Page 11 of Hate You More

“I’ll stay out of your way.” It’s not like I want to be here, not that he’ll hear me say so.

“You’re not going back,” he says, standing now.

“Fine.” I need the money, but I’m done fighting. I turn but then startle as I find him by my side. “What are you—”

“Consider me your escort,” he says, taking my elbow again.

“More like a prison guard.”

“Your words.”

True. And not at all well chosen.

Chapter 4

Troy

No way I believe the line she’s trying to sell me. No fucking way.

In the conference room currently being used by the caterers as a makeshift kitchen, I hold out Clara’s coat.

“Thanks.” As she slips it on, a plume of her perfume tantalizes my nose. It smells expensive. In a fair world, she’d smell like Tater Tots, not tuberose. Fried foods. Not memories.

My jaw feels tense, and I’m annoyed I can’t work it out—that she won’t say what this is. What I do know is there’s no way a waitress wears a coat worth $4,000. The Max Mara label is a gaping hole in her cosplay, because if truly her dad cut her off, belongings worth anything would’ve been sold.

Ask me how I know. Then ask me who put my family in that same situation.

She’s sorry. Fuck that. Sorry she had to face me, more like.

Head down, Clara wraps the belt around her trim waist, tying it in a complicated-looking loop. It’s the kind of coat that only First Ladies, the rich, and the famous get to wear. I know this because, around the time Table attracted its first big investor, Hannah bought herself the same coat during her lunch break. The press was calling the four of us visionaries, labeling the company as the hottest new thing. Yet when Hannah returned to the office that afternoon, she looked like she was about to throw up. She shook the Bloomingdale’s bag, said how much she’d spent, then spun around, muttering she needed to take it back.

But she didn’t. We wouldn’t let her. Money just takes some getting used to when you’re not born into it.

And that’s the crux of it. If Clara’s dad has cut her off—and who would blame him if years of childhood defiance and teenage rebellions continued into adulthood fuckery—it doesn’t mean Clara would be without. She couldn’t know true poverty because old money and blue blood open doors that most of us can only hammer on.

She had friends. Contacts. People she could rely on for work. Transferable skills from endless charity events her stepmother seemed to be involved in. Arranging flowers. Table dressing. Social shit. She could get work as a membership manager for some stuffy club—be their events manager. Work in an auction house or get a job as one of those useless chicks you see floating around art galleries. There is just no way on this earth she’d be forced to wait tables. Or serve liquor in a bar.

Journalist was just a wild punt on my part, not that she’d find anything salacious here. This company is squeaky clean. The state regulators make sure of that.

“Well, I’d say it was nice to see you again . . .” Eyes of dark denim blue catch me off guard as she looks up at me through lashes as black as soot. Those lips, all bow. Heart shaped. She’s an old-fashioned beauty, I guess.

“But you’d be lying?” I quirk a brow. “Bit of a pattern for you.”

Something painful flashes in her expression before her lashes make half moons against her cheeks. I am not going to feel regret. Not for her.

Around us, the caterers pretend not to listen in as they bustle about. Dishes clang, and plates are scraped, all while ears strain and eyes furtively peek.

Clara swipes up her purse from the table behind her, violently pulling it onto her shoulder. “Bye, guys!”

They’re too wary to do much more than murmur in response. Clara turns on her heel, and I follow her out.

“I know my way.” She gives a sharp tsk.

“Just making sure you’re really leaving.”

Her pace is brisk, and she gives an unhappy laugh and a tight shake of her head.

“Are they a good crew to work with?”