Then the messages started flooding in from him:
“Claire, look at that gown—it’s the one we commissioned from the Italian designer. I rushed it!”
“Claire, and the necklace—your skin is so fair, those rubies will look perfect on you!”
“Claire, and the SS lapel pin—nice, right? One for each of us!”
“Claire…”
He kept saying my name over and over.
If none of this had happened, I might have squealed over these presents like a giddy girl.
Even the couple’s pins I once forced him to order were now his last lifeline.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I sighed, shook my head, and sent back a single “Mm.”
Seeing I had accepted the gifts and replied, Ethan finally relaxed, convinced the storm had passed.
He glanced at Zoey lying on the bed, and a calculating glint flashed in his eyes. He had no power or connections,
but as long as he showed up at tomorrow’s exhibition with me—me, the woman who built him—the rumors would collapse.
What he wanted was the entire creative agency—an agency without me in it.
He couldn’t let me burn it down before it was in his hands.
He’d been biding his time for a very long while.
Despite everything, because I was still scheduled to attend, there weren’t many cancellations.