Page 111 of Hateful Games

Easy.

“Each.”

It’s like they’re not even trying.

Jasmine and the others stare with matching smug smirks, thinking they’ve caught me in a trap. They’re betting more on the fact I’ll say no.

Behind me, Nathan mumbles, “The shoes aren’t even worth that much.”

“He could just buy a new pair,” quips Malcolm.

“Only if he wants to be called a cheapskate for the rest of his life.” Arching one eyebrow at me, Jasmine questions, “What’s it going to be, Nova?”

“If I say no?”

“Then next we’ll steal Rosa,” softly threatens Iris. “No Rosa, no wedding.”

As if I’ll ever let it happen. I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth and drag her back to the altar and make her my wife. I’ve had a taste of her hate and it’s now my favorite flavor. My drug of choice.

“She’s priceless and mine,” I darkly lay my claim, staring right at my obsession. “There’s no stealing her.”

Meeting Jasmine’s stunned face as if she’s truly seeing me for the first time, I insert my hand in my suit jacket’s inside pocket and hand her the signed check I brought with me.

“It should be enough.”

She peers down and her gaze goes wide as saucers as she gasps, “It’s… blank.”

“Can’t risk being called a cheapskate now, can I?”

They all gape with their mouths open.

“The shoes,” I demand.

They shift to the side until I see the box they hid behind them. Grabbing it, I leave them with their bribe.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Chapter Thirty

Rosalie

My suite is alive with exuberant energy and a chaotic mess as everyone scrambles from one corner to the other finishing last-minute tasks. Everyone is dazzling and brightly dressed, ready for the wedding ceremony.

While I can’t look away from my reflection in the full-length mirror.

I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.

It’s like I’ve grown into a woman overnight, sitting with the weight of the world on her shoulders. The difference is, it’s not further from the truth. My father has drilled into me to not jeopardize the peace treaty between our families.

Instead of words of love and blessings.

I’ve been trained as though I’m about to go to war.

I might as well be. Because it has increased my desire to somehow save myself from the invisible clutches of these men. Before the tight chains around my neck becomes a noose that’ll eventually be the death of me.

Pia, the hair and makeup artist, applies the final touches to my hair, styled into an intricate bun while the short tresses fall down my cheeks. Stepping back, she shakes her head in awe and says, “The ball gown is straight out of a fairy tale, Rosalie. I can’t put into words how absolutely gorgeous you look. Like a gothic Barbie come to life.”

“Thank you, Pia.”

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