Chapter 4

Screw this. I was done. Whatever this was—whatever spell this arrogant jerk had cast—I refused to be tangled up in it anymore. I had no intention of dealing with him or his ridiculous attitude again. His damn phone? It could rot. But then a spark of wicked inspiration lit up in me. A farewell gift.

I grabbed my phone and snapped three photos: one of my cleavage with a prominent middle finger front and center, another of my crossed legs, and the last of my backside in tight jeans. I didn’t include my face—hell no—I wasn’t about to risk being recognized on the subway.

I saved my number in his contacts under You’re Welcome, Asshole, then sent all three shots his way, adding a final text for good measure:

Your mother would be ashamed of you.

With that, I handed the phone to the receptionist and instructed her, “Make sure Mr. Merrick gets this back.”

I left the building with my head high, even though I felt rattled on the inside—frustrated, humiliated, and angry enough to scream into the wind.

By the time I made it back to work, my mood had plummeted further. The only silver lining was that my boss, Ida, had taken a surprise meeting outside the office, so I didn’t have to pretend to smile for her. I used the opportunity to duck out early—an hour before closing—and didn’t think twice about it.

After work, I stopped by the tattoo and piercing studio on Eighth Avenue that belonged to my lifelong best friend Derrick and his wife, Hannah. We’d grown up in the houses next to each other, and despite all the years and chaos, Derrick had always been my ride-or-die.

Inside the studio, the buzzing of Derrick’s tattoo gun filled the air as he worked on someone in the back. Hannah, ever the piercing queen, glanced up from the counter just as I walked in, my shoulders tight with bottled-up emotions.

“I want you to pierce my tongue,” I announced.

She blinked. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“Lena, come on,” she scoffed, waving her hand. “You swore you’d never get pierced. What’s going on with you?”

“I changed my mind. I want it.”

“You only say that when you’re spiraling. You’re gonna hate me tomorrow when the regret kicks in.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “But right now? This feels necessary.”

Derrick looked up from his client long enough to throw me a look. “Something happen? Who pissed you off this time?”

Taking a long breath, I gave them the rundown—every gritty detail. From finding Christian’s phone to his obnoxious behavior over the intercom earlier. I told them how I’d tried to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, and how he’d stomped all over it.

“Then screw him,” Derrick said over the hum of the machine. “You don’t need to carry that. Just drop it. He’s not worth a second of your energy.”

I knew he was right. And yet… something still gnawed at me. I couldn’t explain why I felt so bruised by this man’s rejection, this stranger. Maybe it was the unresolved damage left by my father’s abandonment. Maybe I was just hoping for something—anything—that didn’t end in disappointment.

I exhaled. “I still want the tongue piercing.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“Please, just do it.”

The train ride home was pure hell. My tongue was throbbing, and the aftercare sheet they’d given me was starting to look more like a set of threats than instructions. I read it while holding a cold water bottle against my lips, laughing bitterly at one line in particular:

Avoid kissing or any oral activity until fully healed.

Well, no problem there. I had no one to kiss or do anything else with.

But then I reached the last line:

No acidic or alcoholic beverages until your piercing heals.

Great. So on the one night I actually needed to get drunk, I’d managed to screw myself out of it.

Back at my apartment, I shed my clothes and got to work dyeing the tips of my hair bright red—my personal trademark for “emotional hurricane incoming.” I thought I had the rest of my night mapped out. But life clearly had other plans.

⸻

CHRISTIAN

MY ENTIRE AFTERNOON had been hijacked by a faceless set of tits and a feather tattoo.

And they talked.

Of all the things this woman could’ve sent me, she chose that text. Those three words had burrowed beneath my skin and detonated something I hadn’t realized was still raw.

Your mother would be ashamed of you.

Screw you, Lena Venedetta. Screw you, because you’re right.

She’d only said her name once over the intercom, but it had stuck in my mind. Most names I forgot as quickly as I heard them, but not hers. Lena Venedetta. Well, according to my contact list now, she was You’re Welcome, Asshole Venedetta.

How the hell did she end up with my phone?

