Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(37)

“No. But I’m glad to see you enjoy being treated like a plaything. Because that’s all you’ll ever truly be. A toy. Something to be enjoyed and displayed when he needs you, and then tucked away or bought off when he’s done with you.”

Annika looks around the museum and then back at me, her gaze landing on the necklace. “Isn’t that what he’s doing tonight? Playing dress-up with you and bringing you out to show you off? Have you done anything tonight beyond hanging on his arm? Made any scintillating contributions to his endless business discussions? Or have you just been a pretty accessory?”

Catfight levels of rage are rising within me, held only in check by the small part of me that whispers, You know there’s some truth to what she says. It’s like the woman poked around in my brain and latched onto my biggest fear.

Well, screw her. I can smell a shit stirrer . . . but in her case, what she’s stirring is the truth. Still, I don’t need to listen to this. Letting someone talk crap about Creighton to my face ain’t gonna fly.

“You listen here—”

“No,” she says quickly. “You listen. If you think for one minute that he’s going to want you for longer than you serve as that pretty accessory, then you’re delusional. He’ll never love you. I had everything in common with him—same schools, same friends, same social status, same hobbies—and there was nothing I could do to draw him away from his first love. Winning.”

Her eyes gleaming, she says, “He needs the rush. He’s an adrenaline junkie, but instead of getting his kicks from jumping out of airplanes, he gets them by checking yet another goal off his list. That stunt with the missed connection? A rather unique ploy for him to find you after a one-night stand because you piqued his curiosity. But do you really think you’ll satisfy him for long? You have nothing in common. You’re not even from the same social stratosphere. He’s probably lucky you didn’t speak tonight because that hillbilly twang of yours would draw attention to just how backwoods you really are. It might be quaint when you’re doing an interview on country radio, but in Creighton’s world, you’re nothing but a liability.”

The blood rushing through my ears is back full force. I have no idea what she has to gain by flinging these hateful words at me, but she must have some motive.

I pretend I’m onstage after I’ve just messed up a lyric, and I push through, smoothing a smile on my face so no one will notice that I’m cringing inside at my mistake.

“Why are you telling me this? What reason could you possibly have?”

Annika lifts her chin, and I don’t know if her nose can get any higher in the air. “Consider it my public service announcement. I left him because I refused to be marginalized. You’ve got a good thing going with that country music shtick. I can only imagine it’s exactly what you’ve wanted since you were a little girl sitting in the trailer park listening to the radio in some broken-down car propped up on blocks.”

I wince. I don’t know where she got that image, but she’s altogether too close to the truth for comfort.

“And?” I prompt. I’m not willing to let her see me cower.

“And I thought, as a woman who’s known Creighton for twenty years, you’d want to know exactly what you’re getting in to. If you think it’s worth giving up your dreams, you might want to reassess. Because for girls like you,” she points her finger at me, as if I need to know who she’s talking about, “if you don’t jump on your once-in-a-lifetime chance, you may never get another one. If I were you, I’d do some serious thinking about whether it was my dream career or a man I should be chasing harder.”

My heart thuds in my chest when she lays it out so baldly. I have no idea why she thinks it’s her place to tell me this, but I’ve heard enough.

“Thanks for the warning. I think we’re done here.”

Annika smiles, all grace and elegance again. Not a single trace of malice to be found. “It was lovely to meet you, Holly. I hear you’ve got a great shot at the New Artist Award this year. Best of luck.” And with that, she turns, green dress swirling around her ankles, and makes the best exit I’ve ever seen outside of a movie.

I, on the other hand, want to sink into the exhibit chair, curl up into a ball, and lick the wounds she’s left me with.

She has to have a motive for her words; she would never bother with me if she didn’t. But do her motives really matter? Even if everything she said was bull, it’s nothing I haven’t thought myself.

It’s time for me to face facts. Fact number one, I’m falling for Creighton. Skip falling, I’ve fallen. It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged how deep I’ve gotten into this, and I swallow back the gut-wrenching fear it produces. Because what if she’s right? What if he gets bored as soon as the lipstick on the pig that’s me rubs off?

Absently staring at the beautiful works of art surrounding me, I wonder if this is how my future with him will always be. Evening after evening where I’m seen and not heard, and the only talent required of me is hanging off his arm without making a scene.

Is that all I have to look forward to as part of his life? That isn’t what I signed up for. I need to think, somewhere I’m not second-guessing every single move I make.

The crushing weight of everything—the grief and guilt and confusion and pressure and stress—bears down on me until my breathing shallows and dizziness hits me. I’ve felt off all night after my earlier breakdown, and now my forehead goes clammy and I stumble backward until I hit the wall and slide down it, not caring about the dress or how ridiculous I must look. I drop my head back against the wall, trying to breathe, but I just can’t get enough air into my lungs.