Chapter 5: Doll

The guests clapped in unison after my daughter’s speech. She spared me a solid ten seconds of gratitude, and then spent the remaining three minutes praising her father—the man who, in the first place, was never there for her.

Bitter? That was for coffee. I’d quit every form of caffeine at least two years ago, but I could practically taste it flooding my mouth as I held that forced, obedient dog smile in place while the applause died down.

I bet that jackass was enjoying every second of it.

He barely lifted a finger to raise my child, and yet he had the audacity to show up here, acting like he’d paid for everything with his blood, sweat, or even his saliva.

“Asshole,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes as I glanced at the table where he sat, laughing with my little girl like he actually knew what missing her felt like.

Last I checked, his real baby was his building. His daughter was his career. His family was his money.

Never Adriana Rosewood.

And definitely not Diana Flora.

From across my lovely backyard, I felt Betty’s knowing stare on me. A second later, I caught her in my peripheral vision, already strutting in my direction.

“Diana!” she stage-whispered, waving her arm to get my attention even though I was clearly looking right at her. “Isn’t that your ex-husband?” She nodded, not so subtly, toward Ricochet. “What’s he doing here? I thought—” She trailed off, then dramatically sliced her finger across her neck, tongue sticking out.

“Addie invited him,” I said, enunciating every word as I exhaled hard through my nose. “'Without' my permission.” I tried to breathe through the tightness in my nostrils. “I ran into him at the mall earlier. I still don’t know how that happened, but he was just—there. And then—and then—”

The memory flashed uninvited.

My skin crawled. My stomach took a deep dive. Something dangerously happened to my "down there" alive in a way I hated. His lips had tasted exactly the same. His touch. It felt unchanged, familiar in the worst possible way.

Everything I had worked so hard to bury came rushing back the moment I saw him again. And he had the absolute nerve to freaking kiss me!

“Diana? Diana!”

“Stop yelling. I heard you the first time,” I scolded, tossing my hair back as if that could shake the thoughts loose.

“You were spacing out,” she pointed out, squinting at me. “What were you thinking? Did something happen?”

I farted the memories off, swallowing audibly before releasing the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Nothing,” I lied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I’m just… stressed.”

“Well,” she muttered, brightening instantly, “good thing your date finally showed up. An hour late. But I think you can forgive him. He’s super hot.”

She tipped her chin toward the entrance.

I followed her gaze and immediately spotted Martin, paper bags hanging from his hands, ribbons bouncing as he jogged. The moment our eyes met, he smiled and lifted one hand in a small wave.

So, I pasted another constipated smile onto my face and waved back.

“There’s your stress reliever,” she whispered, nudging my shoulder. “I’ll go get myself something to eat. You can spill the juicy details later.” Then she slipped away before I could protest.

“Sorry I’m late. Got a little caught up with work,” Martin said the moment he stopped in front of me, offering that familiar, apologetic smile. The nicest person I’d met in my whole life—hands down.

“No, it’s fine. What matters is that you still made time, even when you’re busy,” I replied, leaning in to hug him.

The second I did, I felt it.

A sharp stare. Burning, intending to fry me until dark, crispy, but will always be juicy.

As if my body knew, my gaze snapped sideways and found Ricochet’s forest-green eyes. He was frowning, jaw clenched so tight a muscle I could see it from ten miles beneath his skin, looking like he was one bad second away from punching whoever was closest to me.

“Gifts for lovely Addie,” Martin uttered cheerfully, lifting the pink bags.

“Just put them on the table over there and, uh… grab something to eat,” I told him, patting his chest lightly before pointing toward the long table.

Betty was standing there, eyes darting in our direction, a fork frozen mid-air between her lips.

My forehead creased. I caught her silent signal immediately.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” Martin added, lowering his voice. “It’s not that important, but I’d like to be open with you.” He tilted his head and brushed his bangs aside without touching them—his unconscious little habit—completely oblivious to the tension behind him. “Say… Saturday?”

