The Revenge Games Duet

“Not even when I tell you I have an email ready to go to Entertainment News with pictures of you and Milana? There’s a nice one of her leaving your place wearing your shirt. The media will love this story. Can you imagine Emerson’s reaction? Her assistant banging her ex-fiancé. Where’s the trust?” She laughs again, the edge of insanity in her tone.

“Why would you do that? Honestly, you’ve got no gain.”

“Why? Because it would hurt everyone you love, then they will leave you, and you will have no choice but to crawl back to me because I’m all you’ll have.”

“You’re fucked. I don’t care what you do, Milana won’t care. As for Em, she’ll get over it. We’re tighter than you think.” I grin, remembering how to get to Farrah and expose her insecurity. “I know how much you hate that. Gorgeous Emerson with her perfect life, natural body, husband you can’t seem to get your hands on, and wait… everybody wants Emerson. Didn’t she just get the cover of Vogue? It’s like she has the whole package… and once upon a time, I loved her. Not you… but her.”

The pleasure of hurting Farrah is far too much fun. I lick my lips, listening to her heavy breathing that follows with an hysteric scream and a glass smashing against the wall.

“Are you done?” she cries dramatically.

“Why yes, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye Wesley. Oops… click.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Milana

“What would you say is your greatest fear?”

Emerson is sitting with her legs crossed in front of Entertainment News’ ruthless reporter, Kitty Seinfeld.

“I find that my answer continues to change as I grow older. What I once feared, I no longer do. I guess it would be having my daughter learn some lessons the hard way as I did.”

Kitty is quick to fire off another question. “What if your daughter chooses your same path? If we’re being candid here, you’ve made some questionable choices in your personal life, and it has attracted drama.”

Kitty is a machine—a machine of drama. She’s a typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful woman with a face that screams cheerleader back in high school. I often think that women or girls like this had it easy. Never having to defend their ethnicity or explain why they don’t look white, nor look full Asian. Fits into a size two and hasn’t dealt with trying to find a foundation that matches your skin tone because your skin is this weird, pale-looking color that’s not considered ‘normal.’

Breathe. Nonsense rambling isn’t helping calm your agitated mood.

Truth. I don’t like the way she drags Wesley’s name through the mud. Though he probably deserves it.

She isn’t the only interviewer who asks about him. Frankly, I’m sick of it. No matter where we go, people are desperate to know about him. How he’s doing, if Emerson and Wesley still remain friends, who he is dating. It surprises me how little they focus on Logan given he’s her partner, not Wesley.

The interview carries on for another thirty minutes. Question after question, and despite Kitty’s forwardness, Emerson is a pro. Emerson dominates the room, and it’s clear that it puts Kitty in a foul mood. By the end, her questions are just stupid.

“Thank you.” Kitty extends her hand to Emerson, a fake smile in tow. It’s brief, and the moment she pulls away, she shouts for her assistant and demands that she get out of this rat hole.

I purposely make it my mission to block the exit to say a few words. “You know, Kitty, it sounds like you have an obsession with Wesley.”

Kitty lifts her head with a confused expression, quickly belting out a laugh shortly after. “Me? An obsession with Wesley Rich? Oh honey, been there, slept with that.”

My fists clench unexpectedly inside the pockets of my pants. With difficulty, I keep my eyes still, refusing to give away the jealousy that makes my blood boil especially since the image of Wesley fucking this woman is all I can think about now.

“Classy,” I respond. “I better not keep you waiting. I’m sure your vagina is looking for its next victim.”

“Excuse me?” Kitty folds her arms in disdain the same time her assistant yells that the driver is parked out front.

I lift my head and walk away. When I hear her heels click away from the room, I’m quick to yell,

“I hope you get crabs.”

Those who heard me, turn around in bewilderment. Not wanting to draw any more attention and make a further spectacle of myself, I focus on doing what I’m paid to do—assist.

Georgia, Emerson’s makeup artist, touches her up with some foundation before her next interview.

“Do you need anything?” I ask, rather quickly.