Page 206 of Reckless Obsession

What could he possibly have left to say? He made his choice in that apartment three months ago. He chose Jake. He chose the history, the comfort, the pristine, untouchable ex-husband who fits perfectly into his organized life, while I was left bleeding on the floor like a dirty little secret he was finally done playing with.

He is with the supposed love of his life. Jake made sure everyone in high society knew it.

So why the fuck is he blowing up my phone? Why is he outside my house in the rain? What does he want from me now—permission to be happy? A clean conscience? Does he want to look at the wreckage he caused, pat my head like a good little boy, and tell me he’s sorry so he can sleep at night?

He doesn’t get to have it both ways. He doesn’t get to ruin me, abandon me, and then demand my time when he gets curious about where the pieces landed.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

The voice comes from beside me.

I don’t bother looking over. I already know who it is. There are only a handful of people in this house who can sound bored, threatening, and vaguely offended by oxygen at the same time.

A smile tugs at my mouth as I lift my wineglass. “I assume you were bullied into coming too.”

“Literally did not have a choice,” Viktor says, standing beside me. “The twins informed me that if I skipped their party, they would smother me in my sleep.”

Viktor reaches for the bottle on the small table between us, pours himself a glass without asking, then scans the ballroom with the exhausted expression of a man surveying the aftermath of a natural disaster.

“Why do I always get threatened into attending shit like this?” he mutters. “Also, why the hell is Igor dressed as Inosuke?”

I follow his line of sight.

Igor is standing in the corner with a boar mask pushed up onto his head, fake blood streaked down his shirtless chest, and a real sword tucked into his waistband. He’s playing flip bottle with a group of people who are already loud enough to be heard over the music.

He flips the bottle.

It lands upright.

The people around him groan.

Igor throws both arms up in triumph and nearly hits a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.

I laugh.

“He is drunk,” I say.

“He is something.”

“He is high as a kite too.”

Viktor shakes his head. “He is going to break something.”

“Good. The party needs consequences.”

“You are not helping.”

“I did not come here to help. I came here to look better than everyone else.”

Viktor finally turns toward me, giving my Nightwing suit a slow, unimpressed once-over.

“You are wearing spandex with weapons strapped to your back.”

“Custom tactical fabric,” I correct. “There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

“There is if you have taste.”