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“When is it?” She wonders idly.
“August 12th.” I wince, moving around the room and looking at some watches and cufflinks.
“Wow, you weren’t lying when you said last minute,” she laughs harshly.
“I know, sorry. I’ve been so busy. It’s all just been a bit chaotic,” I murmur, eyeing the nearest cabinet with diamond rings.
“Send me an email, and I’ll come back to you tomorrow,” she says.
“Great, thank you.” I disconnect the call to see an assistant already floating nearby, eager to engage me in conversation. I welcome them because anything is better than my thoughts. Trays upon trays of watches all glint back at me. The assistant gushes out information about each watch—their brand and specifics, but I honestly have little idea what it all means. It tells the time and looks nice that’s all I care about. I’m sure Oscar would be listening eagerly, so I try for him, but soon choose a Breitling that I know he will love despite what it can or can’t do. With that done, I pay and decide to treat myself to a new outfit for Oscar’s party. I hit the street and blink at the flash of a camera a few metres away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The photographer begins firing questions about Callan: how long have we been dating, how did we meet, will I give him an exclusive? I had intended to walk to a nearby boutique, but I walk to my car instead. He is pressing the camera in my face.
“Come on, Miss Reid, we’re all dying to find out about your new love?” he says aggressively. He is purposefully standing in front of my car. My heart hollows, but I keep my face passive.
I remain calm. In my mind, I have elbowed him out of the way and pushed my way to my car.
“Excuse me.” I smile politely. I know if I keep calm, professional, and kind, he will look bad in the eyes of the public.
“How did you and Mr Scott meet?” he demands, his foot stretched out to keep me from overstepping him.
“In his club after I contacted Nexo about hosting Oscar’s party,” I offer in the hope he will piss off. He doesn’t. It just fuels him further.
“So your relationship started from there?” He smirks.
“No, outside of our meeting, I do not know Mr Scott or intend to. Excuse me,” I say, once more keeping my face emotionless.
“Oh, come on, he was especially tactile with you.” He laughs, calling me out.
“In comparison with who, you?” I tilt my head as my naturally sarcastic nature slips free. “Mine and Mr Scott’s relationship is purely professional andplatonic. Excuse me.” My tone never wavers. I keep it sweet, polite and hold his eyes to give the impression I’m being genuine. Given that I no longer have any involvement with Callan, it’s not hard to convey the truth of our situation.
“Miss Reid—”
“I really do need to leave. Please allow me to get into my car. I’ve asked you repeatedly.” I smile, pointing to my car, the camera rolling.
He begrudgingly steps out of the way.
“The truth will come out sooner or later,” he mutters.
“When it does, be a sweetie and update me.” I smile. “And if by any chance I see Mr Scott whilst attending Mr Winters’ party, I’ll be sure to ask him to give you a hug so you don’t feel so left out. Have a great day,” I say brightly, as I slip into the car. His face twists in annoyance, and he switches from film to photo, and flashes erupt against my eyes before I manage to pull away.
I’ll ask Gina to send me a few sample cocktail dresses instead. I’ve had enough of reality for today.
The next week seems to tumble away. Oscar is more than happy to have me back by his side and is acting like nothing has changed, when, unbeknownst to him, it has, so much so. I don't know what my future will hold, but I do know, either way, he won’t be a part of it. I throw myself into our friendship, giving him the very best of myself, and he laps it up like a starved child. I pried enough out of him about Anita to find out she is no better and, if anything, worse. Oscar is losing grip of her, and she is just losing it. He admitted he hopes she becomes unwell enough to be admitted to hospital for help. She is a ticking time bomb, rattling around in a huge mansion, pissed as a newt, crying for a husband that will never come home. It’s hopelessly sad, and I can see how difficult it is for my friend, so I focus on him, keeping a smile on his face.
We hit boutiques and bars, lunch out, and slob in. He floods my Instagram with our daily antics. Shoots, castings, and a spa afternoon that we both sorely needed. When I do have the time, I try to dig up any information about my father, but unless I come forward with my true identity, any information I do find is nothing more than what others on the internet have access to. My father’s belongings and business were all dismantled and taken by the government. I was his only living family member, and I supposedly died with him. Without a clue as to why the Russians are still eager to kill me, I’m struggling to make sense of it all. The one person who can help me means too much to me to place in the line of fire.
It’s only as I’m getting ready for Oscar’s party that I acknowledge the trepidation drifting along my skin. Oscar’s lips are buttoned shut. Not once have we discussed Callan.
“Gina has outdone herself with this dress,” Oscar says, lifting it up and looking at it. It's a short hem, glittery wrap-dress, sleeveless, and very fitted.
“I know. It’s cute.” My voice strains as I try to apply my eye-liner. The invites were sent over to me the day after I contacted Beth. She had conjured up a matte black design with a light fine rose gold font and bold, shiny black writing for the location. They were masculine but fun, and Oscar had loved it. We fast-tracked them, sending them to all his contacts and more than expected responded. It’s going to be a hell of a night.
“Are you going smokey?” he asks, hooking my dress back up.
“No, I think the dress is loud enough. I’m going to keep my face neutral,” I murmur, gliding mascara along my naturally thick lashes.
