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The fucking nerve.

She pulls back. "Don't worry, darling, you're not the only rich boy in town." She spins on her heel, walking off with that infuriating stride.

I watch her go, my jaw clenched and my hands balling into fists at my side.

I’m furious, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a scene. The park is full with people, and the last thing I need is to feed the gossip mill.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, kissing me in public where she knows I won’t react.

Fuck.

I'm so done with all this shit.

The games, the manipulations, the fucking firefighting.

Every time I trust someone, they turn around and stab me in the back, and I'm fucking tired of it.

I trusted Gina. I trusted my brother. I trusted Bailey.

Look where all that fucking got me.

I grit my teeth.

I won't let them see me break, won't let them see me lose control. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me defeated.

25

BAILEY

It's freezing out this morning. And the idea of trudging through this to the office is as appealing as a root canal. I order a cab.

Thank God for modern conveniences.

I slip into the warm car, my breath fogging up the window.

"How are you doing this morning, miss?" The driver looks at me in the rearview.

"I'm fine, thanks."

I look out the window as the streets pass us by when a wave of nausea hits me. I swallow hard.

Car sickness?

I haven't fully woken up yet.

Or I need another cup of coffee.

I ignore it, focusing on the dull gray buildings sliding past.

But then, another wave of nausea creeps up faster than the first one. It’s so strong that I have to clamp my hand over my mouth, my knuckles turning white as I fight against the overwhelming urge to throw up.

The driver's eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I... I need you to pull over."

He doesn't hesitate, veering off to the side of the road. As soon as the car stops, I push the door open, barely making it onto the pavement.

Gross.

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