Page 132 of Cakes for the Grump
“The paperwork is going through,” says Luke, his hand sliding down my back. “They won’t be backing out. I’ve planned contingencies if they want to dare.”
“You are kind of scary,” I tell him, “when you get this intense.”
“All in the name of business, darling. Don’t worry, a conversation with you is always enough to keep my nefarious nature in check.”
“It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.”
“The sacrifices you make.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I’m keeping a tally of them so you can repay it all in full.”
We set off towards the evening event. “If you would accept payment,” began Luke, “in physical favors, my mouth would enjoy being in your debt.”
“Shhh, there are people around!”
He laughs. It almost feels like we’re back in his penthouse together before anything happened. Before I lost the competition. Before his conference started.
The soirée, like everything before it, is immaculate. The food in particularis decadent, overly so, dripping with dense flavor. I notice Luke eats none of it. Even myself, I can only nibble. People flank us immediately when we enter, and the rest of the evening drowns in conversations I can understand only a portion of.
That’s okay, right? What Mr. Duncan wants me to do is smile and look nice. Smile and look nice. Smile and look nice.
My hand clutches over my stomach. It’s upset, roiling in larger and larger waves. I try to drink as much water as possible, hoping it clears up. This also gives my mouth a break from talking or laughing politely or curving my lips.
Hard as I try, I can’t stop imagining this very event repeating different versions of it, duplicating, mirroring, rolling down the hill toward a murky but lavish future. Mrs. Abbot.If this relationship was real, would it be like this?
“What’s wrong?” asks Luke.
“I think I need to lie down.”
Mr. Duncan graciously takes my empty water glass. “I’ll escort her.”
“I’ve got it,” insists Luke.
“You can’t leave early. Not tonight. You have to finish the job.”
Before Luke can argue, I touch his shoulder. “He’s right. I’ll be fine. Go speak with Agatha. She’s been wanting to talk to you, I can tell.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t,” I insist.
He’s scowling at me. I solve the problem by hooking my arm with Mr. Duncan and sloping off. Before we exit, I look back and see Vistoria floating over to Luke. A golden-haired toddler has also wandered over. Someone brought their child to the conference. Bending down, Luke easily picks him up and holds him in his arms. They make a picture of a perfect family.
“Good girl,” whispers Mr. Duncan. “Let Vistoria take over.”
He drops me off at the suite. I undress and finally wear a set of clothes that belong to me. Cotton joggers and a t-shirt with the word KAUR printed on the back. It’s not acceptable for others to see, but I don’t plan on leaving the room. I don’t need to. It’s over. I don’t have to play fiancée anymore. He doesn’t need me. I don’t have to keep up in this world.
There’s no reason to cry, but my vision is beginning to fog over. I can’t even blame my personal failure with MealKits Masalafor these tears. I’vemade myself forget that. It’s an ordeal to unpack when it hurts less, which will probably take quite some time. Maybe forever.
Hungering for anchorage, anything to hold on to before I get swept up in the tumultuously painful nature of my thoughts, I call Uncle.
The first words out of his mouth have ice running down my spine.
“How did you know?”
THIRTY-SIX
I’ve leftthe suite wearing my unacceptable clothes, going so fast I trip a few times and conk my shin against a side table. The noise is enough to catch the attention of Luke’s assistant, who is also on their way out, perhaps heading toward dinner.