I’d gone about my day in a haze, unable to stop rereading her message. Every time I saw it, a fresh wave of anger—or maybe guilt—crashed over me. Because it wasn’t just a jab. It was a mirror.

My mother would be ashamed. The way I spoke to people. The cold, distant persona I’d wrapped myself in like armor. Everyone copes with grief differently, and after her death, I made a decision: shut everyone out, climb higher, feel nothing. I buried myself in degrees and deadlines until I became a machine. Being a jackass became easier than explaining myself. And the higher I rose in the world, the more people let me get away with it. Until Lena.

Not one person—not one—had ever spoken to me the way she had. Not in my office, not in my life.

Ava, the receptionist, had brought my phone back to me hours ago, and yet I was still obsessing over this woman with the crimson dress and no face.

I canceled my final meeting of the day and headed home.

Now, with a glass of cognac in hand and my dog Blackie curled by my side, I sat brooding in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my condo, watching Manhattan glitter in the night.

She had no idea the damage she’d done. No clue that a faceless girl with a feather tattoo and a middle finger had wrecked my entire day.

I stared again at the foot tattoo in one of the photos. Maybe she didn’t show her face because she was hideous. That thought made me laugh out loud, a bitter, hollow laugh echoing through my empty space. I wanted to know what she looked like. I needed to know.

I hovered over her contact name and typed.

My mother is dead, actually. But yes, I suppose she would be ashamed.

Minutes passed before she replied:

Lena: I’m sorry.

Christian: You should be.

I should’ve stopped there. Let her squirm. But I’d had just enough to drink and just enough lust rolling through me to keep going.

Christian: What are you wearing, Lena?

Lena: Are you for real right now?

Christian: You ruined my day. It’s only fair you entertain me.

Lena: I owe you nothing, you creep.

Christian: This coming from the woman who sent me her cleavage. By the way—hell of a rack. At first glance, I thought it was an ass.

Lena: You are the ass.

Christian: Show me your face.

Lena: Why?

Christian: Just curious to see if it matches your attitude.

Lena: What would that even mean?

Christian: Let’s just say… not in your favor.

Lena: You’ll never see my face.

Christian: Maybe that’s for the best. So… what color are you wearing now?

Lena: Red.

Christian: Still in that dress?

Lena: No. I’m naked. Hair dye dripping down my body. My tongue’s on fire, thanks to you.

Okay. That was… oddly specific.

Christian: That’s quite the mental picture.

Lena: You’re insane.

Christian: I won’t argue. I’ve been fantasizing about a woman with no head all damn day.

Lena: Not gonna happen. No more pics.

Christian: I’ll go first.

She didn’t reply. Not another word.

I tossed the phone onto the couch and let Blackie climb up on my chest. Eventually, I passed out with the mutt snoring on top of me.

⸻

I managed to not think about Lena for an entire day.

Then came the train ride two mornings later.

The car was packed, and I was stuck standing, one hand gripping a metal pole. I scanned the passengers around me, which I rarely did, and for good reason—New York trains were full of the weirdest people alive.

Then my eyes dropped to the floor.

To a foot. A woman’s foot.

With a feather tattoo.

Bright red toes.

My heart stuttered.

No fucking way.

It was her. It had to be. That’s how she’d ended up with my phone.

I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin the fantasy. But God, I had to know.

Counting slowly, I raised my eyes. Up her legs. Leather skirt. Leopard print purse. Purple top, neckline low enough to confirm exactly what I remembered from the picture. Then I saw her face.

Jesus.

She was… breathtaking.

Black hair tied back, the ends dyed that fiery red. Lips like candy. Brown eyes that were far too wide and expressive for someone who had clearly come to mess up my life.

She looked like she’d walked out of a dream. A devil with the face of an angel.

And when her gaze met mine, I froze. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. She simply turned her head toward the window like I wasn’t even there.

My heart pounded.

Did she not recognize me?

She must not have gone through the pictures on my phone. Because if Lena Venedetta had seen my face, there’s no way she wouldn’t have stormed up to me with a middle finger in the air.

No. She didn’t know.

But I sure as hell did.