Page 9 of Degrading Her

“You look perfect,” Bambi swooned.

It was easy for her to say that. Bambi always looked like a nymph emerging from the forest, ready to seduce a warrior. She was my middle sister’s best friend but was quickly becoming my friend too.

“You’re too nice,” I said.

“Pink dress didn’t work out?”

I wiggled my brows. “How did you?—”

“Your sister showed me pictures,” she said. Of course she did. “She was so jealous of that dress when you first posted that to your socials.”

My heart sank at those words. After a rough couple of years in high school, my middle sister had moved out at eighteen and refused to talk to our family for years. We hadno idea where she was or what she was doing. It was bittersweet to think of a time when she used to stalk me on social media to keep up with me. Like with the ripped pink dress.

“I told her I’d give it to her, but she insisted I wear it tonight,” I said. And now it was ruined. “Do you know where she is?”

“Probably out with her lover boy.”

She linked arms with me, and we returned to the ballroom. Suddenly, my skin buzzed like someone was watching me. I rubbed the back of my neck and turned: several men in suits stood behind one man, like he was their leader and they were waiting for his command to capture me. The leader’s blue-gray eyes immediately tuned into me, haunting as black ice. A grin flickered on his lips, then disappeared. My cheeks flushed, and I touched my cheek. Did I have something on my face?

“Stop it,” Bambi whispered, pulling me away. “I told you: you look perfect.”

“That man is staring at me,” I said, nodding in the direction of the blue-gray-eyed leader.

Bambi waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about him,” she said. “You’re too good for him.”

I opened my mouth to ask her who he was, but a group of friends assaulted her with hugs, and I took that as my cue to head to the corner of the room, away from everyone else. I stood by a table, scanning the room, instantly finding that man in a deep conversation with one of his men. He was taller than me, by at least a foot, and older too—a few years, maybe. Muscular shoulders. Flexed, thick biceps. Black hair topping those steely eyes. I recognized him from somewhere, like a bar or something.

But it had been years since I had gone to a bar. It must have been something else.

He shifted slightly, then his eyes locked with mine. And I knew, then, without a doubt, that he was watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck raised. He seemed so important; what did he want with me?

“Fiona!”

I clenched my fists to my side, trying not to show my anxiety. I turned to meet my mother and father.

“Come here!” my mother shouted. She jabbed her margarita toward a woman with bright red curls. “Meet my oldest daughter, Fiona.”

My mother pushed me forward. I held out a hand toward the woman. “Hi,” I said. “Enjoying your evening?”

“My oldest,” my mother repeated, which she did a lot when she was drunk. “She’s in medical school.”

“Babe,” my father said, gently reminding her.

“Wasin medical school,” I said. I forced a smile. “I’m studying library science now.”

“That’s a science?” Red Curls asked.

“Actually, there are quite a few different aspects to?—”

“You know she finished at the top of her college class?” my mother said. Never mind the fact that I had finished top of my class inEnglish,not biology. She rubbed her cheeks, and my father grabbed her margarita before she could spill it. “She’s the best thing to come out of this city in decades.”

Soon, my mother stood in front of me to gossip and brag about the daughter she wished I was, and I gladly pulled back, distancing myself from them, immediately finding those blue-gray eyes on me again. This time, the man was by himself, across the dance floor, his gaze locked on me. As if he was waiting for me.

“Champagne?” a server asked. I jumped, nearly whacking his tray.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “No. Thank you.”

“Why are you so nervous?” Bambi asked, popping up by my side. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

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