I shook with rage at the photo that showed up on my phone. A photo of Ophelia dancing with Gen in a dress that was too short and too tight, with some asshole’s arm around her waist, had me on my feet and racing toward the elevator.
I studied it to keep from punching the wall as the cab descended. She held a drink in her hand, her hair matted against her glistening face, eyes unfocused.
I told her to stay away from Genevieve, and on today of all days when the world was hyper-focused on her, she did the worst thing possible. For all the tamping down I’d done, for all the information I’d had hidden or erased, and it was all for naught.
She would be scrutinized even harder, dissected, and labeled in the same category as Genevieve.
Damien was waiting for me at the front door with the car ru
