“I need to tell him, Cam,” I say, my voice low as she gently brushes out the loose curls from the rollers she helped me put in.
When I got home from work, Cam was already in my place, getting things laid out for me for an afternoon of prepping.
She’s a good friend, trying to help me ease the anxiety, but I know a part of her wanted to be here in case she needed to talk me out of the conversation we’re about to have.
Her hand stops halfway through, her eyes meeting mine in my vanity mirror.
Hers are shocked, wide.
Mine are soft, concerned, and honestly, a little nervous.
“What?”
“I need to tell him,” I repeat, taking a deep breath. The brush slides through the rest of my hair before she moves a step back, sitting on the foot of my bed. Her brows gather with confusion.
“I don’t . . . ,” she starts. “I don’t understand.”
“Today, before we head to the party, I’m going to confess. Tell Damien everything.”
“But . . . why?”
“It’s not simple anymore, Cam. It’s fucked up, really. I can’t do this anymore. I should have told him weeks ago. After the first date, I should have told him. I’m a complete asshole for letting it go on this long.”
“No, you’re not. You’re . . . We have a plan, Abbie.” A strained air of frustration wraps through her words. “We’re so close.”
“Cam.” I say her name calm but steady. With compassion but also firmness. “This is my life. This isn’t a plan. It isn’t . . . It isn’t a game. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”
“So why did you?” she asks, her voice gone cold. She’s answering me before I can even try to address the question. “I know why. It was because you wanted this, Abbie. You want this revenge. You want to see Richard’s face when you walk in on Damien’s arm, want to see his face when you show him what he fucked up.”
“I did, Cam. I did. You’re right. I was hurt, and I was angry, and I wanted to get mine. But now? It doesn’t matter. People’s feelings are getting involved. My feelings are getting involved. People are going to get hurt.”
“You can’t do this, Abbie.
“Why?” I ask. I still haven’t turned from facing the vanity, eyes still locked on her through the mirror.
My voice is low, though. Soft. Cajoling. Like the voice you use when talking to a child or a hurt animal.
Her eyes look like that. Hurt, pained.
It’s then all of my thoughts are confirmed.
Cam has been using this process to soothe her own pain.
When we were in college, Cam fell for a man. He was older, a teacher’s assistant, and no matter how many times we told her it was a bad idea, she wouldn’t listen. She fell, and she fell hard. They made plans for the future, plans of marriage and children, and after a life of being told that you don’t marry for love but for money, she found her happily ever after.
She used to be like Kat, a hopeless romantic who wanted the white wedding and the picket fence.
Until his wife came to her.
He’d been married for five years.
He had two kids.
And Cami was torn apart, absolutely, unendingly destroyed.
Since then, she hasn’t believed in love. She hasn’t seen the promise in any relationship. It’s why all the years of her telling me Richard was a shithead didn’t truly stick—she thinks every man is a shithead.
She never got her payback, instead burying herself in school and letting in only Kat and me over the next year while she graduated early. Then she went into finance, making it her mission to beat out any high-powered man who got in her way, her heart turning cold and bitter.
We call her maneater for her ability to chew up men and use them for sex, entertainment, or a free meal before she spits them out when they lose their taste.
“Cam, this isn’t your fight,” I say, my voice that same cajoling tone. “Damien is good. He’s kind—”
“They all seem that way.”
“He’s not Jason.” I say the words without registering them in my mind first, but I instantly know I went too far.
“This isn’t about him,” she says, venom in the words.
“Cam, I know he hurt you, but it’s been years—”
“It’s not about him, Abbie!” She tosses her hands in the air. “God! I just want you to finish what you started. Richard deserves . . . He deserves what’s coming to him!” she says, pacing to the other side of my room.
“And what about me, Cam? What about Damien? Do I deserve to ruin whatever is brewing between us, something that could be so good, just because Richard deserves to eat shit?”
“You can’t quit now, Abbie,” she says, hands on her hips.
“I’m not quitting, Cam. It’s not a game. It’s my life. I really like this guy. I’m falling for him.”
“God, you’re so naive,” she says, grabbing her coat. “I can’t do this. I can’t watch you do this to yourself. When it all falls apart, call me.”
And then my best friend leaves, her pain of ten years following her out the door like a trail of poison.
I text Kat, telling her to find our friend and make sure she’s okay, before I continue getting ready.
Because one way or another, the truth is coming out tonight, and I’ll be damned if I don’t look good while it happens.
I spend the next hour after Cam storms out trying to balance finishing getting ready, preparing myself mentally for the ruination of my relationship with Damien, and trying to call Cam and make sure she’s okay. I never reach her, but I eventually get a call from Kat, who confirms she’s found our friend and has her safe.
