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He opens a scroll. A real-life scroll, like a royal decree is about to be announced. Clearing his throat, he begins to read. “Ariah Elaine Bradford, your presence is hereby formally requested to be in attendance on Saturday, November eighteenth, two thousand and twenty-three, at the Edgewood Country Club at seven o’clock post-meridiem.”
I want him to shut up, but he just keeps going.
“For the celebration of Wesley Benjamin Edgewood’s, Wyatt Alexander Grant’s, Sebastian Blake Grant’s, Levi Nathaniel Washington’s, and Owen Preston Jefferson’s engagement to Samantha Marie Davenport.”
Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I force it down. This is to humiliate me. I know without needing an explanation. I embarrassed their fiancée, and they’re making me pay for it.
“I won’t go,” I shout, interrupting his long-winded announcement. Those assholes can get fucked if they think I’ll step foot in that country club to celebrate.
The man looks perplexed by my outburst. His shock immediately turns to disdain, and his lips curl in disgust as he barks, “Attendance is mandatory per the contract you signed. Failure to attend will put you in breach of contract, and the full force of the Fraternitas will be brought down on you.”
A blur moves in my periphery. Reign grabs the man by his throat, hoisting him in the air as he flails, struggling to find purchase. The scroll, along with the box, drops at Reign’s feet.
“You will treat her with the respect she’s due and not just because she deserves it but as a Bradford. . . the rightful Heir to your prehistoric pathetic boys’ club. Do we have an understanding?” Reign snarls, glaring daggers at the man, whose face flushes red before turning almost purple, grunts his agreement. “Perfect. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
Reign’s grip slackens, dropping the man, and his body crumples to the floor. I watch as he sucks in much-needed air.
“Was that necessary,” I mouth when Reign’s gaze meets mine.
“People need to understand that all disrespect will be met with unapologetic force,” Reign asserts, then kicks the man’s side. “Get up and finish this bullshit speech, and then get the fuck out!”
The man gathers the contents, places them back in the box, and scrambles to his feet as if his ass was on fire. He massages his throat before he continues. “You will find all?—”
Elias cuts him off. “Apologize!”
“What?” The man asks.
“Don’t make him repeat himself. You won’t like the outcome,” Nando adds.
The man’s once-red face drains of its color. “I-I-I. . . I’m s-sorry,” he finally gets out. “I was out of place, and it won’t happen again.”
I almost feel bad for him.
“You will find more details within this box,” he croaks, attempting to hand it to me. My hands don’t move to accept it. “Miss Bradford.” He tries again. “Miss. I can’t leave without you accepting the box.
Groaning, I resignedly take the box. He turns and dashes from the house the moment it’s in my hands.
I stare down at the gold box, and I don’t mean plated gold. The stupid thing looks like it’s made of solid gold. Who the fuck does this shit? It’s ostentatious packaging in poor taste.
“That’s ridiculous,” Shay mutters, pointing at the gaudy invitation.
I hum in agreement as I walk toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Elias questions.
“I’m putting this where it belongs,” I answer, striding past him. I don’t stop until I reach my intended destination.
Shay gasps when she sees where I’m headed.
“Do it,” she encourages.
Turning, I smirk, appreciating her support. But in this instance, I would’ve done it even without it. Pulling the handle, I open the trash compactor and dump the box, and all it contains precisely where it belongs. Down the fucking chute with the rest of the garbage.
I slam it closed, then wheel around and head to my room.
22
OWEN
