My heart cracks, but I smile brightly. “Bravo, Ronan. Cruelty feels good, doesn’t it? But, at least, you finally seem to have seen the light.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“And let me guess, you’re moving on to better things?” I ask sarcastically.
“That isn’t hard, Blaire. Not when anything is better than you.”
Our eyes lock for a moment and that moment feels like it’s filled with slow passing seconds that, together, form an eternity. Too much said and not enough. When the red light turns green, he focuses on the road once more and I turn to look out the window. I notice a woman in a red dress walking her Maltese, the mundane action soothing as I try to rein in my emotions. Digging my nails into my palms, I try to numb myself with pain. But it isn’t working.
I can still feel.
The rest of the trip is taken in an uncomfortable silence. When he pulls up to the famous curb of the Plaza, I focus on the flags hanging above the awning, the large columns, and the red carpet covering the front steps that lead to a world full of opulence and castles in the air. A world where people like Ronan and I don’t belong. Yet here I am, an intruder, about to invade it in my Chanel shoes. A doorman walks toward the car and opens its door for me.
I address Ronan. “You can go. I won’t need you later.”
“My orders are to wait for you.”
“But I’m telling you that I don’t need you,” I say peevishly, close to stamping my hands on the leather seat.
“You might be fucking Lawrence, Blaire, but you aren’t my boss. I don’t have to follow your orders.”
“Whatever, Ronan. Stay or go. I don’t give a shit what you do.”
“I’ll be here,” he drawls, unbothered.
I get out of the car without looking at him, and if it weren’t for the polite doorman holding the door for me who’s watching us with a perplexed look on his face, I would slam the door behind me. You know … for effect.
It isn’t until I’m greeting the real estate agent helping me today that I realize that we didn’t discuss my call from last night. Good. He’s obviously moved on or doesn’t care. I should be happy about it, but the thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.
His name is William Dowling. Attractive. Medium height. Expensively dressed. Real estate agent to the rich and famous. As we shake hands, his eyes size me up, probably wondering how I caught Lawrence Rothschild’s attention. I feel exposed under his inspection. Briefly, I wonder if he knows what I am to Lawrence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Rich men buying love nests for their lovers is probably a big part of his business.
Unsmiling, I let go of his hand. “Shall we go look at the apartment?”
“But of course. The elevators are this way.” He steps to the side, allowing me to walk ahead of him. As we near the elevator, I notice people looking at me with clear judgment in their eyes. The way they stare at me makes me recoil on the inside, but I’d rather be dead than allow them to see how affected I am. So I straighten my back, reminding myself that their opinion means nothing to me, and walk as though I own the fucking place.
My eyes land on a young woman who looks like she was born and raised in a country club, cream-colored cardigan and all. She stares at me as she grabs her boyfriend tighter by the arm, pulling him closer to her. I want to tell her, “Honey, no need to be scared of me. He’s probably already screwing someone else behind your back,” but I don’t. Instead, I turn to look at country club girl, smile saucily at her, and wink at her boyfriend as I walk past them, leaving them both with their mouths hanging open.
It isn’t until we get on the elevator and its doors close in front of us that the smile evaporates from my face.
“I have, haven’t I?”
“And let me guess, you’re moving on to better things?” I ask sarcastically.
“That isn’t hard, Blaire. Not when anything is better than you.”
Our eyes lock for a moment and that moment feels like it’s filled with slow passing seconds that, together, form an eternity. Too much said and not enough. When the red light turns green, he focuses on the road once more and I turn to look out the window. I notice a woman in a red dress walking her Maltese, the mundane action soothing as I try to rein in my emotions. Digging my nails into my palms, I try to numb myself with pain. But it isn’t working.
I can still feel.
The rest of the trip is taken in an uncomfortable silence. When he pulls up to the famous curb of the Plaza, I focus on the flags hanging above the awning, the large columns, and the red carpet covering the front steps that lead to a world full of opulence and castles in the air. A world where people like Ronan and I don’t belong. Yet here I am, an intruder, about to invade it in my Chanel shoes. A doorman walks toward the car and opens its door for me.
I address Ronan. “You can go. I won’t need you later.”
“My orders are to wait for you.”
“But I’m telling you that I don’t need you,” I say peevishly, close to stamping my hands on the leather seat.
“You might be fucking Lawrence, Blaire, but you aren’t my boss. I don’t have to follow your orders.”
“Whatever, Ronan. Stay or go. I don’t give a shit what you do.”
“I’ll be here,” he drawls, unbothered.
I get out of the car without looking at him, and if it weren’t for the polite doorman holding the door for me who’s watching us with a perplexed look on his face, I would slam the door behind me. You know … for effect.
It isn’t until I’m greeting the real estate agent helping me today that I realize that we didn’t discuss my call from last night. Good. He’s obviously moved on or doesn’t care. I should be happy about it, but the thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.
His name is William Dowling. Attractive. Medium height. Expensively dressed. Real estate agent to the rich and famous. As we shake hands, his eyes size me up, probably wondering how I caught Lawrence Rothschild’s attention. I feel exposed under his inspection. Briefly, I wonder if he knows what I am to Lawrence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Rich men buying love nests for their lovers is probably a big part of his business.
Unsmiling, I let go of his hand. “Shall we go look at the apartment?”
“But of course. The elevators are this way.” He steps to the side, allowing me to walk ahead of him. As we near the elevator, I notice people looking at me with clear judgment in their eyes. The way they stare at me makes me recoil on the inside, but I’d rather be dead than allow them to see how affected I am. So I straighten my back, reminding myself that their opinion means nothing to me, and walk as though I own the fucking place.
My eyes land on a young woman who looks like she was born and raised in a country club, cream-colored cardigan and all. She stares at me as she grabs her boyfriend tighter by the arm, pulling him closer to her. I want to tell her, “Honey, no need to be scared of me. He’s probably already screwing someone else behind your back,” but I don’t. Instead, I turn to look at country club girl, smile saucily at her, and wink at her boyfriend as I walk past them, leaving them both with their mouths hanging open.
It isn’t until we get on the elevator and its doors close in front of us that the smile evaporates from my face.
