Page 71 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
She doesn't think I'll be able to do anything. She's confident no one will believe she's behind it.
We'll see about that.
"What a mess," Vivienne, the fashion designer, sighs, shaking her head.
"Do you know how much this dress costs?" Alison chimes in, still scolding the poor server, who's so frantically apologetic she looks seconds away from bursting into tears.
I finally intervene. "It's all right. It's not her fault."
"Of course it's her fault," Alison snaps. "I've worked with people like this before, and I've always said this isn't the job for the clumsy. Was your mind somewhere else, girl?"
The poor girl's face flushes scarlet.
"That's enough," I say gently but firmly. "She didn't mean to do it, and it wasn't her mistake." Then I turn my gaze to the blonde responsible for the whole mess. "It was yours."
"Me?" She steps forward, eager for the spectacle. "And pray tell, what on earth did I do? I wasn't even close to you."
I glance down at her feet. "Oh, those are the new Louboutins, right? From their summer collection?"
"Good eye."
"Yes, I bought a pair myself. Unfortunately, I had to return them because, as beautiful as they are, the ankle stability is nonexistent. It felt like I had two left feet—one wobble away from falling flat on my face."
She frowns. "Why are you talking about my shoes? Are you crazy? What do my shoes have to do with anything?"
I study her calmly. "The more I look at you," I say, "the more your face rings a distant bell… yes—aren't you that B-list model? What's your name again? Anasthesia? No…" I snap my fingers lightly. "Ah, yes—Anastasia. That's it. You're the girl my fiancé was photographed with a few months ago, right?" I give her a bright, deliberate smile, emphasizing the word fiancé.
Her eyes flash. "Yes. We had a date together a couple of months ago."
"Ah." I bring a hand to my mouth in mock mortification. "You thought that was a date? Poor thing." I shake my head in sympathetic disbelief. "I understand now. This is Grayson's fault for not being clearer about that event. I swear, men and communication…" I glance at the women around us, inviting a shared, knowing sigh.
Vivienne nods, and Mrs. Rockson scoffs. "Tell me about it."
"I'm sorry on his behalf for the misunderstanding," I tell Anastasia sweetly. "But you really didn't have to cause a scene just because you were jealous." I glance around at the group of women now hanging on every word. "You could've just pulled me aside. I would've explained everything."
"I am not jealous," she snaps, the fury practically vibrating off her.
"Oh, honey, you don't have to deny it. I get it. I'd be jealous too if I thought I had a hunk like that taking me out—only to find out he was engaged the whole time. In fact, I might even think about tripping a poor, innocent server to make a scene." I tilt my head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair back. "But that'sexactly what you did, isn't it? I'd recognize those distinctive shoes anywhere—and I just watched one of them trip that server as she walked toward me."
A hush falls over the crowd. Every eye is on us, the tension thick enough to slice.
"You see, Anastasia, the difference between you and me," I continue calmly, "is that I might've thought about it—but I wouldn't have done it. Because I'm not a spoiled rich brat who doesn't understand the value of people who actually work for a living. I'm not the kind of woman who'd risk another person's job over a man who doesn't even want her. One who probably doesn't even remember she exists."
Anastasia lets out a dramatic, indignant gasp. "You bitch!"
"Ana!" Vivienne gasps, scandalized—but Ana's not finished.
She jabs a manicured finger at me. "You think just because he put a ring on your finger you've won? Think again. He'll be done with you before the month's over, mark my words. Either that, or he'll cheat on you every single day, and you'll be miserable and trapped."
"Anastasia!" someone else hisses, but she's beyond caring.
I smile, letting my confidence show. "Oh, dear, Anastasia. You really do have it bad, don't you? But can't you see? Either way, it won't be your business. Because even if he did cheat on me, it certainly wouldn't be with a lowlife like you."
Her face reddens violently. For a moment, she opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Even her own friends don't step in to save her.
My companions seem firmly on my side. Vivienne and Alison are outraged on my behalf, while Gina glances between us like she's watching a tennis match—and loving every second of it.
I hold Anastasia's gaze as her face grows redder and redder.
