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What the fuck did I do? How could I have brought so much pain into her life, into Gemma’s, into my own? And now, what? She had a vendetta, all because of me?
“This isn’t her fault,” I exhaled, holding Mila by the arms, physically stopping her from stepping another inch.
The roll of a bag rattled behind me, thumping along the wood floors of the hall that stretched to the bedroom in the distance. Mila looked over my shoulder, her laser-focused scorn sought on Gemma, who with Tommy’s help made her way down the stairs to leave.
I didn’t get to say goodbye, but the last look she gave me tore me apart. It wasn’t just sad, it was helpless, and the side effect of everything I was told I’d someday become.
I was the bad guy.
“I kissed her,” I admitted to Mila, guiding her chin in my direction. She pulled away, denying the truth with the look in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.”
“I don’t care. You need to hear it. I’m sorry, and what I did was completely wrong, but this isn’t about Gemma, this is about you and me.”
This was so personal to her, such an attack on everything she had claim on. And after her and Gemma started to get close, the rug was pulled beneath her, and it was because of me.
“I can’t ask you to forgive me, but I can’t let you leave without telling you how wrong I was, and how there will never be a way to make up for what I did… but it ends here, and I’m sorry that it does.”
Mila paused, amused by a thought that she held to herself. “You get to control a lot of things, Parker, but you won’t control me. This isn’t over, and in fact, it’s just beginning.”
“Stop,” I warned, but Mila pushed me aside, taking her bag all by herself as she began to walk away.
“Don’t worry, Parker, I’m only after Gemma… but as far as Alex is concerned, you better prepare for a war.” She looked back, swiping at her phone for an Uber. “And trust that I’ll be there to facilitate it, every step of the fucking way.”
Chapter35
Gemma
“Everyone here goes by their first name. Miss Dawson from HR is just Elizabeth, Mrs. Aziz from accounting is just Farrah, and St. La Vie is just Henri.” The tall, dirty blond man laughed to himself, his soft center tucked into a fitted floral top. He clutched a book to his chest, navigating me through a row of half-dressed mannequins and elongated cutting tables.
It was finally here, the sound of heels on glossy concrete, shears against fabric, the conglomerate of workers huddled around a single unfinished dress. It was everything I wanted, tied into a bow of the biggest St. La Vie logo I’d ever seen embedded into the wall. I wished I was as excited as my host, appreciative of every minute detail of the place I’d probably never be again.
But I wasn’t.
And in fact, I wasn’t even mentally here, seventy-seven floors above a busy, Manhattan morning. I was gone, back in the Hamptons, reliving the details that competed with the distraction of overpriced coffee and leather handbags.
“And what do others call you?” I pinned my attention to the man whose dimpled smile and bright, baby blues flashed in my direction.
“Mr. Davis.” He grinned, tripping over a bolt of fabric. “But my friends call me Dean.”
“Hope that includes me,” I joked, enjoying how friendly it was to be around him.
“Oh, it does. I can tell we’re gonna be friends.” He opened the glass door to a massive corner office, its wall of windows crowded with bookshelves and clothing racks. I did a quick once over, admiring the candid photos of St. La Vie, posing at Lake Como with Oscar De la Renta and Donatella Versace.
“You can tell that already?” I stepped inside, wiping my palms on the skirt of my yellow, two-piece blazer set, drying them on the intricate floral pattern.
“Of course. I like your style.” He began to organize the large desk where I sat, removing a pile of Vogue magazines to make room for the book in his possession. “I knew it the instant I saw you. You’re a real human being with color and glow. Not another New York vampire.”
“Well, I did just get back from the Hamptons.”
“That must be it! You look like one of my cousins. She’s a California beauty just like me.” He searched around, lifting a pack of cigarettes off the desk and tossing it into the trash.
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Laguna Beach,” he answered, sprucing the bounce of the cushion on a chair. “I haven’t seen a palm tree in over a year.”
“Our beaches are way different here. Have you been?”