“If things go . . . bad, I’ll call you. We can all meet up and drink and cry. But Kat . . . we need to talk to Cam. We’ve let this go on way too long, and I think soon it’s going to be too late. She needs to talk to someone about this. She needs to . . . move on from it. It’s not healthy,” I say, using a sparkly clip to pin back the left side of my hair.
“You’re right. We didn’t do it, and we’re not to blame, but we also haven’t done anything to stop it,” she says with a sigh.
“Okay, keep me updated?” I say.
“Of course. And you keep me updated on the Damien thing, okay?” The words make me nauseous.
“Got it,” I say. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Remember that true love can tolerate bumps, Abbie.”
“It’s not love, Kat.”
“Sure, Abs. Talk to you later.” And then the line is dead, and I’m staring in my vanity, holding a silent phone to my ear. I jump when I hear a knock on my front door.
The knock on the door signals the arrival of Damien Marinez here to pick me up for the Schmidt and Martinez Law Firm holiday party.
And the potential end to something beautiful since I can’t let myself leave this building without confessing.
Of course, Damien has somehow made friends with Fred at the front desk, meaning that once I confirmed Damien is, in fact, with me, he is simply buzzed up when he comes here.
I want to be annoyed, but it’s kind of nice and definitely sweet, so I let it go.
But I feel like barfing right now, knowing what’s coming in the next few hours.
Two months of planning and manipulation are about to come to fruition for the most brilliant kind of revenge a woman can have.
The revenge of showing an ex just what he missed out on and doing so by being on the arm of an even better man.
Except the taste in my mouth isn’t the sweet cotton candy taste I thought it would be. It’s not what I had hoped for that Halloween when I was crying to my best friends and trying to find someone—anyone—who might treat me well and make me forget about my asshole ex.
Instead, it’s bitter.
Bitter and . . . scared.
I messed up.
I messed up because this . . . this could have been good. If I had let it play out the way the world intended, if I had matched with this man and just been . . . me, it could have been beautiful.
But now I’m going to get my revenge, and I’m going to lose this man who I think I could have fallen for if given the chance.
Who would have known that curing one heartbreak would lead to another?
Before I answer the door, I walk over to the burn jar, one final slip of paper in it. I know what it says.
I’m the one who wrote it.
“You’re not enough.”
Funny how the thing Richard did that gutted me the most was the last one in the jar. The reason I needed most to finish out this plan.
Instead of unraveling and reading it, I pop it into my clutch. I’m not sure why—maybe as some kind of talisman, strength to do what I know I need to do. But all the same, I do.
Another knock comes, this one more impatient, and I scramble, grabbing the small clutch and a jacket (after that first time I learned my lesson) before heading to the door.
I turn the knob halfway until the automatic lock clicks, and then the door is pushed in.
I step back, a heel hitting the shitty tile that lines my entryway with a loud clack, and then there’s Damien.
Fuck, he’s handsome.
His hair is combed back near perfectly, hair product used to keep it that way. I’d joke with him about it, but I just . . . can’t.
Because the man is in a black tuxedo.
Now, I was warned.
I know that this event is fancy and that proper dress code is expected, and after that first night when Cami googled him, I did so a few times on my own, noting how fucking delicious he looked in a classic black and white tuxedo.
But here he is in the flesh, and he’s perfection. So damn handsome, so damned perfect, I can’t breathe.
So I don’t.
And when he says a quiet, “Hey,” to me, I don’t respond because I’m still not breathing at the sight of him.
His hand goes to my arm, and the warmth seeps into my skin. “Breathe, naranja,” he says, the words low and intimate. A small smile plays on his lips and as always, I do as he says.
A gulp of fresh air fills my lungs, making my head dizzy with the necessary oxygen.
“Hey,” I breathe.
He smiles for real now, the full, happy, glorious smile and the laugh lines and his perfect fucking tan skin on display, and shit, shit, shit, I’m going to lose this.
This smile.
I’m going to lose it in the next ten minutes.
“Hey,” he says back, stepping farther into my apartment and into me, kicking the door shut, and putting a hand on my chin to tip it up until my lips are on his.
The kiss is soft and sweet and everything good about this man and this short relationship.
I’m going to lose this, too.
He steps back, taking me in before his brow comes together slightly in what can only be described as confusion.
“What’s up with the dress?” he asks, and my stomach sinks to my feet.
Fuck.
He doesn’t like my dress.
It doesn’t fit the idea of what he wanted to have on his arm when facing the business he’s helped build.
Maybe Cami’s right.
All men are the same.
