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Sadie’s answer is vague on details, but it’s the best she can give me without knowing the full story. She’s always been more level-headed than me.
“How do I do that when he won’t take my call?” I whine, forcefully blinking away the tears still clinging to my lashes. “How do I say sorry when he won’t talk to me?”
“Make him listen,” Sadie states firmly. “You get in touch, you apologize, grovel if you have to but make sure you tell himwhyyou did it. You’re married now, and marriage is about understanding and compromise from both sides.”
“Thank you,” I sniffle, mourning my empty wine glass. Hard to believe that twelve hours ago we were at the height of happiness.
“Do you need anything?” Sadie asks, “Alcohol? Junk food? I can bring you anything you need after my shift! Are you at a hotel?”
Oh, of course. Sadie and Kimmy still don’t know where I’m staying.
“Yeah, a hotel,” I reply vaguely. I’d love to see her, but I highly doubt any of the guards are going to let me step outside. “No, no it’s okay. I just needed to hear your voice of reason.”
“I gotchu,” Sadie exclaims and I can almost hear the smile in her voice. “Seriously, Cara, apologizing and explaining is the best route. Theadultpath, so I’m told. You got this. I saw how he looked at you at the wedding; he’ll understand.”
“I hope so.” My teeth catch my lower lip before I force cheeriness into my voice. “Bye, Sadie, thank you. I love you!”
“Love you too!”
Silence closes around me like an unwelcome hold when she hangs up, and I set my phone down, staring at the screen until it goes dark and my tear-stained reflection stares back at me. Red rims my eyes, and as I screw them up, my cheeks scratch with dried salt.
Sadie’s right. If I can just get Killian to listen to me, I can explain my side. Yes, I lied, but I did it to protect my father. That has to count for something, right?
Reaching for the wine bottle, I tap my phone screen and highlight Killian’s number again, pressing the dial. The automated voice fills the space around me, and I groan, tipping the bottle straight into my mouth.
Where thefuckis Killian?
24
KILLIAN
Cara’s ringtone is drowned out by the thumping music that pulses all around me, seeping deep into my veins and infecting every sluggish beat of my heart. She keepscalling,and I keep rejecting her.
Every single time.
I can’t stomach speaking to her but watching my phone light up with her attempts gives me a slight sadistic pleasure. I hope she’s suffering. It’s nowherenearthe pain she’s flooded my heart with.
Sheliedto me. I don’t give a shit about her reasoning, I don’tcareif it was for her father, and I certainly don’t care if she’ssorry. She sat in front of me time and time again as I poured my fucking heart out. She looked me in the eyes and pretended to be honest with me all this time?!
The glass in my hand shatters suddenly, crumpling in my grip, much to the alarm of the bartender who flinches at the sound. He’s in front of me immediately, spewing a flurry of apologies I barely hear above the music. He starts to gather up the glass, offering me a towel, but I wave him off with a sway of my hand.
“But sir—!” His insistence rises over the beat of the music and I catch his eye, my jaw set.
“Leave it,” I growl, “and bring me another.”
I’ve lost track of how many glasses have passed through my fingers today, and I have no intention of stopping. As the bartender steps away to fulfill my request, heat spreads over my palm and I glance down to see crimson running in rivulets down my wrist. I uncurl my palm and there’s a shard of glass buried into my skin. There’s no pain, but that might be the alcohol dulling my senses. I stare at the shard, flexing my fingers and watching the glass shift and rise with my muscles. It holds my attention until a hand lands on my left shoulder, and I glance up, coming face to face with Niccolo.
He’d driven me here after I’d yelled at him and from the frown on his face, he’s ready to take me home.
“Sir,” he says, “is it deep? Maybe we should get that looked at?”
There it is. He wants me to leave. He’s searching for a subtle way to take me away from the bar and out of the club to somewhere without alcohol.
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice fuzzy. To prove my point, I grasp the shard and pull it free from my hand in one swift movement, tossing the glass aside. A small inch-long gash winks at me, blood leaking steadily from the wound. It doesn’tlookthat bad, and it certainly doesn’t hurt.
“Sir,” Niccolo warns and I roll my eyes, glancing back up at him. He has a handkerchief tucked into his upper suit pocket, so I grab it and start to wind the cloth around my palm and through my fingers, covering the wound. I tie it off into a small knot, using my teeth to grasp one of the ends and pull it taught before I hold it aloft like a trophy for Niccolo to observe.
“See? It’s fine.”
