Ravaged Crown

Chapter 3 Episode 3

“Sit down,” he repeats again, with so much authority that I actually start to lower myself down into the chair just behind me before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Not there,” he says, making me freeze midway down. He gestures to the empty space beside him. “Here.”

Just do what they say; they’re very important men. That’s what the maître d’ told me. This is harmless anyway, right? I’m just sitting for a minute. No worries at all. Hakuna matata.

I walk around the table on shaky legs and sit down next to him, but I make sure to keep a good two feet between us. “Um, I’m really not sure I’m supposed to—”

My cheeks color instantly. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes. I can feel your stress radiating.”

His hand rests on the back of the sofa, which means it’s inches away from my neck. A few strands of my hair are actually brushing against his fingers.

I take a deep breath. It feels good to just admit it. “I am a little stressed, yeah. I really need to do well at this job.”

“Because… well, if I don’t, then the temp agency I use is less likely to recommend me for other positions.”

“Temp agency,” he muses like it’s a foreign concept.

“It’s just for the moment,” I stammer to explain. “I tried other ways to get jobs, but as it turns out, not many people are excited to hire a twenty-seven-year-old college dropout with no work experience and no discernible skills.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a tough run.”

“In the last three weeks alone, I’ve cleaned out bedpans, scrubbed public bathrooms, washed dishes at a fast food restaurant, and cleaned half a dozen houses from top to bottom. The work sucks and the pay is complete s**t, but what choice do I have?”

I look at him. Something about the way he says that suggests that there’s more happening than I’m clued into. You know how people say one thing when they mean another?

But he doesn’t give anything away. His hazel eyes are complex. Flecks of gold, gray, and green reveal themselves for brief flashes every time he shifts beneath the chandelier. A curved scar runs down his neck, thick and knotted. It makes my legs tingle without warning.

“I don’t,” I say. “I need to be financially independent. And I know that’s pathetic for a twenty-seven-year-old to admit, but yes, I am not currently financially independent.”

He smiles, and that smile—Jesus Christ. It does something to my body.

I shake my head like I’ve had a few too many drinks and I’m trying to sort myself out. But I’m dead sober. What the hell is happening right now?

“I… well, I fell in love,” I hear myself saying—although it feels like someone else is using my body, operating my voice for me. I’m saying the things I’m supposed to say. But God only knows the last time I truly meant them. “I met my husband in college. I dropped out to marry him. And I haven’t studied or worked since.”

My chest tightens as I confront all the mistakes that have led me to this moment. “Actually, no. It was his. At the time, he made it seem like—”

“Like he was doing you a favor.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and I realize that not only are our knees touching, but I have somehow slipped closer to him on the sofa.

Or maybe he’s moved closer to me.

And then I realize that I’ve pretty much shared my life story with a complete stranger. A complete stranger that I’m supposed to be serving tonight.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I just said all that—”

“Because I asked,” he says firmly.

“I… Er, right. You did.”

His fingers turn upwards and he folds them over a lock of my hair. I freeze, unsure of what’s happening right now.

“It sounds like you don’t have anyone to talk to,” he tells me.

Those words send a sharp pain straight through my heart. I look down. “I suppose I don’t.”

I shake my head. “I cut them off years ago.”

I can’t believe my deepest secrets are rolling off my tongue at the slightest nudge from a stranger. He may be an intensely beautiful one, but still, how is all this so easy for me to share with him?

“Because they didn’t want me to drop out of college and marry Casey. I told them I knew better.” I lift my eyes to his. “Turns out I didn’t.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says, still teasing that lock of my hair between his fingers. “Well, except me.”

There it is again: saying one thing and meaning something different, something else, something far more. I shiver uncontrollably.

“What about friends?” he asks.

“All our friends are his friends. I have no one.”

I can’t look away from those hazel eyes of his. Why does it feel like he can see inside me? Like he can split open my head if he wants to and sift through my thoughts?

Do I even know his name?

My eyes fall to his lips. I’ve never noticed lips on a man. But his are… they’re so…

The door to the private room opens, and I jump to my feet. I turn to the door to find the maître d’ standing there with barely controlled rage on his face.

I’m guessing that control is for the guest’s benefit. It certainly is not for mine.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Solovev,” he grimaces. “I’m going to need your waitress for a moment.”

Solovev. The name has an Eastern European tang to it. Russian, maybe?

I don’t wait for anyone to say another word. I mumble a hasty apology and walk straight for the door with my face on fire.

In some ways, I’m grateful for the distraction. I felt like I was being drugged in there. Tip-toeing closer and closer to—well, I’m not quite sure where I would have ended up.

That gratitude vanishes as soon as I step out into the hallway and someone steps forward out of the shadows. My body goes cold with dread.

Willow is just outside the VIP room, so her voice carries through the crack in the door. I don’t even have to get out of my seat to eavesdrop.

Not that it matters. I already know everything there is to know about Willow Reeves.

“What are you doing here?” Willow sounds scared.

“What the f**k do you mean?” he growls. “I called you like a dozen times.”

“And I texted you back. I’m working, Casey. You promised you’d give me space.”

“f**k that. I’m sick of this phase of yours—”

I’m impressed she’s fighting back. She didn’t strike me as the type—but then, no one really fights back against me. No one who lives to tell about it, anyway.

“Listen,” the maître d’ interjects, “I really don’t need the drama here. If you can’t leave your baggage at home, then you can turn in your apron right—”

“No, I can finish my shift. Please,” Willow begs. “Don’t fire me.”

The man—Casey—snorts. “Jesus Christ. Getting fired would be the best thing for you right now.”

“You mean the best thing for you,” she snaps.

“If I can interrupt for a moment…” The maître d’s voice drips with acid.

“No, you may not,” the intrusive douche bag retorts. There’s haughtiness in his voice. Entitlement.

Perhaps someone ought to rid him of that.

They shift, and through a sliver in the door, I see the asshole hand the maître d’ a crisp hundred dollar bill. “Give us a minute,” he says.

“Of course, sir.” The maître d’ slips out of sight.

Willow stiffens the moment they’re alone. As though the absence of a third party makes her feel far more vulnerable.

“Casey, please,” she says. “I need to do this.”

“Why?” he demands. “I’ve put a roof over your head. I’ve given you the clothes on your back. Everything you f*****g need, I’ve given you.”

“And you love reminding me of that,” she cries out. “Well, I’m done being the doormat wife. I want my own life!”

So this is the husband. Interesting.

The purpling of rage on his face says he’s long past using his words. Instead, with a practiced motion, he grabs Willow’s wrists and shakes her like a ragdoll.

“Why?” he growls. “So you can leave me?”

“I’d like to have the option,” she spits right back.

There’s fire in her tone and in her face. It makes me wonder how a woman like her ever convinced herself to slum it with this repulsive son of a b***h.

“It doesn’t matter how much f*****g money you have, you little b***h,” he snarls right in her face. “You’re never leaving me. I’m sick and tired of this Miss Independent bullshit. When I get home, I expect you to be there to greet me.”

“Should I greet you the same way you greeted me?” she asks. “By f*****g someone else on our bed?”

That does the trick. He rears back and slaps the s**t out of her.

Time for me to step in.

I kick the door of the VIP room open. It slams against the wall, sending shockwaves reverberating all around us.

The motherfucking wifebeater turns to me with wide eyes. Willow is staring at me, too, looking completely mortified.