ground in shock.

Tristan Hawthorne.Tristan Hawthorne.

No. No. NO.

Ice shot through my veins, freezing me in place. My fingers went numb, and the wallet nearly slipped from my grasp.

I read the words again, this time clear as day.

Tristan. Fucking. Hawthorne.

Oh,my God. This couldn't be real. It just couldn't be.

I was going to vomit.

I'd slept with Tristan Hawthorne?Tristan Hawthorne. The guy who'd made my life a living hell in high school, the one who'd tortured me with the cruelest experience of my life, that still haunted me to this day.