Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I hiss, pushing the stack of magazines to the floor in anger. I’m wallowing in pity, feeling bad for myself for ending up in a position I practically begged him to put me in.
Days ago I convinced myself that if I had an explanation, just a conversation long enough for him to tell me it meant nothing, then I could move on, but the texts are undeliverable, even after finding out that I had his number right. My feet were swept right out from under me that day, and I haven’t found my footing since.
For the millionth time, I type in his name on social media. Other than three stupid #BlackbridgeSpecial fan groups, nothing pops up. It’s like the man is a ghost. I don’t know what type of jobs they do other than security detail, but their names aren’t listed on their company website. Only Deacon Black’s smiling face is on there. I’m sure it’s because they may have to work undercover or something sometimes, but it’s really put a damper on my ability to stalk him.
I throw my phone across the room, barely flinching when the thing breaks into several pieces. I don’t talk to anyone. Flynn has blocked me out of his life. So it’s not like I need the damn thing.
Reginald huffs from the corner, but he’s looking out the window when I roll my head on my shoulders and look over at him. I haven’t taken off once. I haven’t even left except for a scheduled appointment this morning. I have no desire to put up a fight about being a prisoner here.
Hell, I’m on #BumpWatch for fuck’s sake. It’s only been days since he walked out of the hotel without looking back and I had a paparazzo ask me if I can feel the baby kick yet. Fools.
“What?” I snap, but Reginald doesn’t display the same agitation Flynn would let slip. His jaw doesn’t tighten, and I have yet to see him clench his fists when I speak, not that I open my mouth often these days.
“Tell me,” I hiss when he stands stoic in the corner without saying a word.
I feel the heat of his glare when he looks in my direction. “Are you happy with yourself?”
“What?”
“Do you like watching his life unravel? Get a thrill by seeing him try to ward off paparazzi every time he steps out of his office?”
“No.” But I won’t deny that I scour the internet for new pictures, just so I can see him, see how he looks since he found it so easy to fuck me and leave me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to silence the voice in my head that still thinks that night was special to him. The softness in his hands, the way he looked down at me as if he knew what I was giving him without me even having to open my mouth with the words. The way he made sure I came before he did so himself. All of it, even the way he brushed my hair from my face and kissed me like I was the air he needed to breathe before falling asleep in his arms. None of it was real. He’s a professional, and clearly, it’s not only Hollywood where great acting takes place.
“You don’t care that he’s been fired for the stunts you pulled? Black—”
“What?”
“—bridge is the elitist company in the nation, and you’ve put a black mark on it with what you’ve done.”
My mouth hangs open.
“He was fired?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t act like you didn’t know, that it wasn’t your plan all along.”
“I didn’t.” I swallow, hot tears threatening to fall from my lashes. “It wasn’t.”
“You care about nothing but yourself.”
Reginald hasn’t said but a handful of words to me since arriving, and now it seems like the cork has popped and he can’t stop. He’s got a nice voice. Too bad he only seems capable of spitting hatred.
“I need your phone.” He glares at me when I walk across the room and hold my hand out. “Phone, now.”
Reluctantly, he places it in my hand. I turn it his direction briefly until his face unlocks the screen then search my last name, hitting send on my mother’s contact once it’s pulled up.
“Reginald, dear. Please tell me you aren’t calling with troubling news.”
I let silence fill the line. When I call, their phones always go to voicemail, and they rarely call me back. I was hospitalized for three days after my overdose before they got around to finding out where I was.
“Mother,” I hiss. “Why did you fire Blackbridge?”
She makes an awkward noise, clearly taken by surprise that I’m not Reginald. “Remington?”
“Who else calls you Mother?”
She scoffs an ungodly sound. “We weren’t paying that company any longer. It’s bad enough the scandal is all over the American news. Can you imagine how I felt when I saw you traipsing out of a hotel on a magazine in Prague yesterday? Such a disgrace. We weren’t paying them to sleep with you. The expectation was to keep you out of trouble.”