I look down at the sleek black dress hitting a respectable length paired with my hint of pink pumps and loose, pinned half-up hair. The sleeves are cap sleeves stopping just under my armpits, and the collar is a respectable sweetheart barely showing my decolletage. I paired it with silver stud earrings and a simple necklace.
It’s . . . pretty.
Cute.
Something Richard would have loved seeing me in.
And I absolutely hate it.
And it seems it also doesn’t fit what Damien wanted me to wear.
“Is it too tight? Too revealing? Too—”
“It’s boring,” he says, and I look up at him, confused.
“What?”
“It’s . . . not you.” The look on his face is hard to pinpoint, but it’s almost . . . disgust.
“I don’t understand.”
“Abbie. Are you black dresses and conservative cuts?
“I—” I try to move, to look away, to guard my heart and prepare for the worst, but he grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger again.
“Are you the kind of woman who blends in?”
“I—”
“No. So why are you now?”
“I . . . I thought . . . I thought since we were going to dinner with your work, you’d want me to look more presentable.”
“This more shit from that ex of yours?” I don’t answer, but I guess not answering is answer enough.
I don’t avoid answering because he’s wrong or because I’m embarrassed.
I don’t answer because of the guilt that’s been building up all week.
For the past month, if I’m being honest.
This is wrong, the voice in my gut says. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s more. So much more than what you intended.
But that voice keeps getting quieted by the other voice, the embarrassed one, the hurt one.
The one who wants nothing more than to show Richard he was wrong. That I’m not just fun, not just a good time.
I want Richard to see that I’m worthy.
But as the past two months have progressed, as I’ve gotten closer to Damien, the man Richard spent four years complaining about, talking about, kissing his ass, I’ve realized that I was always worthy.
The unworthy one was Richard.
He never deserved me, the love I could give, or the hope I held for our future together.
Never.
But does that mean I should give up? And even more, what does giving up look like?
Confessing?
Skipping the party?
Breaking up with Damien?
All of those sound like horrible choices.
The only thing my mind can settle on is I need to tell him everything. Right now.
“Damien, I—”
“Come,” he says, grabbing my hand and twining his fingers with mine in a secure, safe way. He leads me to the dressing rack in the corner where I keep my dresses, forcing me to sit on my bed while he runs through my clothes.
His bowtie is pink. A faint, fair pink that goes with his skin tone so fucking well, but pink all the same.
Not black or all-American red or a classic dark navy like Richard always insisted on wearing.
But pink.
And I know the only reason a man like Damien Martinez even looks at a pink bowtie is because he expected the woman he’s going on a date with to be wearing a pink dress. He wore it to match me.
“Damien, we don’t have to—”
“This one,” he says, pushing hangers as they scrape noisily on the metal bar. “This is what you’ll wear tonight. It’s perfect. It’s you.”
The dress in question is exactly that and more.
I had bought that dress months ago, saving to afford the extravagant piece I saw in the store for this exact day. Last spring, I’d seen it in the back room at work before it was even put out onto the floor, and I knew I needed it. This is what I wanted to have photographs of me wearing, a hand to my mouth and the other in Richard’s, who would be on one knee, his coworkers looking on with a look of serene congratulations.
A pink so fair and creamy, it almost looks like a sparkly champagne color in poor lighting—a big fluffy bow over one shoulder, the other bare. It’s knee-length, fitted through the end with a short slit up the back.
I saw it, and I needed it.
And when I was going through outfit options, my hand grazed it, equal parts guilt and longing searing my skin.
I couldn’t wear it.
I wanted to wear it. So badly. But even looking at it made me realize I had fucked up.
And now, that is reinforced as he stares at me expectantly.
I need to tell him.
I need to tell him right now.
And he might hate me, and that will be valid, but he’ll absolutely loathe me if I let him take me to this party without telling him the full truth of who I am. Of who my ex is. And what my true intentions were—at the beginning.
“Damien, we—
“This one. Go, now, naranja.”
“Seriously, Damien. I need to—”
“Fine, I’ll do it,” he says then turns me until my back is to him. “Take off this damned funeral dress.” I laugh because he’s not wrong. Cami said nearly the same thing with a sneer when I walked out of the dressing room, sliding the curtain and standing in the doorway.
His fingers move to the top of my back then tug on the little zipper.
It brushes every vertebra on the way down, and once it’s to my hips, the top gives way, parting down my arms. His warm hands push the dress off my shoulders, and the dress pools on the floor.
“Thank god,” he whispers like he’s relieved not to have to deal with it any longer. “This. This is much better,” he says, his hands gliding down whisper soft over my sides, over the lace thong and bra hidden under the dress. “Much fucking better,” he says then uses his hands on my waist to turn me to the mirror.
