Page 32 of Filthy Little Regrets

“Yes, ma’am.” I scurry over to the table, and she chuckles, leaving the room and mumbling about octopus.

I’m way out of my comfort zone here.

My phone dings multiple times, the notifications persistent enough to drive me out of the water. With nothing better to do on a Sunday, and no desire to figure out how to go about leaving the Astor compound, getting in the heated pool was the natural choice. I cut through the water to the stairs, warm water dripping off me as I make my way over to my device.

The fluffy towel I grabbed from the stand near the front door chases away the chill of getting out of the water. I clutch it to my chest and plop down in a lounge chair,unlocking my phone. There are a bunch of missed calls from Rose and a flurry of texts. I check those first.

ROSE

Oh my god. Did you see NYC Socialite’s latest update?

For the record, your ass looks fabulous.

Holy shit, it’s at ten thousand views.

Don’t read the comments.

Guess the cat is out of the bag.

Cassia! You can’t be MIA while your life is being dissected online.

My stomach drops. Oh no, no, no, no. Aside from kissing Mace’s ass most of the time, NYC Socialite isn’t exactly known for being kind. I still don’t understand why they always post nice things about him but terrible things about Rose.

With trepidation tightening in my chest, I pull up the site, my eyes fluttering closed when a picture of me and Mace at the jewelry store loads.

Dammit.

Gathering my courage, I look at the page again, reading the headline.

Has NYC Socialite’s favorite prince finally found his princess?

I’m grinning at Mace in the picture, actually looking like I’m enjoying myself, and he’s gazing down at me like I’m something precious. Or, at least, that’s how the camera angle makes it seem. We both know the truth. I was pissed, while he was bored and amused by my irritation. The angle of the picture is awkward, as if the phone was held down by someone’s leg and taken close enough that either another customer took the photo, or one of the staff did. My ass is, indeed, front and center.

The article itself is short, detailing whatwe were caught buying, how much they think we spent, and a promise to figure out more about Mace’s mysterious redhead.

Unable to help myself, I scroll down to the comments, bracing myself. Experience with articles written about Rose wasn’t enough warning. The comments are similar to what she always received, only they’re pointed at me, ripping apart my appearance, the clothes I’m wearing. Then there’s the thread that’s already at two hundred comments about who I am.

Someone identified me as Rose’s best friend. From there, links to my social media accounts were shared. Some asshole from that stupid private high school we used to attend made a dig about me being the scholarship kid, and the rest of the comments are vicious and, frankly, disgusting.

Oh my god. Is she poor?

Of course she is, look at her outfit.

What’s a billionaire doing with the maid?

Gold digger.

She must suck dick like a champ.

Grip tightening on my phone, I scroll and scroll through the hate that’s flooding in, my body heating the more they make fun of me and tear me apart. I knew Rose struggled with this website, but fuck me, this is brutal. My eyes start to burn somewhere around the one-thousandth comment. I barely register the door to the pool room opening and don’t look up when I feel the familiar weight of Mace’s gaze.

These people don’t even know me and they hate me. Do I care? I’d like to say no, but when the hate is so unanimous, it’s hard to swallow. I swipe at my damp cheek. Dammit. I didn’t want to cry.

Mace plucks my phone out of my hand.

“Hey!”

“What are you reading?” he asks.

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