Arranged(29)

CHAPTER





TWELVE





I was relieved when we reached the bathroom, and I dashed inside.

Addison touched up her makeup while I used the restroom and washed my hands.

She casually offered me coke at the sink, right in front of the bathroom attendant.

I politely turned her down.

She scoffed at me in the mirror. “Oh please. You’re a model, right? Don’t act all innocent about it with me.”

I leveled an annoyed look at her, one of my brows arched high. “I count my calories and work my ass off. Not all models are cokeheads. Certainly not the ones that keep getting work. It ages you. I wouldn’t do it because I model, and I don’t want to age out of it by twenty-five.”

Yeah, it was a dig. She was clearly a cokehead and past twenty-five. She glared at me. “Suit yourself,” she said. She bent down to the counter, partaking liberally.

So it was going to be that kind of a night. Not so very different than the industry parties I tried my best to avoid.

I cringed at all of the nasty germs she was inhaling with her cocaine. There was so much wrong with this picture.

It didn’t escape my attention that the bathroom attendant didn’t bat an eye.

What a pro.

I tipped her a fifty on our way out.

“I bet you didn’t tip like that before you married rich,” Addison remarked, her tone amused.

This bitch. My head whipped around to look at her.

She was smiling with a smug something in her eyes that I really didn’t care for.

I realized that she was trying to goad me.

Not today, Satan.

“I was always a good tipper,” was all I remarked.

If this was some sort of self-control test, I was going to pass it, I decided then and there.

None of these entitled princesses were going to get a rise out of me.

We went back to the booth and I sat as far away from Addison as possible. She was one of six. How hard could it be to avoid her?

The waitress handed me a fresh glass of champagne and I thanked her.

“So, Noura,” Addison started in almost instantly. “Why is it that Banks’ friends were the only ones in your bridal party? Where were your friends?”

I just stared at her for a long, awkward moment. I hadn’t expected the question, and I didn’t have a good answer for it.

I’m a loner, was a pathetic answer, if accurate.

I didn’t even think to invite anyone I knew to my fake wedding, was even worse.

“Don’t mind her,” Millie said. I was starting to catch on that she was the peacemaker of the group. “She’s still salty that she wasn’t asked to be one of your bridesmaids.”

I couldn’t think of a good, non-humiliating way to tell her that I’d had no say in who my own bridesmaids were. Anything I said would only fuel the fire.

“And she’s jealous that he chose you instead of one of us,” Beatrix added almost under her breath.

But I’d definitely heard it, and it more than piqued my interest. “Excuse me?”

“We all figured he’d impulsively get married after Fatima’s wedding—” Beatrix piped in.

Millie shushed her.

I waved it off. “I know about Fatima. Keep going.”

“Well, we all figured he’d find a bride just to spite her for the betrayal, but we also assumed it would be one of us.”

“Beatrix, enough!” Hadley snapped. “You sound ridiculous.”

“And not a commoner,” Beatrix added.

“A commoner?” I repeated, trying to look more amused than offended. Who the hell did these people think they were?

“Oh, come on,” Addison joined in. “You must see that one of us, one of the girls from his social circle, someone that grew up with him, would have made a lot more sense as his wife than a random model out of nowhere.”

“So if I’m a commoner, do you all consider yourselves American royalty?” I asked, a sardonic edge to the question.

I was the youngest there by several years, but I was quickly realizing that they were the sheltered ones.

Millie waved that off. “No, of course not. I think they’ve had a few too many.” She made a drinking motion with her hand, smiling to try to cut through the tension of the moment.

I respected her effort, but it didn’t work.

“Of course,” Addison answered with honest snobbery. She really believed the nonsense she was spouting. “We’re the closest thing America has to nobility, something you could really only comprehend if you’re one of us.”

“Do tell,” I said with a brittle smile, my eyes cold on hers.

She did. “We were taught impeccable manners practically from the womb. We all attended the same finishing school together, and it was the best there is. We were born to marry powerful men like our fathers. Men like your husband.”

“I guess he had other ideas,” I pointed out.

“We are fluent in social etiquette,” she plodded on as though I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t even know what that means, do you? I’m sure you received a crash course in it, but everyone here knows the difference. Except for you. Do you know that you’re not even holding your glass correctly? I won’t even tell you how many embarrassing faux pas you’ve committed since we got here.”