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She’s used to it. She’s had to fake being fine for years,and I didn’t even fucking know.
“It’s time for dinner, right?” she asks brightly, making her way back to her seat like everything isjust fine.
I need to punch something.
TWENTY
Ivy
Awkward doesn’t even begin to cut it. If my stomach wasn’t rumbling, I would have returned to my room, but I really need to eat, so I endure their stares. Amused, apologetic, and the worst of them—full of pity.
Alessandro was so wrong. There’s no way I’ll ever like Osborn. Or any of them, for that matter.
I can’t begin to analyze my feelings about what I overheard when I came down.
I should have just stayed upstairs when I realized they were talking about me. What they say about eavesdroppers is definitely true. But I couldn’t help it. Hedidn’tknow I was getting bullied back then? That’s inconceivable to me, given that it was so incessant, constant, and unrelenting, unless I hid in the library. But we didn’t interact much. He was three years ahead of me, for one, and well, I did avoid him in public, as he so helpfully pointed out.
It doesn’t make any difference. The fact that he wasn’t aware doesn’t change what I lived through back then. But it doesn’t paint it with as harsh a brush as I previously assumed.
And then those words, cutting with their honesty, like a knife to the guts.
It’s all about him. Everything has always been all about how I reflected on him. Every game he’s ever played with me has been about his own image.
I will myself to never, ever forget this glimpse into his mind. His sincerity.
If someone can shit on something that’s mine, who am I?
God, he should be the one seeking the help of a shrink, for his inflated ego.
Less clears his throat. “I see you found the wardrobe.”
I look down at myself, as though I forgot how I’m dressed. In truth I’m glad for a moment to collect myself. “Yeah; I hope that’s okay. I had a bath and didn’t want to get back into my dirty stuff.”
“Of course. They’re your clothes.”
“No, they’re not,” I say firmly.
The walk-in closet, large as a room, could have been another one of my fantasies: it contains anything I could have dreamed up. Gowns from Oscar de la Renta, skirts signed Alexender McQueen, lingerie by Jean Paul Gaultier, Chanel dresses, Prada plumps, fuck-me shoes by Louboutin, all brand new with tags, and my exactly size.
But they’re not mine. They belong to this man who still happens to believe I belong to him.
I picked a simple, incredibly fluffy white sweater and a soft pair of lounge pants with new Ugg boots, opting for comfort over style.
I’m glad I didn’t go with my second choice: a pretty skirt with a blouse to match the guys, who are all well dressed in blazers, button-down shirts and dress pants.
I don’t need to match them. I’m only here because of the storm still raging outside, showing no signs of relenting.
“Where’s my sister?”
“Fucking Sebastian somewhere,” Hux replies as nonchalantly as though I’d asked about the weather. “They’ll be a while.”
Jesus.
“Is there any of that left?” I ask mildly, gesturing toward the bottle of champagne.
No drink has ever been less appropriate for the occasion, but I’d take just about anything with a decent alcohol content right now.
“I’ll get another one.” Alessandro stands. “Unless you’d like to drink something else?”
