Dear EX
Not a girl from Brooklyn who used to eat two-dollar pizza slices on a rusty fire escape while he fixed greasy motorcycle engines.
I slowly raised my eyes, locking my gaze straight onto Roman.
"A match made in heaven," I said aloud, my voice completely steady, directed right at him. "They look like they deserve each other."
Roman’s eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. He reached down, grabbed his glass of neat bourbon, and downed the entire thing in one long, sharp swallow.
Before the thick tension could snap, Damien stood up at the center of the table. He picked up a silver spoon and tapped it sharply against his crystal champagne flute.