“This. This is what I want everyone to picture when they see you in that dress. Fucking miles of perfect skin. Curves I want to sink my fingers in. Absolute perfection, Abigail.” The use of my full name always gives me chills, but right now, I have them even more when he’s behind me in a damn tux while I’m nearly naked.
“But only I get to see this beauty. My fucking beauty, yeah?” His face moves down, brushing my hair behind my neck and nipping the skin beneath my ear. My breathing accelerates, going even more ragged than before as every muscle in my body tenses.
The hands on my waist move up, up until his thumbs are dipping into the top of the cups of my bra, tucking the fine lace beneath my breasts.
“Only I get these, Abigail.” Thick, tan fingers move to pinch my nipples, and I watch the contrast as he tugs, the feeling translating directly to my clit.
“Ah!” I say in a low moan. “Damien, we need to—”
“You’re right,” he says, moving me, tossing me to my bed on my back. Then I’m lying there, staring up at him as he towers over me. Fingers move as my chest heaves, looping under the lace of my thong and pulling them down over my heels.
“Damien—”
“I’m going to fuck you quick, Abigail,” he says. “Quick and hard right now to remind you whose you are and that you are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.” His finger moves through my newly exposed wet, dragging it to my clit and circling once, twice.
I moan at the feel, writhing, needing more.
“Damien,” I say in a breathy voice that doesn’t sound like my own. I’m no longer protesting, trying to tell him we don’t have time. “I need more.”
“I know exactly what you need, baby. I’m going to give it to you when I’m good and ready to.” His smile is downright devious as he looks down at my squirming body.
Dark hands move to his belt, slowly undoing it as he watches me. My hand moves to my breast, still in the bra with the cups pulled down as seems to be Damien’s favorite way to have me, and I tug on a nipple.
“Fuck, Abigail. So pretty when you play with yourself for your man.” I bite my lip, shyness taking over. He grabs my chin, keeping my eyes on his.
“You think I want a sweet innocent girl, Abigail. That I want to show off some matronly woman? No. I want everyone to know I’m the luckiest person alive. I have a woman on my arm who is every man’s wet dream, but only I get to play with her.” The wet finger moves to my mouth. “Suck this like my good girl,” he says in a whisper, and I comply, my mouth opening to take in his finger and suck on it.
“That’s it, rubia. I know what you like. What you need.” He straightens, using one hand to finish undoing his belt and releasing himself.
I don’t speak.
I can’t, my entire body a riot of flames and need.
His cock is in his hand, and with his finger still in my mouth, I watch it pump, a drop of pre-cum forming on the head.
“Is this what you want, Abigail?” he asks, his voice low and ragged. I nod. “Of course you do.” He drags the head through my wet, and I moan, bucking my hips.
“Uh-huh,” he says, moving his hand, the fingers wet with my spit, to my chest and pressing. “Still. I decide when you get my cock, Abigail. You’ll lie here until I give it to you, yeah?” I know he’s looking for an answer. I nod.
“Such a good fucking girl,” he murmurs to himself, his hand gently moving up until it’s wrapped around my throat. He notches the head of his cock in my entrance and holds my eyes, waiting for me to disobey. Waiting for me to move, to try and get him deeper.
I don’t move.
I barely fucking breathe.
The only thing in this room is Damien, his eyes locked on me, and I’m using them as my lifeline.
He smiles.
“My good little whore,” he says in a whisper then bends forward, his hand pressing on the sides of my neck as he does, and gently, so gently pressing his lips to mine. My eyes drift shut at the feeling of his body over mine, his hand on my throat, slowly tightening, of his breath on my lips, and then finally, of his cock slowly sliding inside of me. At this angle, everything is so fucking tight, and he fills me perfectly, almost painfully.
He groans against my lips as the feeling takes over us, but I can’t get a noise out.
He straightens, his hand releasing gently, quickly, letting blood to return to my face, letting me gasp in air and then quickly moan it back out as he rears back and slams in again.
“Fuck, Damien!”
“Whose are you?” he demands, the hand that was on my hip moving, thumb hovering over my clit.
“Yours! Fuck, god, I’m yours, Damien.”
“Who gets this pussy whenever he wants it?”
“You do. God, it’s you! You!”
“Who do you dress for, Abigail?”
“You! My body is yours!”
“That’s right, baby.” He slams in, hand tightening on my throat once more.
He’s close.
I can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he’s slamming in deeper, the way the thumb that was hovering over my clit is now circling it with each thrust. His hand tightens, slowing the blood flow, making me lightheaded, and my hands move to my breasts, pinching both nipples hard.
