And even my body wasn’t mine now. It was Duke’s. It was a roadmap of tenderness he’d managed to fake so well that it was seeping inside me.
My words weren’t my own, since they were all lies about how much I loved Duke. How he was mine.
And while other men were looking to control my death, my life certainly wasn’t mine. My survival was dictated by men.
So yeah, this pie meant a lot more than a break in a long-held diet.
But refusing it turned me into something in the eyes of these friendly, kind people. People who had accepted me into their family like it was easy, like I was someone normal.
Tears crawled from somewhere deep inside my soul to threaten the backs of my eyes. I never cried. Not in real life at least. It was a weak and clichéd form of emotion I’d trained myself against. One thing I could thank my foster parents for—making me determined enough not to give them the satisfaction of my tears.
Their cruelty had made it impossible for me to cry, yet here I was, confronted with naked kindness and it was enough to break me.
Just as the tears were about to fall, a large arm stretched in front of me.
“I’ll take her share,” Duke said easily. “Trust me, her avoidance of dessert almost made me rethink this whole relationship. But even that couldn’t keep me from her.”
The way he said it, that the man had just saved me from having to eat the pie—from giving up the last shred of control I had over my life—I almost believed he cared.
Almost.
I had the ability to feel absolutely full of things one moment and utterly empty the next—the product of an upbringing filled with chaos, pain and fear. I’d perfected the ability to drain myself of those things quickly for survival. For sanity.
Never had that ability been as essential as it was tonight, when I somehow lost myself in the magic that this family—this place—had. Lost myself in strong margaritas. Or maybe let tequila find parts of me that I didn’t know I had, a person I didn’t know I was.
I was not someone who drank margaritas. Nor was I someone who shared personal details—real personal details, not carefully created—with strangers. I was not a person who pretended to be in a relationship with a macho man to whom I was utterly attracted, and didn’t like very much.
Or I liked him too much.
No, I wasn’t that person.
But being shown to the room upstairs, beautifully decorated—complete with a four-poster bed, vanity, and en suite—and then kissed on the cheek by Anna, I wanted to be that person. Desperately.
But the door closed. Then it was just Duke and me in the room. And I deflated. I emptied. Because the cocktails had worn off, and the façade was no longer required.
He was just the man paid to keep me alive until my testimony.
And I was Anastasia Edwards. Superstar. Bitch.
So I settled into her, even as Duke looked at me the same way he had when I told the story of how we met. Something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Fire. Interest.
It couldn’t affect me.
“Are we staying here the entire time?” I asked, my voice cold, superior, my expression the same.
He furrowed his brows. Surprise first, then more of that distaste that I found comfort in. I couldn’t stand him looking at me like he was trying to figure me out. Many men had tried. Many news organizations, reporters, and fans had tried to do it too. A lot of those people were stupid, lazy, and lacked the right motivation to really figure me out.
Duke was none of those things.
I would take him hating who he thought I was instead of finding out who I really am.
“Yeah. It’s not the Four Seasons, but it’ll keep a bullet out of that pretty little forehead,” he said, voice tight, dripping with disdain.
I didn’t let it bounce off me, didn’t try to deflect it. I had to let it sink in. I had to find a peace inside all this. This here, this look, this tone was what was real. Everything outside of the door was an act. “You don’t like me.” I made sure to make the words flat. Not curious. Not hopeful.
“No.”
He didn’t even pause in his response.
It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. Plenty of people disliked me. None of them knew me, which was what I told myself. Duke didn’t know me. He knew who I wanted him to know, and he disliked me because I wanted him to.
Regardless, it hurt.
I pursed my lips and folded my arms. “If this is going to be a sticking point, we can arrange for someone else to take your place.” Even saying it was an effort. Sure, it would be easier to have a hot stranger who I didn’t feel these things for. I wouldn’t be battling this inner turmoil. But then I’d have to focus on the reality of the situation. Then I wouldn’t have Duke.