Page 53 of The Fake Dating War

“Stop that.” Patel drops the dress, so it sags in her arms. “Both of you shut-up.”

“She respects me,” I tell her sister. “It’s a suffocating amount of respect, really.”

Too late, I realize that my tone was heavy with sarcasm.

“The strapsarenice on you,” I add, trying to save the situation.

She runs her fingers along one of them.

“You should buy it,” says Esha. Her eyes flick between the two of us, a bit suspiciously, before she turns back to her own shopping.

I see Patel fiddle with the dress. To the untrained eye, she’s appreciating the quality of the material. I’m not untrained. I’ve sat across from her for years. So when her hand flows down and she very subtly reads the price-tag, I see it. The resignation.

“I already have one like this,” she claims.

Later, I check the price of the dress myself. It wasn’t that expensive, but it felt like it was to her.

That doesn’t add up.

All lunch, her sister spoke about her wedding and what everything cost. This wedding week hits six figures. The Patel family is affluent. And Patel does well for herself at work. She has one of the highest commissions, competing only with mine for size. These last two years alone, she’s broken office records.

Shopping ends when her sister complains she needs a nap. On the way back to the hotel, my phone buzzes. It’s a notification. My whale has landed.

Before I can work up an excuse, Patel lobs me an escape. “Coleman needs to get some work done, but don’t worry. We’ll see him tomorrow.”

I should be glad for the help, but I can’t seem to meet her eyes.

Something in my chest squeezes harder.

30

REEMA

I’m in my sister’s suite, and we’re using the face masks Leo gifted me. This is our only moment of peace before true madness kicks off this week. Maiyan, Jago, Wedding, Reception. Chaotic celebrations are going to hit us, one after the other.

And, at any point, Harry could show up. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s got testicular torsion or his balls completely fell off and he’s got to deal with that instead. Anything is possible if you manifest hard enough.

My sister hoists herself higher on the bed. “This mask has an odd texture. I feel as if I’ve got cum all over my face.”

“Speaking fromloadsof experience?”

“What? No—” She groans. “Okay, yes. I mean, obviously we’ve done that.”

“Bravo.”

She narrows her eyes at me, I think. Hard to tell with the sheet mask obscuring most of her eyelids. “When’s the last time you had a face full of cum?”

“Right this second.”

That looked like an eye-roll. “You know what I mean?”

“I’m not sure that I do, since I’m so virginal with my virtue.”

Not a lie, considering it’s been a long time for me. Not that she knows that. Esha thinks I’m with Coleman, so I can’t make some off-handed comment about my ongoing drought, and how I’m tired of the stealth-orgasms I give myself in the shower, since my bed is in a communal living space. And how it only happens when I’m not falling asleep on my feet so, basically, never.

“My face and tits are his favorite landing spot,” I correct with a hasty follow-up.

Unbidden, an image of him ordering me to go on my knees so I can suck him off crosses my mind. He’d pull out at the last second, cockily saying something about painting me with it. Too easily, I can imagine his enraging smirk?—

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