I hummed in response, watching him pivot on his heels and melt into the party just as Betty sidled closer to me.

“Your ex-husband is advancing this way,” she muttered, visibly wincing. “He has the sword. You either use a shield to dodge or just open your legs wide,” she giggled.

I didn’t need to turn around.

I could feel him. A disaster was approaching.

“If he’s looking for me,” I whispered, already shifting my weight, “tell him I just ejected myself to the moon, okay?”

Then I flew away, my steps small but fast, marching like a ghost straight toward the kitchen.

It was empty. Everyone had already gathered in the backyard.

Good.

I braced my hands against the counter and inhaled deeply. I needed space. I needed air.

Because no matter how wide the backyard was, when Ricochet was there, the world always felt too small.

“Running away from me,” his voice said behind me, "or were you trying to lure me in here so we could be alone?”

And just like that, the man I was trying not to hyperventilate over chose to haunt me anyway.

“I already had this house blessed before. Why are there still ghosts here?” I muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “I didn’t know ghosts could be so… assuming.” I grabbed a glass and poured myself some water, hoping it would cool my boiling blood.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sounded dangerously close, “and ghosts can be very touchy too.”

His breath brushed against the nape of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. My back arched instinctively, and I spun around so fast I almost collided face-first with his chest.

“Who was that guy?” His questioned, clearly not enjoying the subject.

“You don’t have the right to ask,” I spat, stepping back. “And get the hell out of my personal space.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he planted both hands on the counter, trapping me in, leaning closer.

My lungs screamed for air.

“Martin Bay. You’re dating him?” He arched one brow. “Since when?”

“Since whatever I do is none of your business,” I retorted, lifting my chin.

“If he visits here, he sees my daughter. Technically, yes—it’s my business,” he pressed, tone sharp.

I sucked in my cheek, steadying my shaking thoughts.

He wanted answers? Fine. I’d give them.

“Martin is a good man. He can make pancakes. He knows what quality time is, he’s a family man, patient, and genuinely understanding. And do you know what I admire most? He’s not a coward.”

“Pancakes, huh?” He scoffed.

“Is that enough, or do you want me to write a whole autobiography?”

“I don’t trust his face,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Every second he hovered that close stole my breath, my sanity.

I needed space. Air. Or maybe… just another kiss from him—NO. Never again.

“Really?” I snorted, glaring, trying to drown out the war raging inside me. “From my perspective, between the two of you, your face had more potential to be a complete asshole. But lucky for me, I didn’t have to guess—you nailed it.”

He lowly chuckled, carrying that infuriating charm, highlighting those damn smile lines. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“You know what? I have no reason to debate this with you. You’re only here for my daughter. Be glad I’m even letting you. Now make it worth it and stop questioning me and Martin.”

“First-name basis, huh?”

“Of course. We’re not some business partners whose relationship exists only because of a contract.”

“Is that how you’re going to put it, Diana?” He leaned closer, his heat licking my skin like a warning that he was about to set me on fire.

“What are you doing?” I whispered under my breath.

“What am I doing?” He mirrored me, eyes dropping to my lips.

“Back off, Ricochet.” I tried to shove him, but he caught my hand, pressing it down as he leaned even closer. Our faces were thread-close—one misstep, one slip, and I’d taste him again.

“I’m not just here for Adriana, ‘doll.’”

That pet name. All of a sudden, I heard something purring. And I knew it was my kitty.

“I’m here… for you too,” he murmured, moving in to claim, to tame, to cage me, reminding me how much I had actually missed him.

But then the door burst open. A blonde woman appeared, looking twenty years older than me, eyes wide, mouth dropping.

Without thinking, my hand shot up, slapping Ricochet across the cheek with a loud, exaggerated grunt.

“God, Mom, I hate him so much!” I screamed, storming past her.

She froze, utterly shocked to see both the guest and me in that ridiculous, heated mess.