Page 21 of Filthy Little Regrets

Cassia, is everything okay?

Call me.

Remy said Mace took you home? What happened?

Mace called me. He said you had a panic attack. Are you okay?

You’re probably sleeping, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here if youneed me.

And the most recent message.

I promise I won’t text you a million times, but please tell me you’re safe.

CASSIA

Hey.

Sorry, I fell asleep, but I’m up now.

Are you okay?

Sighing, I stare at her messages. I want to tell her everything, but it would be better in person, and I’m not sure I can explain now without spiraling again.

I’m okay, it’s a long story. Maybe we can meet up later?

Just tell me when and where.

I love you.

Love you too.

I send a bunch of heart emojis and flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My life went to shit in a matter of minutes. It never was that great, though, was it?Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up.With a heavy exhale, I force myself out of bed and go through my morning ritual.

Brush my teeth.This is fucked.Mintiness fills the air.

Take my daily medicine.How am I supposed to marry him?The chalky taste lingers on my tongue.

Wash my face.Everything will be fine.

Layer the serums.The mafia killed someone because of what I did.Moisture sinks into my skin like the guilt staining my soul.

Take a breath, lock in the remorse.

I run the brush through my hair. Burying it. A tangle snags and my scalp lights up in pain, but it’s a better feeling than the ones threatening to take me under.

I avoid glancing at myself in the mirror. I can’t bring myself to apply my usual eyeliner and mascara. I won’t be able to look at my face without remembering everything that’s happened. The harder I work to repress the memories, the more numbness tricklesthrough me, the raging storm turning eerily calm. It’s not healthy, but it’s what I have to do to survive the day.

I tug on a pair of leggings and a long, loose T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder.

Bracing my hand on the doorknob, I take a fortifying breath before pushing into the greater part of my apartment. Normally, I love my open-concept loft, but Mace having a direct line of sight is annoying, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt.

Every inch of his tattooed torso is exposed, the sunlight streaming through the windows highlighting his perfect physique. Mace’s attention smooths over me and my skin prickles in response. A scowl cuts across my face. I head to the island, grasping on to the irritation like a lifeline. He frowns into the eggs he’s whisking and doesn’t bother to say hello. Maybe he knows I’m considering grabbing the chef’s knife that’s lying on the bamboo cutting board and stabbing him with it. The eggs sizzle as they hit the hot pan with chunks of cooked sausage and sauteed onions and garlic.

“If we’re going to convince everyone we’re married, we’ll need to go shopping for a ring today.”

“How romantic,” I deadpan.

His gaze shoots to me, then flits away. “You’re in a bad mood.”

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