"We're not heartless, though," he continued, his tone mocking. "You cooked and cleaned for Delia for three years. I'll pay you for your trouble—at the going rate for a live-in nanny."
Not worthy?
The words echoed in my mind, leaving me in a daze.
How rich. I'm not worthy of Delia Pruitt.
"Ethan Ashford." Delia's voice cut through my thoughts. "For the sake of our past."
She crouched beside me, pulling a cream-colored envelope from her purse. She tossed it onto my chest.
"My wedding is in three days. Come have a drink on us." She smirked, her eyes glinting with malice. "Haven't you always wanted to see me in a bridal gown? Come watch. Take a good look at how happy Samuel and I are."
Any lingering affection I held for Delia Pruitt died in that moment.
In a few heartbeats, my world shifted on its axis. Delia had dropped her mask completely, using a wedding invitation to twist the knife. The audacity was almost impressive—but instead of pain, cold numbness settled over me.
My expression hardened.
"Fine," I said, voice flat. "I'll be there."