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Unknown:Kira, I think you did something to me because I can’t even look at another woman.
Unknown:Baby, I’ll do anything to have you.
I had to figure out who the hell Steven was because the messages kept on coming. And my gratitude only goes so far, as my recent fuck buddy started bombarding me with never-ending messages. Anything from “good morning” texts to pleading for another date and flirtatious remarks bordering on cringy.
So, I blocked his number without a single response, but two days later, a message from a new unknown number came in.
Unknown:Something is wrong with my phone. My messages are not coming through to you, so I got a new number.
No, something is wrong with your head. Probably one too many pucks came in contact with it.
Unknown:Maybe I’m an idiot, but I think I’m in love with you! And I think you feel something for me, too, because I know you don’t spend more than one night with anyone, and yet you did with me. Just admit it, don’t be afraid. I will love you forever.
Jesus Christ…now he loves me?
Unknown:You are mine, Kira Clark. And I claim what is mine.
Fuck, if I’d known he was such a blithering idiot, I would’ve never rode his dick, but that’s the story of my life. Do somethingstupid and pay the price for it. And I decided to give him one last day to come to his senses and leave me alone.
However,Iam not given the same luxury.
You know that moment when you just know your whole carefully built life is about to go up in flames? Yeah, I’m having it.
And it started with my phone blowing up with notifications. I have an alert system set up for whenever my name or the name of one of my restaurants comes up, and this morning, it’s having a field day. I have no less than two thousand alerts.
But when I open the very first one, I don’t know whether I should throw up or go kill the idiot who is behind this mess.
I fucking knew sleeping twice with the hockey clinger was a mistake. I knew it, but for the first time, I didn’t listen to my instincts and went with my vagina. I also knew I should have squashed him like the bug he is right away, but I didn’t.
And now, I need to take care of the mess he created. Themessbeing him giving interviews to anyone with an eager ear and a wicked pen that he is in a relationship with the ever-elusive restaurant mogul, Kira Clark.
Fuck. Me.
Or no. Fuck. Him. Because there is no way he is coming out of this alive.
Just as I’m about to go on a killing spree, my phone beeps once again with news where Steven announces that I couldn’t withstand his charm and fought extra hard to keep him.
Now, I don’t just want to kill him. I want to murder him in cold blood. I want to take my favorite chef’s knife and carve his heart out of his damn chest and serve it as a dinner special. Too bad that would be terrible PR. Damn it, for twelve years, I evaded any kind of scandal. I only gave interviews pertaining to my work and my work alone. Nothing personal, nothing that would putme in the limelight, and mostly all of them have learned that it is best to evade me.
Yet here we are.
But maybe if I remain silent, the storm will blow over, and no one will buy his bullshit. Maybe that’s exactly what I need to do. Just wait it out. He has no pictures of us together, and I certainly am not going out with him anywhere, so the crows with their clicky-clacks could take some. Because giving into this mess will just cause more backtalk. And backtalk leads to snooping, and snooping leads to hidden parts of my life I have no wish to uncover or dig up.
But my resolve to stay in the shadows on this one lasts all of one hour until I leave my apartment and step out the front door.
Hundreds of photographers, journalists, and paparazzi crowd the entrance, trying to snatch the best picture of my murderous face. Each one asking a million questions a minute about the idiot Steven and our relationship—fuck, that word is stupid—about our fairytale love story and why have we been hiding it this long.
Little do they know I wear my mask of indifference as my Prada suits. Daily and unwavering.
Not a single muscle twitches on my face as I pass them all and climb into my waiting Rolls Royce, with Henry shutting the door fast behind me and driving away just as hastily.
“Kira? Are you okay?” my nosy driver asks, and I send him a scowl, which he has learned over the years to mean,this is me asking you nicely to leave me alone. Henry quickly avers his gaze from the rearview mirror and remains silent the rest of the way to Conte de fée, but as soon as we pull up, I wish he’d simply take me home.
No, that is what little quitters do, and I am not one of them. I haven’t been one of them in many, many years. So, with my headheld high, I step out and face yet another swarm of filthy flies—aka reporters.
They are hoping for a sob story; well, they’ve come to the wrong fucking place.
I am not a Swarovski crystal, which is beautiful, yet breakable with simple squash. I am a diamond. Hard. Cold and utterly indestructible. I field their questions with the same ease as I did back at my apartment, without giving them anything, and their frustrations hung heavy in the air around us. But what do I care about their feelings…
