Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“If I wanted to destroy anything, I would have done it when I caught him balls deep in his coworker.” The minute the words are out, I catch my mammoth mistake.
“What?” my father yells from behind me at the same time my mother shrieks, and I close my eyes and ball my hands into fists for fucking up the way I did. My eyes go big but not as big as my mother’s. “Excuse me?” he retorts, and I see my mother freaking out internally about it and wanting to say all the things. We both know that if one of them has to be contained, it has to be my father at this point. We both look at each other thinking about what to say, when I turn and look at him. “What did you just say?”
“I—” I stop talking. “What did you hear?” I ask him, thinking maybe he didn’t hear what I think he heard, or maybe he heard a bit of it and not all of it.
“He cheated on you?” he asks me in bewilderment.
“Okay, so you heard the whole thing.” I wring my hands, and he looks like he’s about to come out of his skin. “Don’t freak out and call in reinforcements.” I hold up both hands, turning to my mother also. “You either.” She rolls her eyes. “But yes, he cheated on me.”
“That motherfucker,” she hisses out. “That pencil-dick motherfucker.” I roll my lips to stop from laughing at her saying that to my father, who is quiet—too quiet.
My father says quietly and almost deadly, “That’s why you called off the wedding.” His tone is scary.
“Obviously, that’s why she called off the wedding!” she shouts. “You should have burned the whole house down.”
“Dear God.” I put my hand to my head, and it’s the wrong thing to do because I get a whiff of Gabriel, which makes me want to feel his arms around me. “Can we just”—I look at both of them—“not say anything about this to anyone?”
“They know?” my mother asks. “Your cousins who were at the house with you, they know.” She glares at me.
“They do, and I swore them to secrecy, so there’s that.” I turn to my father. “It’s over now. It’s in the past, and I’m moving on. I’ve moved on.”
“If I see him—” my father threatens.
“If you see him, you don’t give him the time of day. He’s not worth your time, and he’s not worth your time.” I point at my mother, who glares at me. “And he’s not worth my time.”
“I’m not as mature as you,” my mother replies, shrugging. “Sorry, not sorry. If I see his face, he’s going to know exactly what I think of him.”
“Zoe,” my father says her name, and she turns her glare to him.
“Don’t you Zoe me, Viktor Petrov.” She spits out his full name, and we share a look as she points at my father. “This, this calmness is all you.” Her hands fly through the air. “But if she had a bit of me in her—”
“We would have been posting bail.” My father laughs.
“Gladly,” she snaps. “I would have gladly posted that bail, and then you would have had to bail me out. If I catch his mother—” She laughs, but it’s a scary Cruella de Vil laugh. “She’s going to know what a scumbag of a dick her son is.” She mimics his mother, “‘My son is so in love with her, I’ve never seen him like this before.’ Gag me.”
“Okay,” my father soothes, “we should discuss this calmly.”
“Viktor,” she hisses, “he cheated on her.”
“He did and, luckily, she caught him before she got married.” He grabs her arms. “Can you imagine then?”
“No,” my mother spouts, “because then we would have to bury him under a pool liner.”
“You have to stop watching those mob shows.” He shakes his head. “Now look at our daughter. She looks amazing. She is thriving without him. He’s probably curled in a ball, the rat bastard.”
“I think you both have to stop watching those mob shows.” I bite my tongue when it earns me a glare from both of them. “Anyway, this was fun”—I clap my hands together—“but I have to go and…” I try to think of something I have to do, and when I can’t think of anything, I go with the truth. “Well, nothing, I just don’t want to do this…” I motion my hand in a circle. “Anymore.”
“Fine,” my mother huffs, grabbing her jacket. “I’ll meet you at the house tomorrow at ten.”
“That’s not a good idea,” my father says.
At the same time, I reply, “That’s not going to happen.”
This makes her slap her sides. “If his broker can be there, your broker can be there to make sure you don’t have to see his ugly-ass face.”