Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
If she were here, I’d probably drag her back upstairs, and not just to protect her from being gossip fodder.
“You should get your sister to interview her for her blog,” says the woman who’d been playing the video. “It’s all over the socials. It’s only a matter of time before the news gets ahold of it.”
“By all means, humiliate her further,” I mutter as I turn back.
“Holy patriarchy, Batman! You just don’t get it, do you?”
“What has feminism got to do with it?” My words drip with derision as I whip around again.
Fin makes a noise as though he’s in pain.
“How could you possibly understand?” one of the women demands.
But I comprehend better than anyone because I felt her tremble. Heard how she disparaged herself. I’ll be damned if I sit here allowing others to make her the topic of the day.
“Ah, man. The City Chronicle already posted about it. Listen to this!”
I tell myself I’m not as bad as them as I pull out my phone and search for the newspaper’s online article. No, not an article of news. A fucking gossip column.
A Little Bird Told Us . . .
about a scandalous scene at a Shoreditch Town Hall wedding yesterday when a bride read out her cheating fiancé’s salacious text messages in the place of her vows. Guests (and the—allegedly—unfaithful groom) were left speechless as the bride extracted her savage revenge at the altar before taking off.
Did you see the viral video? A Little Bird suggests you check out the link below, because there’s five hundred big ones waiting for the first person to tell us the names of the (un)happy couple.
“Of all the vindictive, vengeful . . .”
“He got off lightly.” The woman directly behind me pokes me angrily in my shoulder, completely misinterpreting my meaning.
I turn to their glares, but before I can respond, Fin is on his feet, rounding the table.
“Ladies, please forgive my friend. The truth is, he feels deeply.” His hands are clasped, and his gaze touches each of them, his expression the mask he wears when he’s tasked with giving our clients bad news. He’s bloody good at winning over hearts and minds, so I let him get on with it. “And, well, he won’t want me to say this, but he was recently hurt in love.” I snort and shake my head. “What you’ve just seen was a human reaction in defense of another’s pain. I’m sure we can all understand that. Which of us hasn’t been hurt in love?” And then he comes in with the perfect close when he orders the women another round of mimosas.
“You were recently hurt in love, right?” he says, sliding back into his seat. “Weren’t you handcuffed to a bed and the metal chafed your wrist? Left you with a graze?”
“That sounds more like you.”
“Nah. If it wasn’t you, it was probably Matt. Where is he, anyway?” Matt is the third partner of our private equity company, Maven Inc., which largely deals in real estate investments.
“He’s in Dublin this weekend. Was that really necessary?” I say, indicating the guzzling coven behind me.
“I guess I could’ve just watched. Waited until you were wearing one of their drinks. We all know how you feel about your clothing.”
“By all means, arm them with more liquid bullets.”
“Just keep your mouth shut and eyes this way, and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not allowed an opinion?”
“How can I put this . . .” Steepling his fingers, he peers at me pensively. “It’s not your opinion that’s the issue. Those women have the wrong impression, thanks to your goddamn miserable face.”
“That seemed to require a lot of contemplation.”
“You’re always a fucker, you’re just not usually so tetchy.”
“I’m stoic.”
“Like someone pissed on your cornflakes. I mean, I can’t imagine why I thought seeing your archenemy be humiliated might make you smile,” he mutters, reaching for his own glass.
“He’s not my enemy,” I reply loftily. “He is below my notice. Mostly.”
“If only that were true. Sometimes I think the world would be a better place if you two just hate fucked and got over yourselves.”
Chapter 8
EVIE
“What do you mean he can’t be my unicorn?” I drop the phone from my ear, bringing it back just as quick. “Who died and made you the boss of me?”
“I wouldn’t be your boss for all the bourbon in Kentucky.” Riley snorts. “You are unmanageable.”
“Doesn’t stop you from trying.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is counsel. You know, like a friend worried for you and your mental health.”
“My mental health is just fine.” I glance up, distracted as a group of teenagers passes by the front window. Riley lives in a mews house in a super bougie part of Chelsea, on a narrow street of pastel facades and overflowing window boxes. Lined with buildings originally intended as coach houses—to accommodate the horses and servants of those living in much grander spaces—the cobblestone lanes were laid for hooves rather than quaintness. These days, the inhabitants are more likely to own five-hundred-horsepower Aston Martins than coaches with two high-stepping grays. Home to London’s artsy and affluent, the street is also an Instagram hot spot.