Chapter Twenty-One
Laila’s POV
The amber liquid tasted like liquid gold by my fifth shot, burning away the cold humiliation that had settled into my bones.
The low, heavy bass of the club vibrated right through the soles of my high heels, turning the blurred neon lights of The Masks into a spinning kaleidoscope of purple and crimson. I leaned my elbows heavily against the cool marble of the bar, staring at my reflection in the dark, mirrored glass behind the top-shelf liquor.
Delicate.
The word echoed in my mind, tasting far worse than the cheap tequila burning my throat. He thought I was delicate. He thought I was some weak, helpless little girl who needed to be sent home to cry in her pillow while he kissed high-fashion models in silk dresses.
"Another double," I slurred, tapping m
