Page 175 of Double or Nothing

Idiot.

Both of them.

They have plenty of cards at their disposal. A pretty good hand between the two of them. But still, they’re too bloody terrified to put a single chip on the table.

All because of William bastard Parker and this Otley prick.

Nine days.

I roll onto my back.

This arrangement was always temporary. I knew that. They knew it. No one signed a contract or made a promise. No one sat around my kitchen island and announced that the three of us were now some kind of permanent triptych with shared towels and vows of forever.

We had fun.

Incredible fun.

Still having it, theoretically.

Nine more days of it, apparently.

After that, Bryce can return to worshipping the altar of Parker Capital, and Alice can put on an expensive dress, walk down the aisle, and pretend Christopher Otley’s existence doesn’t make her want to tear her own skin off.

Bryce will be too fucking miserable to be even a semi-professional fuck buddy, and Alice will be sealed in by a contract of doom.

I’ll go back to my life.

Gambling.

Champagne.

Strangers.

Plenty of hot, dirty strangers.

Plenty of filthy bastards out there who don’t come with daddy issues, corporate shackles and childhood heartbreaks that have somehow become my problem.

Except they aren’t my problem.

Because I don’t give a shit.

I crawl out of bed slowly, trying not to disturb the two denial obsessed lovebirds.

My foot catches on Bryce’s shirt on the floor. I pick it up, planning to throw it towards the chair, but I fold it over the back instead.

Pathetic.

I leave the bedroom before I change my mind and stamp on it.

The apartment feels different this morning. Big and empty.

That never bothered me before. I loved the space. The silence. The lack of anyone else’s possessions cluttering up my life.

Now, Alice’s handbag is on the sofa, sketchbook to the side. Her scattered collection of shoes near the door. Bryce’s laptop case is leaning against the coffee table, his watch on the top, with some ridiculous book about antique furniture face down and spine cracked next to the remote control.

Little pieces of these two have been spreading through my home like they have every right to be here.

Then of course, there’s the Toastique Pro standing proudly on the kitchen island. The most ridiculous symbol of emotional collapse ever manufactured. Stupid bloody thing.