Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“He's, well, Parker.”
She doesn't respond, her finger tapping against her mug. “I don't know why all famous people don't come to Veilarath. Being able to escape the paparazzi because of the privacy laws here must be alluring for them.”
“Asher sent me a Snapchat last night,” I say, unable to stop myself.
Her mouth drops open. “Oh?”
I nod, trying to process all of what’s happening between us. “Of him.”
Luce leans close, eyes narrowed.
“…doing things on purpose to make me—” My lips tighten. Privacy laws aside, no one is about to skip on details they accidentally stumble upon on a casual Tuesday at a cafe.
She gasps, spine snapping straight when she reads between the lines. “And?”
“…and let’s just say, I suddenly remember how much I relied on sex to release my tension.” I let the words die into the quiet chatter of the cafe.
Silence. Because none of us want to touch that subject right now.
I shrug everything off, sipping my coffee again.
She blinks slowly at me. “I knew you two were more than friends!”
“I don't need to be judged.” I remind her, but it’s unnecessary. In all our years together, Luce has seen me at my worst, watched me make mistakes, and has never once raised a brow in judgement. And trust me, I've given her plenty of material to work with.
She lifts her shoulders, unbothered. “Do it.”
“Luce…” I warn carefully.
Her hardened expression slips as she scans the room for a moment. “I won't go into the why I think you should, for obvious reasons.”
My skin prickles, leaving a ghost of goosebumps over the nape of my neck.
She flashes a wide smile again, waving me off and leaning back in her chair casually. “Parker isn't the greatest husband. We all know that.”
“Yes, but don't you think I should divorce him and not cheat?” I lift a brow, the silent conversation between us not so obvious to the surrounding people. How've I become the one judging now? That isn't me—at all. I couldn't care less what anyone did. So long as children are safe and racism dies.
She mumbles into her coffee. “Yeah, because that's an option….” She sighs, sensing my unease. “You don't love him, Ivy. His fingers are just so deep in you that you can't rip them out without tearing yourself apart along with it.”
I wince. “Okay, stop talking.”
She chuckles. “Fine. But only because I know I already hit the spot.”
She has. I don't want to go further into what she is leading to because we both know that not only are those words forbidden to say out loud, but we would run the risk of others hearing it.
I need to change the subject instead. “Let's spend money.”
* * *
Three hours later I kick the door closed behind me, hauling in bags of Louis Vuitton, Chanel and Van Cleef. As much as I hate to admit, my shopping addiction didn’t help with the distraction that I am going to run into Asher and Camille today.
Someone flies through the doors, holding a dish in each hand.
“I have an idea about the meals tonight, Miss Ivy, but I am not sure whether you will approve. Do you mind tasting?” Jasper says in German.
“Do you even have to ask?” I tease back, plucking broccolini off the plate. Garlic-infused butter slips down my throat. “Are you kidding?” I chew on the stalk, sucking the drop of grease off my thumb while looking up at him. “You always hit the spot.”
“Jesus, Ivy!” Punk winks as her shoulders brush mine in passing, pulling me out of my food orgasm. I don’t see him enter, but I can feel him.
I wipe my hand on the back of my Levi's. “Tastes really good, Jasper.”
“Good morning!” Luce grins at Punk, placing her bags beside mine as we both make our way to the dining room. “And what time did you kids get in last night?”
I don't know where the rest of the trio went, since it's only Punk who plonks on the dining chair, massaging her temple. “A few hours ago, I think. At least I did. Asher came home earlier.”
Luce carries the conversation with Punk, and I leave them to it. I need to go and unpack all my new trauma items anyway.
I round the corner that leads into the living room, and stop when I see Asher sprawled out over the sofa, scrolling on his phone casually. Dressed in a simple Givenchy hoodie and casual jeans, he’s effortless. I don’t know how he does it. He rolls out of bed, throws on his shit, and still manages to look more fuckable than ninety-nine percent of the human race.
That one percent is reserved for romance novels.
“And how did you sleep?” He doesn't bother looking up at me, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Nice?”
There is no way I'm getting out of this, and in a way, I'd rather rip the Band-aid off than dance around the angst of it. I’ve never been into the cat-and-mouse thing.