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I swore to myself there and then that my heart would remain untouched. So it has been for damn near a decade now, and so it will remain if I have anything to say about it, no matter how manyMMBB's suave bachelors my mother tries to shove down my throat.
I don't need a man. I’ve had only one in my life, and he proved one too many.
I have not so much as looked at another man in the last nine years, let alone touched one, but that's okay. If I need to let off some steam, I have a faithful B.O.B. in my drawer only waiting for me to switch it on.
I won'teverput myself through an ordeal like that again. I just can't afford it. The risk would be too great, the consequences too dire.
I barely survived it last time, and only because I wasn't really in love. I just thought myself to be. That was the thing that saved me in the end, but I might not be so lucky a second time, and I won't do that to myself again, not after Jonathan Withmore.
I'm not a stupid, naïve twenty-year-old girl anymore, and I won't behave like one.
I will never be fooled into such an illusion again.
I shake myself from my rather gloomy thoughts and focus once more on the matter at hand.
I breathe in and out, chasing away all doubts and insecurities and getting ready to don my mask.
I'll see my dad, and then off we'll go into the fray.
I square my shoulders and leave my office.
Be tough. Be unapproachable. Be cold.
Easy-peasy.
Not so great for my social life, but since I don’t have one, it’s not so bad, right?
They want the Ice Queen. I'll give them the Ice Queen. Every. Freaking. Day.
They can’t break me. No one can.
CHAPTER2
Derek
Ishoot a look at the smartwatch on my wrist as inconspicuously as I can and wonder if it would be already a reasonable hour to leave for me.
Maybe if I hint at having to go, they'll finally tell me what they need, and I can put an end to this.
Usually, I love having my weekly dinner with my father and my stepmother, especially in spring and in summer, when if the weather is the perfect combination of warm and breezy —just like tonight— we have our meal on the massive oak and limestone veranda facing the large expanse of lawn surrounding the mansion, the citrusy smell of the orange and lemon threes floating toward us from the nearby orchard and the tiny flickering lights of the fireflies flying over the pond glowing in the distance.
It’s amazing how just looking at this vista makes me feel at peace with the world no matter what and gives me a sense of belonging, ofhome, that I can’t get anywhere else.
Every time we sit right here, mainly on our own or with close friends, we enjoy the excellent cuisine of Mrs. Percival —our wonderful housekeeper that has been a part of our family for the last three decades, practically almost all my life as she came to work here at the mansion when I was about four years old— and we pleasantly chat about our lives, the cases I'm following, and the business concerns of my father's law firm Anderson & Associates, of which I'm currently the CEO. Tonight is not one of those nights, though.
I was happy to come to dinner knowing that Maxwell Colton was going to be there —he is a guy I respect a lot, besides being one of my father’s closest friends and one of the biggest clients of our firm and amongst the very few privileged ones that my father follows himself—, but then Maryssa, my stepmom, mentioned that he was bringing his current flavor of the month along and that intel considerably soured any possible enjoyment of the evening I could have presumed to have.
Alina Blatov is one of the shallowest women I've had the displeasure to meet in my life. Just because she works as a lingerie model, she thinks all people —women and men alike— should fall at her feet and let her walk all over them. She used to date one of my closest friends, Tasha, a couple of years ago and yet kept on making passes at me whenever she could, no matter how many times I made clear to her that I was not buying what she was selling. I told Tasha what her girlfriend was attempting to do, and they broke up shortly after. Alina was far from heartbroken and moved on to her next victim. She'll do anything andanyonewithout much care for other people's feelings in order to further her ambitions of becoming a Boston society’s darling.
I had heard she had caught herself quite the big fish this time. I certainly could not care less about reading the society pages myself, but many of the lawyers in my circle can be pretty gossipy even when you're not willing to listen. Still, I didn't know it was Maxwell, who is about forty years her senior and presently just delivered from his third, very messy, and very stressful divorce. I’m not sure I can even imagine the kind of hell she’s going to rain on both his head and that of his son if they don’t get rid of her soon. I crossed paths with Nick not a week ago, actually and he didn’t mention anything, so he must not know about his dad’s new flavor. Poor bastard is in for quite the unpleasant surprise.
Based on how she treated Tasha, I had a very rock-bottom-low opinion of her to begin with before tonight and I didn’t think it could get any worse since I already couldn’t stand the sight of her, yet in the span of one hour and a half, she has managed to worsen it considerably by shamelessly throwing herself at me in the presence of my parents and her boyfriend.
Normally, I would simply tell her fair and square to stay the fuck away from me and get lost. However, with Maxwell sitting by her side, completely oblivious to her schemes, my father valiantly attempting to keep up the business talk at all costs to try and focus his friend’s attention on us men and away from this utter bitch’s embarrassing display, and with Maryssa turning several shades of green and red over and over again while watching Alina’s tiresome unwanted flirting being shamelessly unleashed at our table, I can’t really dish it out, so this has been the most awkward night of my entire existence.
All right, maybe not my entire life, more like the last ten years or so. Frederica, my estranged so-called mother, showing up drunk at my eighteen birthday party after having been MIA for sixteen years, loudly complaining about my father’s impending wedding to Maryssa and hysterically asking him to be supplied with money, still holds the primate of worst and most embarrassing night of my life if I have to be honest, but this is a pretty shitty evening anyway.
I now fervently wish I had thought of an excuse to get myself out of this dinner. However, my father and Maxwell really wanted to talk to me tonight about the Avalon Foundation —even though I still don't know why—, so short of faking my own death, there was very little I could invent that could have sufficiently got my dad off my back. Here in Boston, no sane businessman would ignore something that has to do with Avalon.
