Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Alex and I flung away from each other, glaring at opposite corners of the kitchen.
“Look, guys.” Resignation laced Micah’s voice. “If you can’t get along for Lily’s sake, then—”
Sue’s phone went off, cutting off whatever Micah was going to say. I answered it rather than listen to another word about that asshole.
“Hello?”
“Good evening,” a light, cheery voice replied. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Kim?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Christie Baudelaire, owner of Baudelaire Blasts and Celebrations.” I never understood calling a voice chirpy until I heard hers. “I’m calling to confirm our nine o’clock on Sunday morning?”
“Nine o’clock?” I repeated, my galloping heart still pounding on a heady cocktail of rage and adrenaline. “I’m sorry, what is this in reference to?”
She giggled. “Your wedding anniversary party, of course. In two weeks,” she added when I didn’t say anything. “I am very excited, Mrs. Kim, as I’m sure you are. No expense has been spared—just as you requested. I’ve flown in five crates of Conti Grand Cru wine. The linens are hand-spun silk. The aerialists arrive next week, and your dress— Ah!” she screamed. “Your dress! Mrs. Kim, it is a work of art.
“Now, as you know, I need to get my crew into your lovely house with not a minute’s delay. They need to begin setting up the ballroom, double-checking the integrity of the beams, and of course, your final fitting!” She squealed again, clearly crushing on this dress hard. “So, can we confirm for—”
“No,” I sliced in. “There’s not going to be a party. This marriage ain’t anything worth celebrating. Cancel it. Cancel it all.”
“But— But, Mrs. Kim,” she cried. “I beg of you to reconsider. The invitations have gone out and several outstanding bills are still to be paid. Not to mention the refundable deposits you won’t get back, on top of the last-minute cancellation fee. If you cancel now, you’ll have spent over sixteen million with nothing to show for—”
“Sixteen million who now?!” I shrieked. “Tell me that’s won. Please, tell me that’s sixteen million won and not dollars!”
“Um, Mrs. Kim... I don’t understand—”
The phone disappeared from my grip.
“Hello?” Alex said. “Hello, Christie, it’s me, Mr. Montgomery. Yes... No, ma’am, we’re not canceling.” He laughed a light, buoyant laugh that didn’t match the glower directed at me. “My wife was just kidding, you know she has a dark sense of humor.
“We absolutely want to celebrate seven wonderful and loving years together,” he said, his eyes pinning me to the spot. “We wouldn’t cancel this party for the world.”
Christie’s relief poured out of the speakers.
“Sunday at nine o’clock,” he confirmed. “Actually, come at eight if you want. We will be here.”
Click.
Ending the call, Alex took my hand and placed the cell on my shaking palm.
I looked from it, to Alex, to a silent Micah and Rhodes. “I... I don’t get it. You just got done telling me how much you hate me,” I said to Alex, “and how much you two are only interested in me for my blowjobs,” I threw at Rhodes and Micah. “So why would you want to throw a lavish and obscenely expensive party to celebrate a marriage that’s dead?”
Alex looked in my eyes, and smirked. “Dead? It’s not dead yet, baby.”
“Hell no,” Micah breezed. “The old girl’s still got some kick in her.”
“That’s right,” Rhodes threw in, sharing a grin with his fellow brother-husbands that stood my neck hairs on end. “Can’t tap out before they call T.O.D. That would be wrong.”
“But when it is dead,” Alex whispered, his smile widening as he turned away. “That’ll really be something to celebrate. I promise you, my dear wife, that’s going to be the party you care about.”
My lips parted—I thought to ask what they meant, but they were gone before I found the words.
Chapter Twelve
“Please, no, I don’t want to go to sleep! The clown will come!” Tears and snot soaked my face. “He hurts me! Make him stop, please!”
“No!” I bolted upright, kicking and flailing in the tangled sheets.
Morning light streamed through the curtain, casting a single glowing beam across my pale, shaking hands. My stomach gurgled and heaved, threatening to bring up my half-eaten dinner of minestrone.
Tipping over, I scrambled for my phone. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” I rasped into the mic. “The clown was real. What happened to you—what he did to you—was real. But what’s also real is that he’s gone. The clown can’t hurt you anymore.
“You’re safe.”
I repeated that over and over again until my heart stopped racing, and then I played back the recording for even longer. Only when I trusted my stomach to hold on to its bile, and my legs to hold me up, did I slowly untangle from the sheets and trudge into the closet.
I emerged a bit later in my running clothes. Glancing at the clock, it flashed just past seven in the morning. That gave me two hours to run, shower, and be back downstairs to meet with our party planner, Christie.