Page 3 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
She shrugs. “Asher’s company made the security system you used. It wasn’t hard to find a master access code at the R&D lab.”
That fucker.
I abandon that line of questioning, already planning some upgrades for my security system. “Why are you here?”
“I was in town and wanted a cup of tea with a friend.”
See what I mean? Loon. She’s an absolute, psychotic loon. Asher is making the biggest mistake of his life, tying himself to this chick. In just three months, too.
She has the audacity to roll her eyes at me, though I haven’t said a thing. “I never had a chance to thank you for what you did.”
“You could’ve texted.”
Or left me alone entirely.
Again, she rolls her eyes. “Gosh, you’re a real piece of work. You know that? Thanking someone for risking their life to help your fiancé isn’t exactly something you do over text. I wanted to thank you in person. Plus, I also came to say that, should you ever need a favor, I owe you one.”
My arms cross. “What could I possibly want from
you?”
I know I won’t like her answer when she throws her head back and laughs.
Her ever present grin is troubling, and she has a look on her face, like she knows something I don’t. “Here’s my favor. A warning—be careful with that one.”
And with those puzzling words, she’s out of the door.
It’s official.
Asher’s fiancée is better off in a psych ward than roaming the streets of Manhattan.
Chapter Two
For every minute
you remain angry, you
give up sixty seconds
of peace of mind.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
One month later…
I wake up to the cursed sound of screeching. It’s loud and sharp and grates on my delicate ears. It’s the sound of metal cutting metal, and I know the source of it immediately. This isn’t the first time it has happened since I started sleeping at John’s swanky brownstone by Central Park.
Speaking of, John’s meaty arm is sprawled across my body, his pudgy fingers gripping onto my tanned flesh. Slowly, I pry his fingers off of my right breast, careful not to wake him up so he doesn’t get any ideas. I don’t want to be disgusted by him too soon. It would put a damper in my plans.
Because he’s the one.
The one I’m going to marry.
I’ve hit the jackpot with this guy. He’s in his late fifties, doesn’t have any anger issues, has a small sexual appetite, and thankfully wears a condom whenever he actually does slip inside of me.
And at this point in my life, that’s all I can hope for.
Carefully, I slither quietly out of the bed and easily slip away from the bedroom door with the practice garnered from years of being the other woman. Sneaking around is a near daily occurrence in this lifestyle, where women rotate in and out of lives quicker than New York City fashion dos become fashion don’ts.
