Page 12 of Bad Little Bride

“Mr. Fikile expects you at the table by eight sharp.”

“And doesMr. Fikileplan on being home by then?”

The woman’s mouth twitches, but she spins on her heel and walks out.

Flipping off the empty space, I finish getting ready because what the fuck else is there to do?

As promised, the woman is back when she said she would be and once again, she glares down at my flats.

Shaking her head, she spins and we walk the same way we did yesterday, right into the dining room, only this time, Enzo isn’t here.

I swallow the bitterness that coats my tongue and take the seat closest to me, as far away from where I decide is his usual seat. I’ve just settled onto the cushion when the same server from yesterday appears.

He stiffens at my placement, but pivots quickly enough, delivering my cappuccino and all the fixings, just as before.

“Thank you,” I tell him before he has a chance to run away, but he pretends as if I hadn’t spoken, leaving me alone in the dining room.

I’m tempted to cross my arms like a brat, but the rich aroma of Columbian espresso beans is too compelling for that. If nothing else in this place is enjoyable, you better believe I’ll relish my drink when it is.

So, I squirt a ton of whipped cream and drown it in freshly made caramel. I’ve just brought it to my mouth, the cream pressing softly against my upper lip, when laughter floats from the door across the room.

Femalelaughter.

My spine shoots straight, and I freeze. Surely, he won’t?—

The door opens, scratch that, Enzo pushes the door open, holding it with one strong, long arm and then the gorgeous brunette from yesterday steps through.

She’s all dolled up once again, hair curled and pinned, heels high and skirt higher.

Enzo, however, wears what he did yesterday, nothing new about his outfit other than a few wrinkles. The woman steps through, Enzo’s gaze shooting my way the moment he starts to follow.

He halts where he stands, the door slapping him in the back, but it doesn’t set him off-kilter.

No, even the giant, heavy mahogany doors kiss his ass, bouncing off him like he’s the one made of hundred-year-old, solid hardwood.

Those hazel eyes rage, but his face remains impressively blank.

I lift my cup again, taking a sip, before flicking my tongue over the cream I know my lips are now painted with. It’s a hazard of my drink choice and well worth it.

The vein in Enzo’s jaw tics. It’s one single time and the only break in his armor I spot before forcing myself to look away.

“Miss Revenaw.” The woman seeks my attention.

Out of spite, I make her wait four solid seconds before giving her what she wants, and imagine that. The exact moment our gazes meet, is when she realizes her skirt needs straightening. It’s an obvious and pathetic attempt to draw assumptions to my mind.

Little does she know I didn’t need her little show of supremacy. I saw the twist in her skirt the instant she walked through the door, and I would bet if I took Enzo’s fingers into my mouth, it would be her I tasted on them.

Bitch.

“Mrs. Fikile.”

Both our heads snap toward the man at her back when he speaks, but he’s only looking at me.

The woman’s smile is as fake as the bored expression I’m suddenly struggling to keep on my face.

“I’m sorry?” she asks.

“You will address her as Mrs. Fikile,” he says with a harsh sense of finality that has a strange sensation sparking along my spine.

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