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“Do you think I’m a slut?”
Chapter3
Mila
Idon’t know why I asked. Why do I need validation from my friend? Why can’t I rise above his insult? I mean, my dress at the gala… Why do I fucking care?
I know he didn’t comment on my lifestyle… or maybe he did. What does he know about me anyway?
And yet, I couldn’t sleep because of his comment for several nights, which in my current situation isn’t good. Not at all. I shouldn’t care about Gio Cassinetti’s opinion, and yet…
“Where is this coming from?” Gina laughs, but her laughter dies as she meets my eyes. “You’re serious? I haven’t even seen you with anyone for a few months. And even when you were enjoying all the possible kinky fun after you broke up for Brian, even then I didn’t for a second think that. What are you talking about?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Gio said I look like a hooker.”
She gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Mils. I don’t… he acts like an arrogant asshole, but I always assumed it’s a mask, but… I-I-I don’t know what to say. Do you want Massi to beat the shit out of him?”
Her attempt at lightening the mood falls short, but her concern is sweet. “No, of course not. I don’t care what Gio thinks, anyway.”
But something in her reaction doesn’t sit well with me. As if she is hiding something.
* * *
Perhaps my reaction to Gio’s harsh words bloomed out of proportion because of the seeds Brian planted. But that sliver of rationalization is as thin as a spider’s thread.
As much as I try, I stumble, falter, trip. I don’t glide smoothly like Brian or Gio. Or Gina, London, or any other person I know.
I cross the street, craning my neck. The building is an intimidating skyscraper of glass, cement, and corporate culture. Never did I imagine I might work for a large company like The Wings. At least I’d work with influencers and at the events, so hopefully not cooped up in one of the cubicles.
Though the idea brings a smile to my lips. I’ve been freelancing since I was in college and never considered working for a machine like this, but as I step into the large stone-clad lobby, I’m excited.
Perhaps this could be my clean slate. A chain of small boutiques across the country, The Wings is a perfect mix of small—a type of service I’m used to supporting because they cater to a specific niche of people who want to be unique—and large, because some important holding has bought them recently.
I smile at the receptionist who stops me with an erect finger while she finishes a phone call. As soon as she hangs up, another line rings. I keep smiling, but I hope she won’t make me late.
A pathetic part of me wishes Brian could see me here. The thought lingers in my stomach, spreading acid. I don’t want to do things to prove shit to Brian. It’s been a year, for fuck’s sake.
The receptionist finally gives me a visitor badge and sends me on my way. The elevator is full of people with purpose. They’re all dressed smartly. I look down at my dress, pleased with my choice. A simple purple dress. Dressy, but not too much.
“This is what you’re wearing?” Brian shook his head.
I ran my hands over the black pencil skirt I wore with a white off-shoulder T-shirt. “Yes.” My voice is just a whisper.
“You can’t be serious. This is a dinner with my partners, and you’re dressed for a party. Don’t you have anything more appropriate to wear?”
“Brian, I’m dressed for a party. I’m opening a restaurant tonight. I told you—”
“And I told you how important tonight is for my career. Baby, I can’t believe you would rather go to some party. This is my future. Our future.” He looked at me with hurt in his eyes, and for some reason I felt the betrayal deep in my bones.
“I’m sorry.” Perhaps I could call Gina to tell her something came up. If I was careful, nobody at Brian’s dinner would notice I was posting on social media. But without being there and taking pictures? “I have to go, Brian. I told you we can’t move an opening night.” I didn’t want to do this to him. I knew how important his job was to him.
“You’re always sorry. For once, it would be nice if you supported me.”
“Let me call Gina.”
I shake off the memory as the elevator dings on the fifteenth floor. I step onto thick beige carpet and into another reception area. This one is much smaller. Two men in blue overalls are attaching The Wings logo to the soft brown wall across from me.
“Mila Ward?” A woman in her late forties, dressed in black, high-waisted pants flaring at her ankles and a white button-down shirt draws my attention.
