Page 108 of The Ring
It shows how little he knows Cornelia and her family. While he acts like he knows them because he’s done business with them, he hardly really knows them. If he did, he’d know Anthony is the one who taught Cornelia to never letanyone,regardless of sex or age, talk her down. Hearing Cornelia right now will probably only amuse Anthony.
Cornelia clearly knows what he’s doing. Without losing a beat, she says, “Oh yes, should we go look for him? He loves hearing me talk.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “But…” She nibbles her lips and looks down, trying to look innocent, but I know it’s an act. She likes to play dumb, but she’s never been dumb a day in her life. “I don’t know how much he’d love hearing how you’re talking to me right now.”
My father also catches that because, under his breath, he mutters, “Little brat.”
I’m about to defend her, but Cornelia beats me to it. “Aww, thank you.” She places a hand over her heart like it’s the most touching compliment and grins.
She’s enjoying the fact that, in this verbal tennis match, she’s winning. It’s easy to tell who is losing—it’s the one who loses their patience first, and they both know it.
My father rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s holding himself back. Cornelia is on the brief list of people who can talk to my father like that and get away with it. Not because of my feelings for her, but because of her family.
Cornelia doesn’t like to talk much about money, but she is the 1% of the 1%. It’s something that sets her apart from The Heptad Society. Her family could buy all our companies and still have money to spare.
Once, I thought my father would be ecstatic about me dating Cornelia—like many other parents of my classmates would have been, considering all the money and connections she has. To his credit, he didn’t.
He would rather I marry a doormat with no money than someone as opinionated and liberal as Cornelia. Which is weird, considering I wouldn’t say my mum is a doormat. But she’s not as outspoken as Cornelia either.
My father turns to me, acting as if Cornelia isn’t here, and says, “We’ll finish this conversation later,” before walking away.
That sounds as appealing as shooting myself in the foot.
“I can’t wait,” Cornelia calls after him.
I chuckle, and I’m pretty sure he’s cursing her under his breath now that he’s out of earshot.
Cornelia turns to look at me, and I smile. “Thank you,” I tell her as I try to relax, but I still feel tense.
My father has an uncanny ability to make me feel tense,inferior, defensive, irritated, and angry all at once, and then leaves the lingering effects long after he’s gone.
Cornelia frowns for a second. “Come with me.” She offers her hand, and I take it like it’s a reflex. I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care. I would follow her through the gates of hell if she asks me.
She stops at a table and drops my hand, and that gets to me more than it should. I stretch my fingers, already missing the warmth of her touch. But she only lets go to pick up a black clutch from the chair—one that I really hope is hers—because she pulls out a good chunk of cash from it.
I arch a brow. “What are you planning to do with that?”
I’m confused. There’s nowhere for her to spend that kind of money here. There is the silent auction, but if your bid wins, the payment is made by check.
She flashes me a devious smile—one I’ve seen many times before, one that’s gotten me into trouble more than once. But I’ve never regretted any of it.
“Something fun. Trust me.”
The last time someone said those words to me, it was a mistake to go along with it. But this is Cornelia. I trust her unconditionally.
Still, I have to ask, “Is it legal?” With her and West, you never really know. Better safe than sorry.
She thinks for a second. “I’m pretty sure it’s.”
Pretty sure?I would have preferred100% sure, or for her not to have to think about it at all.
Cornelia smiles again, and it feels like she’s already enjoying whatever she has in mind. She takes my hand again and guides me towards the bar. It’s mostly empty—most people are sitting at their tables, getting their drinks from the waiters instead of coming up themselves.
The server asks Cornelia what she would like to drink, but instead, she asks to speak to whoever is in charge.
A few seconds later, a woman in her late twenties with short brown hair approaches us.
“Hi, is there a problem?” she asks, her gaze lingering on Cornelia. “You’re Cornelia Monroe.”
While she doesn’t phrase it like a question, she still seems to be expecting confirmation.
