Page 37 of Hate You Forever (Hate 1)

“Oh.” Of course he did. My stomach twists with the anxiety of not knowing exactly how many people are in there. I need to put on my mask. The one I wear to tell everyone I don’t give a fuck about their opinion of me. I’m confident in myself, but dealing with East Side assholes is a whole different ball game.

A door closing catches my attention, drawing my gaze up to the handsome asshole making his way down the steps. The sight of him in a black tux and bowtie blows me away, almost causing my knees to buckle with how damn sexy he looks right now. His dark hair is perfect, not a strand out of place. Did he get a haircut?

“You look... nice,” Marnix says, his voice void of emotion, as always. His eyes narrow when he sees my dress, but they also swirl with lust as he looks me up and down.

The champagne dress has a sheer top with long sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline—a term I just learned on my little shopping trip—revealing so much more than Marnix probably expected. There’s sparkling beading in a swirling design covering the bodice and continuing down to the ground, drawing attention to the way the dress hugs my curves. It’s a stunning dress, but not really my style. Yeah it’s sexy, but it’s way too expensive for my taste. And the way he’s looking at me makes me even more self-conscious about how out of place I am.

This fancy dress, a face full of makeup, having a driver—none of it is me, not one bit.

My head drops as the numbness of the shock fades away and I realize what’s about to happen. I need to get my shit together. I’m a badass bitch. I’m not scared of anything—especially these rich stuck up pricks who have never hurt for anything. I just have to keep reminding myself that.

Marnix hooks his finger under my chin, pulling my face to look up at him. “My future rides on your performance, Tara,” he spits. “Don’t screw it up. If you do, you can kiss your little restaurant goodbye and you’ll be living on the streets like the trash you are.” Dropping his hand from my chin, he grabs mine and intertwines our fingers before heading toward the steps. The gentle touch of his hand contradicts the cruel words that just came from his mouth.

My blood boils, heat creeping to the surface. I don’t move, making him stop and look at me. “You think you can just threaten me like that? If you think I’m such trash, then you should’ve picked some East Sider who would’ve fit your mold. I told you, I won’t be your robot. Treat me like a damn human being,” I snap.

I want to smack the smirk that spreads across his handsome face. “It worked, didn’t it?” he asks.

Worked? What is he talking about?

“What the hell does that mean?” I demand.

“You’re not thinking about all the people in there now.” He points to the black doors. “You’re busy thinking about how pissed you are at me. You’re not nervous anymore.”

Did Marnix just do something nice in the rudest way possible? Weirdly, he’s right. He has the ability to rile me up so fast that I completely forgot about putting on this performance of a lifetime. “You ready now?”

I sigh and nod. “Let’s get this over with, my darling fiancé.”

When we reach the double doors, Marnix turns, his usual broody expression gone and a lighthearted smile painting his face. I know it’s fake, that it’s not the real Marnix, but he does a damn good job at making it look real.

“Remember our story?”

How could I forget the five page email he sent the other day, giving all the small details about him that a fiancée would know, and explaining how we met? It’s not far off from our actual story, so I didn’t have to memorize much, but the facts about Marnix were a bit trickier. Thirty years old. Graduated from Bill S. Taylor School of Law at the age of twenty-four. Bill Taylor was his grandfather, who originally started Taylor & Associates. That’s only the beginning.

“I’ve got it, Marnix.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” he growls under his breath.

“Since I'm your future wife, I get to call you what I want. People will eat it up that you let me call you Marnix while no one else gets to. I could always start referring to you as Asshole, if you’d like that better?” I chuckle lightly, while he just groans in frustration.

Once we reach the door, two men open them for us. Now this is service. As soon as we step through the doors, a young woman with a bright smile steps up with flutes of champagne on a tray.

Marnix takes one, handing it to me, then grabs one for himself, all without saying a word. “Thank you,” I tell the server as Marnix pulls me across the white marble flooring toward a circular table in the middle of the room. Two grand red chairs with gold embellishments sit there, looking like thrones made for a king and queen.

My eyes roam over the elegant decor filling the room, landing on the most breathtaking white piano. My heart aches just looking at it. I’ve been playing since I was seven; it just came naturally to me. I gave up all presents and parties for two years so my parents could buy me one.

The black one they came home with wasn’t anywhere near as beautiful as this one in Marnix’s house, but it was mine and I loved it with my whole heart. I played every day for hours. There were times when Papa had to physically drag me away from the black and white keys.

My heart broke when we had to sell it. They told me it was only temporary, just until the restaurant did better and we were comfortable again. But that never happened.

I hope that one isn’t just decoration for the party, because I would give up a leg to play that beauty.

Before we can make it to the table, an excited screech stops us in our tracks, making Marnix sigh with what sounds like frustration. Arms wrap around me quickly, invading my space and smothering me in a mess of dark brown hair.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” the woman squeals. She gives me a squeeze before letting me breathe, giving me a whiff of her flowery perfume.

“Mom,” Marnix snaps, earning a side-eye death stare from the woman I now know is his mother.

“Oh, don’t be such a sour tart. I’m sorry my son is so grumpy sometimes—he definitely didn’t get that from me. Where are my manners? Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Rose Taylor, Nix’s mom,” she says, placing a hand on my arm.

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