Chapter Two
For every minute
you remain angry, you
give up sixty seconds
of peace of mind.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
One month later…
I wake up to the cursed sound of screeching. It’s loud and sharp and grates on my delicate ears. It’s the sound of metal cutting metal, and I know the source of it immediately. This isn’t the first time it has happened since I started sleeping at John’s swanky brownstone by Central Park.
Speaking of, John’s meaty arm is sprawled across my body, his pudgy fingers gripping onto my tanned flesh. Slowly, I pry his fingers off of my right breast, careful not to wake him up so he doesn’t get any ideas. I don’t want to be disgusted by him too soon. It would put a damper in my plans.
Because he’s the one.
The one I’m going to marry.
I’ve hit the jackpot with this guy. He’s in his late fifties, doesn’t have any anger issues, has a small sexual appetite, and thankfully wears a condom whenever he actually does slip inside of me.
And at this point in my life, that’s all I can hope for.
Carefully, I slither quietly out of the bed and easily slip away from the bedroom door with the practice garnered from years of being the other woman. Sneaking around is a near daily occurrence in this lifestyle, where women rotate in and out of lives quicker than New York City fashion dos become fashion don’ts.
Thankfully, John doesn’t have a wife. He only has me. And we’re going to get married… He just doesn’t know it yet. Figuring how to get from point A—sleeping with him—to point B—a rock the size of my molars—is a problem for a later date.
Right now, I need to deal with the inconsiderate neighbor that thinks it’s appropriate to have a construction crew working at this early hour—again. I’m beyond pissed off at the 6 A.M. wakeup call. It’s been happening almost every day for the past month, and I can’t take it anymore.
It’s the weekend. I need my sleep. In fact, I need a lot of it to deal with the headaches I encounter on a daily basis. And this elusive neighbor, whoever he is, is taking that away from me with his nightly construction crew, which works from the late hours of the nighttime into the early hours of the day.
How the rest of the neighborhood—and even John, who is far worse than me when it comes to complaining—hasn’t stopped this is beyond me. There are city violations to prevent these sorts of things from happening. I would know, since I’m a pre-law major at Wilton University, an Ivy League school and one of the most prestigious universities in the country.
Once upon a time, the idea of attending Wilton would have been laughably out of reach. Now, it’s a necessity—one I can’t mess up. Just like my situation with John. I spare another glance behind me, grateful to see the hallway empty before I bound down the stairwell.
When I enter the kitchen, I grab the dress off of the kitchen floor, where John threw it last night after he had stripped me bare, and clothe myself. I grab one of my heels off of the couch and huff in annoyance, searching for my second heel, an unwanted casualty from last night’s sexual foray.
When I finally find it, the screeching has stopped, but it doesn’t prevent me from marching out there, eyes blazing in fury. My auburn hair is disheveled from sleep, my jade eyes are red from the sudden wakeup call, and my dress is on inside out.
Nevertheless, I proceed.
“This is unacceptable,” I growl to the nearest worker.
He looks at me, eyes my heels, dress and bedhead, then shrugs. My mouth gapes open when he picks up his hammer and begins to sink a nail into the wood before him. Unbelievable. This is why I hate people, why I have no tolerance for anyone other than Mina, my little sister.
“Hello?” I wave in front of his face.
He spares another glance at me, shrugs, and continues working. A few feet from him, another worker snorts. I narrow my eyes at him, the anger in me rearing its ugly head tenfold. I’ve always had a temper, but my inability to get along with others means that very few are ever around for me to target.
But this man?
He’s asking for it.
I lean forward and sneer at him. “This. Is. Un. Accept. Able.” I make sure to speak slowly, breaking my words into smaller clumps of syllables, so my words can seep through that thick skull of his.
He stares blankly at me.
I try again. “You can’t make noise this early. I will report you to the city if this continues. I’ll do it, too. You’ll lose your license to work. You’ll be investigated.”
He stares at me with a slight twitch of the lips and lifts his right shoulder in a small shrug.
What is wrong with these people?!
I frown, studying his face. He’s older than me by at least twenty years, so probably somewhere in his mid- to late-forties. He doesn’t look to be anyone important, yet he’s sitting here, amused, like he thinks he’s untouchable.
I’ll show him untouchable.
I jerk forward, ready to get up in his face and give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime, but I stop when I feel someone approaching us out of my line of sight. Both of the workers widen their eyes before averting them, fearful for the first time.
I frown. They’re supposed to fear me. I’m the one who’s being wronged. I deserve to revel in their fear. Ugh. Life is so unfair sometimes.
“What’s going on here?” says a voice from behind me, deep and masculine.
I snap, sick and tired of this morning. I swivel around, ready to give someone—anyone—a much-needed verbal lashing, one that I’ve had coiled and pent up inside of me for weeks now.
But as soon as I see his face, I stop.
Gorgeous dark eyes, tan skin, black hair, and a jaw line capable of cutting through glass are introduced to my hungry eyes. And all of that is packaged in a muscular body about half a foot taller than my five feet and eight inches.
The owner of the voice is leaning against the railing to the brownstone, his arms casually crossed and an insouciant expression on his face. And as much as I hate to admit it, I stop and study him.
It’s unfair to be that gorgeous and to reek of this much self-assurance and self-confidence on top of that. Especially in the face of my anger, which is a stark contrast from this man’s calm, assertive appearance.
Goodness, and his coldness.
The overwhelming darkness in his eyes suits the darkness of his expression. And from the prominent display of cheekbones to his sharp jawline and smooth, expressionless features, I wonder briefly if he’s even real.
If he’s a statue—detached and hardened like stone.
Or perhaps he never smiles.
Then again, who am I to judge?
Smiling is rare for me these days, too.
After looking at him in all of his icy, perfect glory, I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to fix my hair and dress and whatever else I can do to make myself more presentable. The urge takes me by surprise, which of course, is only met with even more anger.
I’ve never been like this before.
Angry? Of course.
Calculated? Always.
But lustful? Never.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always gone after one type of man—wealthy, powerful and usually older. I’m certain this guy isn’t old, and I’m unsure if he’s wealthy or powerful. Yet, here I am, reacting to the mere sight of this handsome stranger.
And I hate it.
I harden my eyes, forcing a steely glare into them as I strengthen my resolve again.
Lust serves me no purpose.
I’m here to secure a better future for me and my sister, and everything in me is telling me that lusting after this man—this gorgeous, beautiful, indifferent man—will only get in the way.
And I won’t let that happen.