Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
I stare down at my ring.
It is nice.
It’s platinum with delicate filigree work that circles my finger and a sparkly princess cut diamond that sits between a circle of little diamonds. I love it and as I stare down at it, I wish my mom had given me a chance to talk. If she had, I would’ve told her that she shouldn’t worry about me coming in between anyone anymore.
It’s over.
It’s done.
It’s dead.
I’m dead.
Sighing, I look up into the mirror above the bathroom sink and decide to freshen up my lipstick. After my run-in with my mother, I came to the bathroom to clean up the blood—apparently, she did pierce skin—and find my equilibrium. I didn’t go to the one by the ballroom but found a solitary bathroom up a flight of stairs because I knew it would be empty.
Just as I’m about to leave, though, the door opens and the bathroom is not empty anymore.
It has an intruder.
I see him in the mirror.
He fills the doorway.
His shoulders spanning from one end to the next.
He has a suit jacket on, and his shirt is crisp. His hair’s polished and pushed back and his boots are shiny. And in the midst of all that, there sits a bruise on his jaw and a black eye.
He looks dangerous.
Probably because he is dangerous.
A man with bad intentions.
I keep holding his eyes in the mirror, keep watching that sharply sculpted face. It’s blank right now, dead like it was in the ballroom. Lifeless and colder than winter. I watch him trace the line of my backless dress. His gaze getting hooked on the strings and then hitting those two dimples. Followed by the tiny crack of my ass. Which is when he comes back to life and his bruised jaw clenches.
I hope it hurts him.
I hope the hurt never leaves him.
His eyes come up. “What’d she say to you? Your mother.”
At his gravel-filled voice, I clutch the edge of the sink to keep myself upright. “Who are you?”
A light frown emerges between his brows. “What?”
“Yeah.” I lift my chin even though I feel beginnings of a shiver rolling down my naked spine. “Who the hell are you?”
That frown thickens. “Dora, I don’t—”
I clutch the sink tighter and suck my belly in. I want to shout, stop calling me that. But instead, I say, “What’s your name? What should I call you?”
Because this is a game to him, isn’t it?
It was a game to him the first night we met and then again when he pretended to be his twin.
Comprehension dawns on his face and he steps in. He closes the door behind him and stands there, straight, with a wide stance and closed fists, like a sentinel.
“People call me cold.”
Even though I’m the one who brought it up, the reminder of that night has me curling my toes in my heels. It has me shuddering, but I stay strong.
I don’t have any other option but to stay strong.
“People are right.”
His eyes stay trained on mine in the mirror. “She once called me wildfire, though.”
Strong, strong.
Stay strong.
“Who is she?”
“People call her Isadora,” he replies.
“Well—”
“But I call her Dora.”
“You—”
“She has other names too,” he keeps going. “Lolita, Cherry Lips, but my favorite is Dora. And she is”—he licks his lip—“the loudest song, the brightest star, the hottest fire, and the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
That shiver I was afraid of, the one that was going to roll through my spine, has now taken over my body. Still, I hold the fuck on. “She sounds like a fool.”
Anger ripples through his bruised features. “You’re not a fool. You were fooled, but you’re not a fool.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that I played with your trust. I deliberately lied to you. I made a fool out of you. So you’re not the fool, I am.”
I circle my eyes over his face. I touch each bruise, his black eye, with my eyes. “And looks like you got beaten up for it.”
Another clench and I hope this one hurts him as well. “Yeah.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you break something?”
“No.”
“Bummer.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Well, a girl can hope, can’t she.”
His lips twitch at my response. A very slight twitch, but it’s there.
I keep staring at him for a few more seconds, his dark eyes shining, intense.
Penetrating.
When I feel his gaze getting through my muscles and bones and into the heart of me, I look away. I break it and put my lipstick in my clutch. I pat my finger over the corner of my mouth, rubbing away the excess. I purse my lips, take one final look at myself, and turn around.
Keeping our eyes connected, I walk up to him, my high heels clacking on the tile. The only sound in the room. When I reach him, I say, “Can you step aside, please?”