“That’s it, play with yourself for me. So fucking pretty.”
A noise grates from my chest, and he knows.
He grinds my clit harder, slams in deep, and moves his hand from my throat.
“Come for me, Abigail. Right fucking now,” he says, and I do because my body belongs to him, obeys him. When we’re like this, it no longer responds to me.
My eyes go dark, stars shining through as my body explodes, my back stiffening, his name a garbled cry from my throat. Faintly, I can hear Damien continue to slam into me and then roar out my name before collapsing on top of me. He stays there, deep in me, lying on top of me for long moments as we catch our breath.
Time passes.
Eternities pass.
Eventually, my mind catches up to the universe.
“We should . . . get going,” I say, a murmur through strained lungs. He nods, his skin caressing mine as it does.
“Probably.”
He doesn’t move, and I can’t help but giggle.
“Damien,” I say, and he kisses my neck, sweet and fun and a contrast to the man from minutes ago.
“Let’s skip it,” he says, mouth grazing along ticklish nerve endings.
“Okay,” I say, hand moving to caress his bare back. I can’t even remember why I wanted to go to this stupid party, why I would opt for anything other than a naked Damien in my apartment.
“We gotta go,” he says.
“Probably,” I agree. He nips my collarbone, and I squeal, feeling him slip out of me. A different noise slips from my lips—one of longing and emptiness. He pauses from his retreat and stares at me.
“Don’t make noises like that or we’ll never make it out of this place,” he says. I just smile. Damien shakes his head then kisses my nose. “Stay. I’ll get a towel.” He stands, and I watch him, broad shoulders and narrow hips and tan skin, as he walks away.
He’s not gone long when he returns with a warm wet washcloth, wiping me clean and setting it aside. Then he gently lifts the cups of my bra and helps me stand. He’s already back in his boxers and has my panties in hand.
“As much as it kills me . . . ,” he says then places one of my hands on his shoulder before bending over. “Lift,’ he says, tapping a heel, and I oblige, stepping in then repeating the move. He slowly lifts the lace up, grazing every oversensitized nerve as he does.
Then he’s standing, putting his tux back on and draping the tie around his neck then walking over to the dress and grabbing it, gently taking it off the hanger and unzipping it.
“What kind of bra do you wear with this?” he asks, looking at the black lace one I was wearing under the funeral dress.
“Uh . . . none,” I say. “It has one built in. No lines and whatnot.” He smiles.
“Perfect,” he says, once again bending and helping to drag the dress up my body.
It’s strangely a more intimate experience than any we’ve shared before, him dressing me. He has me stand and does the zipper on the side as I face him before he moves things around, shifting the dress I fell in love with to help it fall into place.
I can’t resist returning the favor by reaching out and grabbing his bowtie, settling it, and then beginning to tie up the pink silk with finesse. When I finish the knot beneath his chin, I smile at him.
“Turn,” he says, looking into my eyes, his voice low.
He does that a lot, looks in my eyes when I’m in something sexy, something I know he likes how I look in. It’s like he wants me to know that despite the extravagance, it’s me he finds attractive. Me. He wants to see beneath it all.
It’s absolutely intoxicating.
I do as he demands and face the mirror with him behind me.
He’s tall, dark, and handsome with that black tux and pink bowtie, but his face is serious. So damn serious as his eyes take me in.
I’m small and blonde and pink, and for a split second—a microsecond—I see what Richard meant. I don’t look serious. I don’t look professional. I look like a fun time. And though I look and feel like me, the version of me I repressed for the past few years, I can’t help but wonder if letting her out was a good choice.
And then his tan hand is on my hip, spanning it and pulling me back into him.
“Beautiful,” he says in a whisper, like he’s saying it to himself and not to me.
“My hair is a mess,” I say, taking in the hair I had perfectly pinned into a modest style, the half updo Damien’s fingers had destroyed, leaving my hair in loose waves around my shoulders.
“You look like I fucked you before we left.” My face goes white.
“Oh, my god, Damien, I—”
“Only I’ll know. I’m kidding, Abigail,” he says, using a hand to move my hair behind my shoulder, revealing the big bow. “You look like a present I want to unwrap. An early Christmas gift. Let’s go.”
And though I smile as he kisses my temple before he walks us out, making sure to grab my jacket on the way, I can’t help but feel like this is a terrible decision.
But I’m out of time.
The clock hit midnight and I didn’t confess and now my fairy tale will crumble around me.
And whatever happens next, I deserve it because I played a good man to get revenge on a shit one who didn’t even deserve that effort.
