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“Everything’s organized then?” I press.
“Yup.”
“Seating charts?”
“All done.”
“Menu—”
“Taken care of. All of it.” She fixes me with a wide grin that’s designed to do one thing above all else: piss me off.
She’s good at it, too. Beatrice Zanetti knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Will you hurry up and eat?” I request with a grimace. “I want to get the hell out of here.”
She snakes her foot up the leg of my suit pants to rub against my calf. “Eager to get home and ravage me, are you, baby?”
“For fuck’s?—”
“Nuh-uh-uh,” she scolds, wagging her eyebrows at me. “Can we turn that frown upside down? For the sake of our nosy onlookers?”
“I’m going to kill you when we get home,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
She chuckles and tosses her glittery blonde hair over one bared shoulder. “Hm, that would definitely get me out of marrying you in three days. I could get on board with it.”
“Great,” I snap. “So it’s settled. Death after dessert.”
She picks up a fat piece of tempura shrimp with her chopsticks and offers it to me. Glaring at her, I open my mouth and accept it reluctantly. She smirks in delight. “Is there a reason you’re so off your game tonight?” She puts the chopsticks down and rests her chin on her hands. “Is that reason named ‘Wren,’ perhaps?”
“I’ve been too busy to think about Wren.”
“Wow. Very convincing. Someone alert the Academy.”
My eyes narrow before I pry them apart and pretend to be mesmerized by my date as opposed to incensed by her. “She wanted space. That’s what I’m giving her.”
“What you’re giving her is the impression that you don’t give a shit.”
“I apologized.”
“Dmitri,” she hisses, “you didn’t forget an anniversary. You—” Her voice dips low. “—killed her sister. You really think a little ‘Gee, I’m awfully sorry’ is gonna cut it?”
She has a point, obviously; I’m just too stubborn to admit it. “Like I said, it’s better we maintain some boundaries.”
“Translation: you don’t wanna grovel.” I reach for my glass of wine and Bee’s eyes narrow as though I’ve just pulled a knife on her. “God, I need a drink.”
I smack my lips exaggeratedly, making a real show out of luxuriating over my alcohol since my “pregnant” fiancée can’t be seen to have any right now. “I don’t blame you. This shit is delicious.”
“Asshole.” I chuckle darkly as she tries to maintain her googly-eyed lovey-dovey haze. “Okay, listen, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but I’m gonna?—”
“Please don’t?—”
“She feels betrayed,” Bee says, bulldozing right over my protests. “She’s hurt and shocked and extremely angry. But part of that anger comes from the fact that she has serious feelings for you and she doesn’t know how to turn them off.”
I sigh and set my wine back down. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to do something about it!” she cries out, letting her poker face drop in the heat of the moment. She picks it back up almost immediately and places her hand on my forearm where it rests on the white tablecloth. “You need to fight for her, Dmitri.”
Something urgent and overwhelming rises inside me, desperate for traction. I need to fight for her? Fuck that. I’ve been fighting my entire life. Meeting Elena was the one thing I’ve ever done that felt easy.
