Page 102 of The Ring
What the hell is she talking about?
Weberly scrolls through her phone, then holds it up before turning the screen towards us. I need only a second to recognise what she’s showing. It’s a video of Annabelle and me in the loo at West’s club. Judging by the angle, she must’ve stood on a toilet to film it. That explains why, when Annabelle checked the stalls, she thought we were alone. The footage is shaky and poorly framed, but there’s no mistaking it. It’s us. Worse, the audio is crystal clear.
“But I didn’t. I still love him, but I also love Benedict, just—” I hear myself saying.
I’m paralysed. It’s like watching one of those car crash videos you don’t want to see but can’t look away from. I can’t even bring myself to look at Benedict or TJ to gauge their reactions. I’m barely holding back tears as it is.
“What if every relationship I ever have will always be less than what I had with TJ?”
The video ends, and Weberly pulls her phone away; a smug smile is plastered across her face. It enrages me.
“That was a private conversation—how dare you?” I snap at her.
She shrugs. “I thought everyone deserved to know the truth.” There isn’t a single hint of regret in her voice or on her face.
Scratch my previous statement about us being friends. We’ll never be friends. She’s pure evil.
Benedict looks at me, then at TJ, and shakes his head. “I can’t do this anymore.” He stands up, leaves a few hundred pounds on the table, and walks away.
“Wait!” I call after him, but he ignores me. I get up from the table, grab my bag to go after him. But before I follow him, I snatch my martini glass, still three-quarters full, and throw its contents into Weberly’s face. I’d made the conscious choice of ordering it without olives because of TJ, but now I wish I hadn't. Maybe then the stick would have punctured her eye. “Oops.” I smile. It’s the only thing I’ve enjoyed about this forsaken dinner. I wish I had more time to revel in it, but I need to go find Benedict.
“Bitch!” Weberly yells.
People start to stare, but I ignore them and head straight for the exit.
I try to run, but these fucking shoes make it impossible without risking breaking a leg. I reach the street and start scanning the crowd. There are a few people walking, but none of them are Benedict.
“Rose,” a woman behind me calls out, “Rose Monroe-Nodrick.” I turn around, realising she was callingme. It takes me by surprise. Only my grandmother calls me Rose. I don’t think most people even know my middle name.
She appears to be around thirty, with long brown hair, tall, a button nose, big blue eyes—she could be a model. Her skin is fair, and she has a slender build. She’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and light jeans, but a few striking pieces of jewellery.
“Yes, and you are?” I ask, sensing a strange familiarity about her. Maybe she’s a fan I met once or a friend of my grandmother. That would explain why she called me Rose instead of Cornelia.
She looks at me for a moment, as if inspecting me, holding her breath, then answers, “No one.”
What a weird answer.
I’m about to say something else when I hear TJ call, “Cornelia,” as he emerges from the Mandarin Oriental. I turn to look at him, then glance back at the woman—but she’s gone. Not recognising someone would usually bother me, but right now, I have more pressing concerns.
I ignore TJ and walk around the block in search of Benedict. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’s still nearby. If not, I can try his flat next. TJ follows, still calling my name, not seeming to realise I’m ignoring him. He quickens his pace, catches up, and grabs my arm, forcing me to face him.
I shake off his grip. “What? Was what you and your pet did not enough? You had to come bother me outside, too?”
He signals to the building. “What happened in there? I had nothing to do with it. I was as shocked as you were.”
I believe him, but he brought her here. He could have stopped this dinner before it even started, but he didn’t. And he’s probably delighted that, unless a miracle happens, my relationship with Benedict is likely over.
I close my eyes for a few seconds and sigh. I open them and look at his greyish-blue eyes. “What do you want?” I’m mentally and physically drained. At this point, I’m willing to answer any questions he asks just to be left alone.
He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Can we talk about the video?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I declare.
“I differ,” he rebuts.
“What? Do you want to talk about the fact that I said I love you?” I ask, my voice sharp. He doesn’t respond, but I know that’s exactly what he wants to discuss. I snap, “I love you. Are you happy? Is that what you want to hear? I love you. I—I love you.” The words that used to be sweet now taste bitter in mymouth. “You slept with my mother, and I still love you. How pathetic does that make me?” Tears run down my cheeks, but they’re more out of frustration than sadness. I chuckle bitterly. “You could probably kill me right now, and I’d still love you.” What is wrong with me?
“I love you,” he says, almost in a whisper.
