At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“You are a hot, sexy bitch. Stay strong,” Ariel whispers in my ear as my ex-father-in-law makes his way over to us and greets me with a smile.

“Cynthia, it’s nice to see you here tonight. You’re looking . . . lovely,” he says, unable to hide the wince on his face when he looks at my dress. “I’d just like to apologize for all of that confusion about the money. Brian explained what happened, and we’re just so thankful to have our boy home after the horrors he went through. Obviously it was just a silly misunderstanding. You understand how it is.”

He chuckles softly and continues smiling at me, and the stupid, condescending look on his face is all it takes for me to forget about being in a room full of classy people and attempting to be classy myself. Everything that has happened in the last few months overwhelms me until I feel like I can’t breathe. Falling in love with PJ, Brian showing back up, Anastasia locking herself in her room, PJ wanting nothing to do with me, showing up at his house to find another woman there, even if he swore nothing happened . . . all of those things feel like heavy bricks, just piling themselves one right after another on my chest until I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take Vincent’s stupid, smiling face, or his half-assed apology, or the way he looked at me in this dress like I’m low class.

“Actually, Vincent, I don’t understand, and I don’t accept your apology.” I speak in a low voice, watching the smile fall from his face as I say everything to him I didn’t have the nerve to say when he showed up at my house. “You were like a father to me. You accused me of stealing from you. Your granddaughter and I struggled for months, and where the hell were you?!”

He takes a step toward me, glancing over his shoulder and smiling nervously at the handful of people still standing around our table, watching everything happen.

“Keep your voice down. This is neither the time nor the place for such ridiculous behavior,” he whispers angrily as Claudia, my former mother-in-law, walks up to stand next to him.

“Vincent, is everything okay here?” she asks, giving me and my dress the same look her husband did.

“Everything’s just peachy, Claudia. I was just getting ready to tell your husband to GO FUCK HIMSELF!” I shout, getting a thrill out of watching both of their faces blanch. “Do you want to know what’s ridiculous, Vincent? Not helping me when I needed it. Not calling to even check on your own granddaughter all these months. You can take your own ridiculous behavior and shove it up your ass!”

I start to turn away but remember one last thing.

“Oh, and Claudia? You might want to keep a tighter leash on your husband. He likes to go to strip clubs and get lap dances after you’ve gone to sleep at night,” I tell her with a sweet smile before turning to look at Vincent. “And by the way, that blonde with the nice ass a few months ago at Charming’s? That was me. Have a lovely fucking evening, you judgmental assholes.”

Letting out a huff of air, I finally turn and walk away, with Ariel right on my heels.

“Holy shit, I think you just made both of their heads explode. That was incredible. Where are we going?” she asks as I shove and push my way through the crowds of people to get to the other side of the room.

“To the bar. I need a fucking drink,” I mutter.

As soon as we make it to the bar, Ariel snatches two flutes of champagne and quickly hands one to me. I bring it up to my mouth and tip it back, chugging down half of it.

“That’s good, that’s good. I feel great. Do you feel great?” I ask Ariel, my blood pumping at an alarming rate with all the adrenaline coursing through my body from telling my former in-laws off.

“I’ll feel much better if you keep that momentum going in about five seconds. Incoming,” she mutters, looking behind me over my shoulder.

I start to ask her what she’s talking about when Brian walks up behind me.

“Cynthia, I’m so glad you came. You look . . .”

He pauses when I turn around to face him.

“That dress is . . . very revealing,” he informs me.

“They’re called tits, Brian. All women have them,” I deadpan, my eyes narrowing as I get my first good look at his face in over nine months.

He was wearing sunglasses when he showed up at the house a few weeks ago, and I’ve only spoken to him via text or short, clipped phone calls since then.

“What the hell is wrong with your eyes?” I ask in disgust, noticing the red splotches on the skin around them, swollen and puffy eyelids, and some kind of disgusting gunk pooling in the corner of each of them.