Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62509 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62509 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“He was, well, something special.”
“That’s what you need more of. Someone special. Not all the men your father throws at you and wants you to be with.”
“He wants what’s best for me,” I reply, walking away from this conversation. While grabbing my purse, I notice an envelope is sitting on the kitchen counter with my name on it that I didn’t see earlier.
“No, he wants what’s best for his image. You should know this by now,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll.
“I have to go. When did this come?” I ask, holding up the envelope.
“When you were showering,” she replies, not even looking my way.
Emma isn’t my father’s biggest cheerleader. She hates all things about his life and abhors that I am caught up in it.
I pull on my dress, sliding it up farther and over my shoulder. Smoothing it out, I check my appearance in the mirror, groan with an eye roll, then give her a small wave as I walk to the door.
“You know, with the number of balls you’ve been to, you should love wearing evening dresses.”
I poke my tongue out at her and walk out. Goddamn, I despise evening dresses.
My driver’s patiently waiting out front. I’m late, as usual. I’m always late, not that I mean to be, I just have so much going on that I lose track of time.
Pulling on my dress, I slide into the car with a long-drawn-out sigh. The driver tucks what part of my dress I didn’t get into the car and closes the door. It’s not a long drive to my father’s event, which is a fundraiser for the homeless. All the elite of the elite are here. Socialites, politicians, even my stupid ex, who I broke it off with over a year ago. I’ve avoided seeing him and was secretly praying he wasn’t going to be here tonight. But the minute I step out of the car, he’s the first ass I see.
“Carla, beautiful as always.” He has a cigar in one hand, and a few other men are hanging around him.
“Thank you, Clinton. Nice to see you.” My feet start moving quickly, trying to escape him, but he manages to catch up and walks in beside me. Reaching for the door, he catches it before I can, then holds it open for me.
I turn to face him. He’s clearly watching me with his beady eyes and smug attitude.
“You really do look beautiful tonight. Exactly how it should be.”
I do the biggest eye roll internally at his comment. Clinton always preferred me to dress this way, the same way my father expects of me. I hate it and everything about this prim and proper existence I have to pretend to be a part of. I much prefer the vintage look.
“Goodnight, Clinton,” I state, categorically dismissing him as I step through and straight up the stairs. I don’t turn back to look at him as I walk into the ballroom to classical music, which is playing softly in the background. The place is grand with crystal chandeliers lining the ceiling and artwork so beautiful and intricate you have to stop and stare. It reminds me of my time in Rome.
“Carla, your father has been asking where you are.” My mother’s sharp voice pulls me from staring at the ceiling. “At least your appearance is much nicer than the last time I saw you. What is with that old clothing you wear? It’s like you stepped back into the 50’s,” she says with a click of her tongue.
The woman’s as bad as my father. Well, almost. She wraps her arm with mine and starts to pull me over to my father. I spot him almost immediately, and instantly my back goes straighter at the sight of him.
Appearance is everything—to him.
He hasn’t gotten this far based on scandals or bad business decisions. Everything with him is squeaky clean. Everything. Even me.
“Carla, you made it.” My father leans in and kisses my cheeks chastely then pulls back. “This fine gentleman was just asking about you. Seems you two have met before?” My father steps back, and when he does, my heart drops then races in my chest at the sight in front of me.
Oh, fucking hell, no.
Whiskey-colored eyes stare back at me.
One’s that have seen every part of me.
In my most vulnerable state.
“Carla,” my mother hisses my name next to me, pushing me forward.
Whiskey’s his name, which I found funny at the time because it matches his eye color.
He smirks at me. “It’s nice to see you again.” He pauses, his eyes roam over my dress, and no kidding, those eyes make me feel instantly naked standing in front of him. “It’s been too long.”
“How did you two meet?” my mother asks, but I’m too stunned to answer her as I stare at him. Whiskey’s either calm and collected or hides his emotions very well.