Page 72 of Twist of Fate
Otherwise, she’ll be wondering forever, and she doesn’t want him—whoever he is—to have that kind of power over her.
I nod, understanding how power plays work. My dad is the master of them, after all. I reach up to grab the crisp white card for her. I hear her take a deep breath as if she’s preparing herself for whatever lies within.
She takes the envelope from my hand and pulls the card out. I watch as her eyes glide over the words. The emotions they convey seem to spill out of her, one right after another.
Anger.
Annoyance.
Bitter pain.
A tear slips down her cheek as she lets out a humorless laugh. “Fucking asshole,” she whispers, tossing the note onto the coffee table in front of us.
Unable to help myself, I glance down.
It’s not too late.
Tomorrow is still our wedding day.
I’ll wait, Ash.
I’m not giving up on us.
“He cheated on me,” she says, and I look up to meet her watery blue eyes fixed on me. I reach up to wipe away some tears. “He cheated on me, and when I caught him in a lie, he tried to say it was my fault for abandoning him during a moment of weakness. He claimed he was just lonely—a one-time thing. The sick part was I actually believed him for a hot second.” She shook her head in disgust. “That was until the girl he hooked up with showed up at our door—all the way from Madrid. He’d moved there ahead of me for work and had apparently been sleeping with her the whole time. She thought it was love. Kind of poetic, really.”
“Jesus, Ash.”
“I just needed a few days to myself to forget what this week was supposed to be, and he won’t even let me do that.”
“How did he even know where you’d be staying?” She seemed really spooked when the receptionist brought out those flowers.
“I don’t know,” she replies, sounding a bit hesitant. “He’s somewhat well-known, but I doubt that has anything to do with it.”
“Well-known, how?” If he is a well-known computer genius, I can see that giving him an advantage. God knows, Rian could find someone in the blink of an eye. But otherwise, it’s probably a long shot.
“He’s a soccer player.”
My brow arched as I remembered her sudden discomfort on the bus when Clint and his friends mentioned the World Cup. “Professional?”
She nods.
“Would I know his name?”
“Maybe. He just transferred to Madrid from the States, but?—”
My eyes widen. “Are you talking about Theo Vasquez?”
Her breath catches. “Yes.”
American transfers made headlines in Europe. Not to mention, Clint and his friends went on about him endlessly. Clearly, they were fans. I didn’t know much about him, but like I told the lads earlier, I didn’t follow soccer nearly as closely as I did rugby.
“Well, I doubt his football clout would give him tracking abilities,” I say to her. She visibly relaxes at my lack of enthusiasm about her former fiancé. “Have you been posting online?”
She stiffens. “Yes, on Instagram.”
“Did you post any pictures of the hotel? Or post while you were at the hotel?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” She pulls out her phone and taps on the Instagram icon. One of the first posts is a picture of her mom by the water outside.
