Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“And?” I ask. “I think they’ve already figured out that I’m the fool, don’t you? Beatrice warned me . . . Simon the playboy, Simon the womanizer, but I believed you. Tobias told me, but still . . . I trusted you.”
I’m ranting, hands flailing as I shout, and Simon stands there and takes it, letting me rage. He doesn’t argue a single thing I say, which lets me know . . . I’m right.
“What did Tobias say?” he says quietly.
“Men have their wife, their mistress, and their whore. And they should never meet.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to disagree.
He steps closer to me, and on his bare chest, I see the necklace I so carefully placed there and suddenly become aware of the weight of the one around my own neck. When he’s quiet, I reach under my collar and grip my necklace tightly, the disappointment firing through me like lightning, and then I yank it as hard as I can. The sharp pain at the nape of my neck as the clasp gives makes me cry out, but I don’t let that stop me. I shove the necklace at his chest, and when he doesn’t take it, I let it fall to the floor with a clatter.
I want him to rage with me, tell me I’m wrong and make me believe again when all the hope I had just publicly shattered into a million pieces.
“Autumn, you know that’s not true.” Simon’s jaw is hard-set, his nostrils flared, and his eyes stone as he glares at me. “You know what this is.”
I thought I did, but all I can hear is Tobias. Wife, mistress, whore. And all I can see is Simon kissing Chloe.
“Don’t tell me which one I was. I think I know.”
I storm off, shocked silence and uncomfortable side eyes everywhere, until a few people snicker, talking behind my back now that they’re confident I’m not going to throw punches in their direction. I go back to my area, gathering my personal items up.
I should’ve known! I think, shoving stuff into my bag. Why am I so stupid? I was just a tool. A check item on his list of conquests! All that talk about my being different was probably him wanting to try something new. More cushion for his pushin’! I’m such a gullible dupe for his poor-me pity story.
Nobody says anything to me as I sling the strap for my bag over my shoulder and turn around, pain-filled tears burning in my face.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, storming for the door. As I do, I see Beatrice and Chloe fist bump, and it hits me like a ton of bricks . . .
They sabotaged me.
It’s like acid on my already wounded heart, and this perfect storm of fuck-ups swirling around me sends me into a tailspin of epic proportions.
I let the vitriol loose, snidely telling Chloe, “I wouldn’t be celebrating too much. You might’ve fucked up my relationship with Simon and my designs, but did you forget that the entire fashion world just saw you bomb the runway? I’d be surprised if you ever walk again.” I flick my eyes to Beatrice, and with hurt in my voice, I say, “I helped you. I cheered you on. I thought we were . . . friends.”
Beatrice looks sad, tears popping to her eyes as she quietly says, “Autumn—”
“Save it,” I bite out and spin, walking straight out the door.
Once I’m on the street, I break down. I get quite a few strange looks as I ugly cry, wiping snot on my sleeve as I stomp down the sidewalk. At first, I don’t know where I’m going, but eventually, I find my way back to the House Corbin building.
I can barely stand the sight of the building any longer, but I have some personal items in the workroom, and while a pair of scissors might not mean much to some people, they mean something to me.
I gather my things, shoving them into my bag and berating myself.
God, I was such a fucking fool. I not only opened my heart to Simon, but to my new so-called ‘friends,’ only to be stabbed in the back.
I’m rolling up my favorite set of scissors in their carrying case when the door opens. I don’t look up, too angry to get into it with whatever security guard is coming in to escort me out of the building.
“Ahem,” a female voice says. Jacqueline. “That was quite the scene.”
“It’s fashion. Temper tantrums and bitch fits are the norm,” I tell Jacqueline shortly, regretting that I already put my pointy objects away.
She waves a hand airily, unconcerned. “It’s fine. My purposes were well-served, regardless.”
I stop, immobilized as the pieces fall together in my mind. “Did you put Simon’s ex with him intentionally?”
“Oui,” Jacqueline says unapologetically. “And I insured that your designs were . . . well, less than they already were.” She presses her perfectly lined lips together as she gloats, as though she’s trying to keep from laughing out loud—at me.