"Don't bother firing me, you old pervert—I quit!" I slammed the empty glass down on the table with a sharp crack.
I turned and walked away on my heels, spine straight.
But only I knew my heart was trembling wildly in my chest.
I was screwed.
I was really screwed.
Those ten seconds of revenge felt amazing, but reality crashed down like a mountain. I was unemployed. Washington's expensive rent, credit card debt, and my mother's astronomical imported medication bill next month—all of it wrapped around my throat like a net, choking me.
I wanted to cry, but I bit my lip hard, forcing my eyes wide. Vivienne, you can't cry here. You need to get the hell out of this place.
I kept my head down, quickening my pace toward the side exit to make my escape.
But fate apparently didn't think tonight's comedy was complete yet.
I ran straight into someone coming the opposite direction.
"Watch where you're going, lady—"
An imperious female voice sounded above my head.
I looked up.
Oh God.
My breath stopped completely.
Standing before me was a woman in a pure white, minimalist but supremely luxurious custom wedding gown—the new bride—Chloe Vanguard. Thin as a matchstick that might snap any second, but her expertly made-up face radiated insufferable arrogance.
And beside her, arm tight around her waist, wearing a pure black tailcoat, was the man who'd humiliated me with bedroom photos via text just a week ago—my ex-fiancé, Derek.
My throattightened.
God, couldn't I avoid running into my ex when I was this wrecked?
Derek's gaze fell first on my press badge, then rose to my face. That familiar contemptuous curve of his mouth—the one I'd ground my teeth over during countless sleepless nights—slowly appeared.
"Wow," he said, eyebrows rising theatrically. "Vivienne. You actually came."
His tone made me sound like a stray cat that wouldn't leave.
I took a deep breath, forcing down the fire burning through my throat.
"I'm working," I tried to keep my voice steady. "Congratulations to you both."
"Working." Chloe rolled the word around in her mouth, then tilted her head toward Derek with a lazy smile. "Honey, is she saying she's press?"
"Mm-hmm," Derek's eyes slid from my face to my dress, then my waist, my shoulders, not bothering to hide his appraisal. "Urban Style? Never heard of it. Didn't think you had it in you to get in here."
"I didn't think so either." I maintained my smile with effort. "But since I'm here, might as well do the job."
"Of course," Chloe said breezily. "The media seats are all arranged. You shouldn't have trouble finding yours, right?" Her gaze landed on my waist, then dropped another inch. "Or... you came for other reasons? After all, some people might have trouble letting go."
Her look cut into me like knives.
"Chloe," Derek's tone carried fake concern. "Don't be like that. Vivienne's just..." He paused, the curve of his mouth deepening. "She just hasn't found anyone more suitable yet. Right, V? I mean, this kind of event, your figure in that dress... it's a bit of a stretch. Always trying to get attention, aren't you?"
