Page 4 of Lovely Venom

Our conversations revolve around safe topics, and we ask very little of each other. He doesn’t question me about my past, and we don’t talk about the future. Up until recently, it’s worked for us. But lately, his behavior has been giving me whiplash. And at this point in my life, it’s made me evaluate more than just this relationship.

I’ve survived by staying detached, and I’ve tried to convince myself I’m fine with what I have. Still, it’s been hard to ignore the itch deep inside. The want for more.

As I watch my friends settle down and have families of their own, it reminds me that was the life I once dreamed of.

That ember of aching emptiness inside me burns hotter every day, filling my head with ideas I’ve tried so desperately to kill.

Permanence isn’t even a conscious thought to most of the people in this room. They know, without question, that they have a steady foundation to lay down roots and grow. For me, those things are a fantasy I can never truly indulge. But when my eyes land on Marco across the room—with his ex at his side—I know there has to be more than this.

My stomach sours at the prospect of conversing with her, however briefly it may be, and I have to wonder why she’s even here.

Isobel Fairchild is a model, an heiress, and a perpetual thorn in my side. She’s known for being sweet with a poisonous bite, and I’ve found that to be an accurate description from my interactions with her.

I haven’t given her a spare thought since she flitted off to Europe with her new billionaire boyfriend. But if she’s back in the city, there’s a good chance she’s single again.

I’m not remotely prepared to deal with her tonight, but she’s already seen me, so there’s no running now.

Marco catches my gaze as I approach him, tension flickering in his eyes before he offers me a smile. He looks surprised to see me, and my discomfort only grows.

I’ve never truly felt comfortable with him in social settings because of our perceived class differences, and though he hasn’t said so, I know he keeps me under a certain level of containment. We never went anywhere in public together for the first year of our arrangement, and even now, he’s selective about where he invites me.

He doesn’t like to label our relationship in the presence of his friends, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. Most of his associates treat me like I’m an escort, and there’s no point trying to defend myself. I learned a long time ago that people are going to think what they want.

“Hey,” Marco greets me. “I didn’t think you could make it tonight.”

“I told you I would be here.” I stare at him, wondering if he completely blanked out our last conversation, or if there’s something else going on.

“Yes, it’s such a surprise to see you, Chandra,” Isobel butts in. “I thought you usually spent your nights entertaining men at that little club of yours.”

I shoot Marco a sidelong glance, waiting for him to say something in my defense, but he sips from his drink as if he didn’t hear her.

“It’s Chantel,” I remind her for the thousandth time. “And I’m all out of performances tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ah, well, that’s a shame. I’m sure Marco’s guests would have loved to see one, but I suppose it would be hard to put on a show without a pole.”

I don’t bother correcting her because she knows damn well I’m not a stripper, but she makes a point to say something like that every time she sees me. She wants a reaction, and I won’t give her one. But Isobel never admits defeat easily.

Her shrewd gaze rakes over my vintage black pencil dress as she makes a vague gesture with her hand. “I love this aesthetic you’ve committed to. It’s so…nostalgic.”

“Just like a 1950’s housewife.” Her friend Libby snorts. “It must be so nice not to care about current trends.”

A beat passes as I watch Marco drain the whiskey in his glass, pretending to be even more oblivious than usual.

“Can we talk?” I ask him.

“Right now?” He glances around the room, avoiding my gaze. “I have guests.”

“They’ll still be here in ten minutes,” I assure him.

Sighing as if this is the world’s biggest inconvenience, he mutters his apologies to the other women before he leads me down the hall to the library. Once we’re alone, his entire demeanor shifts and he grabs me by the hips, tugging me closer.

“You look hot tonight.” He breathes the words down my neck.

I pull away, irritated that he thinks if he tosses a compliment my way, I’ll forget what just happened.

“Funny you didn’t mention that when your friends were insulting me.”

He huffs out an annoyed sound, wandering over to the bar cart to pour two drinks.