Mallory!
My former best friend and current nightmare.
Mallory Hamilton was once my closest friend, my rock during the chaos of high school and college. But when my dad's company went bankrupt, she turned on me. She laughed at my misfortune, spreading rumors and ensuring I felt every ounce of her hatred.
"Oh, this is the artist I told you about." Mrs. North replied.
Mallory's smile widened as she took a step closer. "Oh, you mean the one you met at the hospital and felt pitiful? The one who looked so tired and desperate? So you decided to pay her 300,000 dollars for a mere painting."
My hands clenched into fists. Mrs. North scolded her, but the damage was done.
"I should get going." I mumbled, placing the painting on the couch and heading for the door.
Mallory followed me, draping her arm over my shoulder. Her perfume was sickly sweet, just like her tone.
"Did you change your number?" She asked.
"I didn't." I replied, curtly.
"Did you block me, Emily? I swear, we tried calling you, but your number just vanished!"
"No." I said curtly.
"Oh, maybe we didn't call after all." She said, laughing. "Anyway, there's a high school reunion next month. You should come."
"Thanks, but I'll pass."
She grabbed my wrist as I reached for the door. "At least give me your number again. I think I deleted it by mistake."
I yanked my arm free and bolted. By the time I reached the gate, my chest was heaving.
That's when it happened.
I stepped off the curb, my thoughts elsewhere, when the sound of tires screeching jolted me back to reality. A red sports car came to a halt, mere inches from my legs.
Emily's POV:
My breath hitched as I stared at the car, my heart hammering in my chest. Slowly, my wide eyes traveled up to the driver's seat.
"What the hell!" I muttered under my breath before slamming my palms against the car's hood.
The driver didn't respond. Instead, the car reversed a few feet, then sped past me as if nothing had happened.
Without thinking, I bent down, grabbed a stone from the pavement, and hurled it at the car's rear window.
The car came to a stop.
My pulse quickened as the back door opened.
He stepped into view, tall, dark, and dangerous in black, the fabric stretched over a body that looked carved from marble. Power radiated from his broad chest and narrow hips, his every line honed with the perfection of a Greek god.
His jaw was razor-sharp, a masterpiece of angles that gave him an air of untouchable dominance, as though the night itself bent around his presence.
As he walked toward me, he pulled out a business card and held it out to me. "Contact me about the payment." He said, devoid of emotion.
My jaws dropped. "You almost killed me, and this is your response?"
"You ran in front of my car." He replied curtly, unfazed.
"Are you kidding me?" I snapped, my anger boiling over.
His gaze didn't waver. "I could sue you for defamation of character." He said coldly. "It's obvious you're looking for a payout by claiming attempted murder."
My mouth fell open, words failed me as I stared at him in disbelief.
"Oh, I get it." I began.
"You must be the poster boy for privilege and bad decisions. Let me guess: your daddy's money bought that shiny car, and your personality came pre-installed with the same level of care as that custom license plate screaming,
'I'm compensating!' Seriously, do you get your arrogance in bulk, or is there a subscription plan? I mean, how do you even manage to squeeze that overinflated ego into such a tiny brain? I should charge you rent for taking up this much of my time, but clearly, you think throwing cash around is the solution to everything.
Spoiler alert: it's not. Next time you decide to grace the road with your presence, try signaling with your manners instead of just your horn or better yet, stay home, polish that massive chip on your shoulder, and let the rest of us live.
Now, do me a favor: Next time you almost kill someone, step out of your car, take a deep breath, and apologize properly or does your golden spoon get in the way of speaking human?"
"That would cost about 10.2 million dollars, excluding the charges for repairs, of course." He said coldly, flicking a black card toward me like I was some kind of valet.
The card fell to the ground, brushing against my cheek on its way down. My fingers twitched to grab it, but the sheer arrogance dripping from his tone made me freeze.
Without sparing me another glance, he turned on his heel and walked back to his shiny car, one of those ridiculously expensive models that screamed I have too much money and zero taste.