Page 95 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?

"Oh, please." She snorted. "You could have. You just would've cried more."

I laughed, nodding at the same time.

And then she was off, rushing toward the bathroom with a giant bottle of water in her hand. Grabbing my own things, I gave the area one last look around before slinging my bag over my shoulder.

The buzz of the show still clung to the air while infusing every part of me, a magic excitement pumping through my veins.

God, I was in love with my job.

Heading toward the back exit, I flung the door open, the cool air a welcome blast against my overheated skin.

Inhaling the crisp air, I paused to close my eyes for a moment, soaking in the vibe one last time before I moved on.

And when I opened them, that's when I spotted him.

My heart stopped. Then thudded to life again, sprinting in my chest like it was a wild beast trying to escape.

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

Tristan Hawthorne stood there, leaning casually against a wall by the loading docks, half in shadow, his tie loosened, his dark hair slightly messy, and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He looked... wrecked. Tired. Beautiful. Hopeful.

For a split second, I thought I might be hallucinating him. That my exhaustion had conjured up an image of him, a ghost of my past and present colliding.

But when he smiled at me, looking straight into my eyes, I knew he was real. Very real.

And he was here.

He knows who I am.

And I am well and truly fucked.

Twenty-Five

Astrid

I stopped in my tracks, frozen to the spot, not sure I'd ever be able to move again. If you'd asked me a moment ago, I wouldn't have thought I was capable of another adrenaline rush after all the excitement of the day.

But this? The nerves rushing around inside me rivaled anything I'd felt all day.

Only it was different.

Because this was Tristan—Tristan—standing feet away, my mask ripped off and torn to shreds, my anonymity gone forever.

I might as well have been naked out here on this February evening, all my emotions bared to him, the entirety of my humiliating past exposed for him to know and see and dissect.

He knew everything now.Everything.

Moving toward me like I was a wild animal, cautious, hesitant, he opened his mouth to speak. "Astrid," he said softly, my real name falling from his lips like a reverent prayer.

"What—what are you doing here?" I somehow managed to say, my voice coming out in a squeak.

Was there any chance in hell that he didn't know that his mystery woman and Astrid Stratton were one and the same? Maybe he'd just shown up at my show for some mysterious reason and wanted to chat about the good old days at St. Lucius.

Hope filled me like a balloon, but just as quickly it burst and came crashing down, slamming into me with a force I didn't know was possible.