Page 45 of Beautiful Enemy

A familiar car pulls up the drive, pulling into her peripheral vision, and Rae steps back.

She reaches for the door, but I slam it shut with a hand.

“Don’t go. I’m fucking sorry.”

I need her to understand how hard I’ve worked to get what I have, to keep it. That letting a person come between me and my revenge nearly cost me everything once already.

She pries my fingers off the door one at a time.

“Don’t be sorry, Harrison. Be better.”

As the car pulls away with her inside, I’m left feeling empty and frustrated in a way that has nothing to do with Christian and the deal.

11

Rae

The next morning, there’s a message on my social profile asking for an interview.

I message back:

If this is about what happened in the spring, I don’t do interviews.

There’s a reply almost instantly.

I want to talk about your new gig in Ibiza. You’re causing a lot of buzz. When can we meet?

I’ve never done face-to-face interviews, which are outside my comfort zone because it’s harder to control the conversation, so I tuck the phone away without responding.

I shift out of bed and trip over to the door, catching sight of my still-sprayed hair in the mirror. The makeup that didn’t quite come off my face last night after the party.

The party.

It all rushes back. Playing Cinderella. Pretending to be part of that world.

And the feeling of seeing Harrison with his ex.

As I step out into the hall, I expect to hear him, but there’s nothing.

His office door is closed, and so is his bedroom.

“Looking for Mr. Moody?” Ash calls from the dining area downstairs.

I lean over the railing. “Maybe. What’re you doing here?”

“Got back last night to find our club’s villa trashed. Tripped over bottles and naked tourists to come over.”

I pad downstairs and eye the green smoothie Ash is drinking. “That looks disgusting.”

“So do you.” He ruffles my hair. “But last night, you were stunning. Everyone noticed.” He pauses. “He left for business this morning.”

“Oh.” I try not to feel disappointed he didn’t tell me. “For how long?”

“Who knows?” His eyes narrow. “But there’s something in the kitchen for you.”

I look where he’s pointing to see a huge stainless-steel espresso maker.

“Shit. Does it do laundry too?” Up close, it’s even more impressive, and I run a hand over the levers and dials before reaching for the instruction manual next to it. “He must have decided he likes good coffee,” I say as I thumb through the pages.

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