Page 11 of Dark Promise

He should. And so should I.

I stand and wander toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, my back to the room. The glittering lights of the Strip stretch out before me, but my thoughts are a storm of fury and determination. My father’s plan is reckless and short-sighted, and it puts Sabina in the crosshairs.

I glance at the reflection of my father in the window.

He thinks he controls the board. He thinks he controls me.

Let him think that. For now.

Sabina, my golden goddess.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she is already mine. And I protect what’s mine.

4

Sabina

Robertoand I had planned to meet up in New York for the weekend. I’d booked the flights and the hotel, reserved the restaurants…done all the work. And of course, paid for everything, just like I’ve paid for almost everything since the day we met. I hadn’t minded paying because I understand that not everyone has my financial privilege and student loans are a bitch.

But for the past two days, since my dinner with Nadia, I’ve spent every waking hour in my suite at the Aman thinking, seeing the past three years without the layers of camouflage I always chose to drape them in. Roberto has never cooked dinner for me, never suggested a restaurant or stage play just because he knew it was something I would enjoy, never picked a wildflower for me, never kissed me in the rain, never laughed with me until we cried. Those things cost nothing.

So I’d reached a revelation this morning, while I stared out at the cold and beautiful snow-covered expanse of Central Park: I love New York in December.

What I do not love is Roberto. And I will not spend my life with him.

Everything Nadia said is true. I deserve better. And with newfound clarity, I see that my fiancé not only does not love me, but he has lied about so many things.

Currently, Roberto is standing three feet away from me, staring at a gigantic painting at MoMA that consists of a white square and a black square. He’s dressed in a too-shiny navy suit that looks like it was plucked off the rack at a mid-tier department store and tailored just enough to pass as expensive at first glance. The fabric catches the museum lighting, giving it a cheap, almost plastic sheen. His tie—a garish paisley pattern—is tied just a bit too short, leaving the end sitting awkwardly above his belt buckle. His white shirt is crisp but unremarkable, the kind of off-the-shelf brand that wrinkles easily by the end of the day.

On his feet are scuffed brown loafers. The soles are slightly worn, and the leather is dull, as if he doesn’t bother to polish them. On his wrist, he wears a chunky gold watch, oversized and gaudy, the kind that screams “look at me” while simultaneously revealing that it’s all for show.

Altogether, he looks like someone trying too hard to project wealth and confidence, yet utterly failing to grasp that true elegance lies in subtlety.

“What do you suppose it means?” he muses, as if to himself as he stares at the painting.

“Opposites attract,” I tell him. “Black and white, complete opposites. Sharing the same space but not overlapping except for the corners. See? That little gray bit there?”

“Huh,” he says and makes a face.

Not everyone is a modern art fan.

“I guess it’s like us, isn’t it?” Robert says. “We’re opposites in a lot of ways.”

“We are,” I agree.

He gets that smug little smile, the one he wears whenever I agree with him. I know it well. Just like I know the narrow-eyed glare he wears when I disagree, the one that makes him look like a petulant child. He’s going to be wearing that glare in a matter of moments.

The museum is quiet for a Friday night, but that’s probably because of the weather forecast that calls for a big snowstorm to hit the east coast later tonight. I’m not too concerned. I have a car at the ready to pick me up and take me back to the hotel. There, I can hunker down in comfort for the rest of the weekend. I’m scheduled to head back to Vegas on Monday. I’ve switched Roberto’s return flight to late tonight. He won’t be joining me at the hotel, though I had originally booked an adjoining suite for him. He won’t be joining me ever again.

Roberto moves on to the next painting. This one is a bright red circle with flecks of orange and a solid black center. I see it as a blazing star starting to collapse on itself.

Or…maybe it’s an angry eyeball. I don’t know.

Nadia’s the art expert, not me. I’m just an art buyer and enthusiast. I know what I like, and I hate empty walls.

What I do well is plan parties. Charity events. I majored in Business in college and am fantastic at delegating. I like to think of myself as the director and producer of these events who relies on the help of a great team to pull everything together. The next event is on New Year’s Eve, a huge gala with a massive guestlist featuring a charity auction with proceeds benefiting a new animal rescue in Las Vegas.

Nadia will be there, as my guest. Roberto won’t be.

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