“Glad you asked…”
Barry picks up his wine glass by its delicate stem, swirling it before taking a deep, obnoxious whiff, his nostrils flaring.
I can’t miss his possessive, meaty arm around Calypso’s shoulders or the way she leans into it.
Like she’s trying to get me riled.
Like she expected me to be angry and throw a storming tantrum, walking in to see her on another man’s arm when she’d been in my bed just a few nights ago.
Fuck it.
I won’t give either of them the satisfaction.
I’ll just play the fool, and then I’ll walk out forever.
“This isn’t an easy conversation. I don’t like to pussyfoot around things,” Barry says.
“So don’t.” I’m trying to stay calm, but I can’t help how clipped it comes out. “There’s only one reason you’re here, Barry, so let’s get on with it. Then everyone can enjoy their dinner with the horseshit out of the way.”
“I’m relieved you won’t be difficult about this. You’re a smart man, Holt. You truly are.” Barry smirks. “Just not quite smart enough, I’m afraid. There could be a place for you at Hensworth Holdings, you know.”
“I wouldn’t need a place if my contract with the city was intact.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. “But it’s not anymore, is it?”
“No. Your investors, you see—”
“What about them?”
“Well, they decided to go with someone more battle-tested.” He curls his lip, almost self-deprecating, as if it’s just such a shame, not really his fault. “You know how these money people are. They like to bet on a sure winner, not take risks on a shiny new toy. And an unknown newcomer, well, that’s a sizable risk.”
“Mm-hmm.” Somehow, I’m grinning, but it feels more like baring my teeth. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that half my investors are your lifelong golf pals? No handshakes at the country club, that sort of thing.”
He lifts both brows mildly. Ever so shocked at the insinuation, of course.
Of course.
“With Hensworth Holdings’ long-standing reputation in the community and our presence here, it’s inevitable we’d know people,” he says with a scoffing laugh. “You truly can’t fault people for having friends, Holt.”
My gaze darts between him and Calypso. She’s pouty, lithe, and sensual in a silk sheath dress in pure white, clinging to her translucently and highlighting her long, leggy, perfect-ten body.
“And are you two friends, Barry?” I linger on her. “Is Barry your new friend, Calypso? Perhaps because her father’s one of my investors, and you just happened to drop by the house for a visit?”
I guess that’s the reaction she wants.
She finally smirks, rubbing her cheek on Barry’s shoulder, nasty and catlike.
I take a little satisfaction in the fact that although Barry’s wool suit probably has a higher thread count than my Egyptian cotton sheets, her foundation is currently ruining it, leaving colored, chalky smears on his expensive fabric.
“Don’t be like that, Holt,” she says. “You know how it goes.”
Do I?
Do I really know?
Because this is a colossal amount of fuckery above my pay grade.
All I know for sure is I fucked her last week, and she screamed my name and held on like she loved me.
When she knew this was coming.
When she did nothing to warn me.
When she decided to stab at my soul just for fun.
In a twisted way, I get it, even if I’ll never get the cruelty.
She’s a pretty girl from a rich family.
She’s just covering her own ass—barely, that dress is about to let it all hang out—and so she followed the money.
Leaving me in the dust.
The way they’re both looking at me is textbook definition smug. Conniving. Self-satisfied.
Like they’re already done with this game, and I’m the only dummy who didn’t know what was at play.
The bile rises in my throat, turning a sip of overpriced wine into poison.
This isn’t my world.
I just wish I hadn’t ruined myself to figure it out.
Not just my business, but my goddamn fool heart.
I thought I’d been in love with her, and maybe I had, but she never loved me.
Real love doesn’t do this shit.
Maybe I don’t know what real love is, not yet, but I know it can’t be this.
I don’t have to torture myself, staying here to let them watch me try to cling to my pride, while I crumble apart inside. That ends with me in prison after clubbing Barry over the head with his expensive wine bottle.
So I stand, offering Barry my hand.
“I won’t be staying for dinner,” I growl. “But thank you for being so kind as to inform me in person.”
Like hell I’m letting him pay for my meal after he just took my livelihood away from me with a few casual words.
Barry looks at my hand as if it’s somehow confusing, this gesture he can’t process, before he takes it and shakes it again, tentatively.