Where Love Meets Evil
img img Where Love Meets Evil img Chapter 9 Laurel
9
Chapter 30 Laurel img
Chapter 31 Laurel img
Chapter 32 Laurel img
Chapter 33 Laurel img
Chapter 34 Laurel img
Chapter 35 Ivan img
Chapter 36 Ivan img
Chapter 37 Laurel img
Chapter 38 Laurel img
Chapter 39 Laurel img
Chapter 40 Ivan img
Chapter 41 Laurel img
Chapter 42 Laurel img
Chapter 43 Ivan img
Chapter 44 Laurel img
Chapter 45 Laurel img
Chapter 46 Ivan img
Chapter 47 Ivan img
Chapter 48 Laurel img
Chapter 49 Laurel img
Chapter 50 Ivan img
Chapter 51 Laurel img
Chapter 52 Laurel img
Chapter 53 Laurel img
Chapter 54 Laurel img
Chapter 55 Ivan img
Chapter 56 Ivan img
Chapter 57 Ivan img
Chapter 58 Laurel img
Chapter 59 Laurel img
Chapter 60 Laurel img
Chapter 61 Ivan img
Chapter 62 Laurel img
Chapter 63 Laurel img
Chapter 64 Laurel img
Chapter 65 Ivan img
Chapter 66 Laurel img
Chapter 67 Laurel img
Chapter 68 Ivan img
Chapter 69 Laurel img
Chapter 70 Laurel img
Chapter 71 Laurel img
Chapter 72 Laurel img
Chapter 73 Laurel img
Chapter 74 Ivan img
Chapter 75 Laurel img
Chapter 76 Laurel img
Chapter 77 Ivan img
Chapter 78 Laurel img
Chapter 79 Laurel img
Chapter 80 Ivan img
Chapter 81 Ivan img
Chapter 82 Ivan img
Chapter 83 Laurel img
Chapter 84 Laurel img
Chapter 85 Ivan img
Chapter 86 Laurel img
Chapter 87 Laurel img
Chapter 88 Ivan img
Chapter 89 Ivan img
Chapter 90 Laurel img
Chapter 91 Laurel img
Chapter 92 Ivan img
Chapter 93 Laurel img
Chapter 94 Laurel img
Chapter 95 Laurel img
Chapter 96 Laurel img
Chapter 97 Laurel img
Chapter 98 Laurel img
Chapter 99 Ivan img
Chapter 100 Laurel img
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Chapter 9 Laurel

I've had to endure six days of getting changed up like a mannequin to be put on display at a department store for sampling a variety of dresses and handbags. Not like it's an entirely different ballgame from what Ivan has turned me into anyway. So when I was getting donned in a smoky dinner gown, beautified with the finest of accessories, I thought it was another shoot to showcase the hotel's five-star restaurant and more of the fashion brand's clothing.

Walking in here however on Ivan by himself with no other soul in sight has me quite taken aback. It feels like I've just been shipped to my date for tonight but I refuse to be swooned a second time only to receive the shock of the century later on.

With hands in his pocket, he's standing at the glass panel, looking outside at the floating lights on different buildings shielding the night from total darkness like stars.

I press forward to our table where red roses arranged in a heart shape lie on it amid a romantic setting while a red bouquet sits on my chair.

"What is it now, a dinner setting?" I ask, igniting the words with sarcasm as I pick up the bouquet while staring at it disdainfully.

He turns around to me without unburying his hands. He takes three steps forward, and while pulling out my chair for me, he drawls, "Let's just enjoy our meal, Laurel."

"NO!" I object solidly and he lifts his eyes promptly to mine beaming with guts. Even though my eyelids almost shudder at the intensity of his gaze that grows with reducing distance, when his hazel orbs clinch mine. "Where are the spy cams?" I ask, hurling the particles of unease behind the fearless font my voice carries. "There has to be at least one watching us and waiting patiently for a flawless image of us that you could use to promote your MAGAZINE." My eyes scour the space for nothing, in particular, reuniting with his at the sarcastic 'magazine.'

His eyes float over my head, traveling In random directions before sloping to meet mine again. "Well, there are CCTV cameras all around us so yeah, technically, we're being watched."

I haven't been able to get over the fact that I slept peacefully in a bugged bedroom and here he is, yapping insensitively about something that could very well be my trauma. With wrung brows, I shake my head in disbelief.

"Tomorrow's the grand opening of the hotel, Laurel." Oh, yeah? I can't wait to get it done with and leave. "Everything's finally coming to an end. So I thought we could enjoy an evening meal together."

"For your public image, I presume," I mention breezily, not quite foreseeing the "OF COURSE" he gives reactively in return.

"Playing the part only for the shoot will raise suspicions, Laurel," he stresses, leaving his tone and expression to highlight how daft I could be if I didn't know that much. "What else would I be doing this for, your sake? Is that how desperately you want to be loved?" His tone spikes at the second question, wrinkling the space between my brows into a dumbfounded scowl.

"Wake up to reality, Laurel. I can't give you any of that."

"Then why?" zooms off on its own without my goddamn consent!

You know what, maybe he's right. Maybe I do want to be loved after all. Maybe I subconsciously dreaded ending up in the kind of marriage like my mom's, being a bride starved of her husband's love. But it's just a love-filled marriage I sought, he doesn't have to make me look so pathetic.

Freezing my gaze into a glare, my features contorted with dismay, I continue, "Why did you marry me, Ivan? Why did you drag me into this mess?" I hate the way I sound almost desperate. It betrays my wordless affirmation of his question.

"I didn't drag you into this mess, your father tossed you into it." His protruding finger changes directions from himself to me at the latter part of his statement.

"But you accepted it," I point out.

"Because there was a mutual benefit in it for the two of us."

"That's the point!" I exclaim snappily like I have been waiting expectantly for that – when he'll slip and let the truth leak into the open. "What do you want from me? What mutual benefit was there? What could I possibly have to offer?" I bombard, my voice solid with an unrelenting quest for answers.

"Your spot," he responds spontaneously, and the crinkle between my brows morphs into that of confusion. "Your spot had to be taken to protect the Briggs group and me," he confesses, not a mote of regard left lingering in his voice. He sounds like it was a given that I had to be sacrificed.

"It's about you," I say low-pitched, nodding in disbelief. "It's still about you. It's always been about you. You only think about yourself."

Silence tags along with my last sentence as we both glare into each other's souls. His eyes are apathetic, but standing before them, they look scornful, like he's silently mocking me. I feel like the many words left unspoken in my heart are already being whispered to him, and he cannot agree less to the fact that I'm being plain foolish.

"Well, I'm sorry," he starts softly, enough to make any mature adult who walks in on us think it's an actual apology. But not only do I know better, but have learned the hardest way. "If your dad thought about you, you wouldn't be here right now."

His last words cut deep, the obvious truth in it adding strength to the blade of his tongue.

'Even your dad didn't think about you, who was I to?' is exactly what he's implying. And trust me, his honesty grinds my gears every single time.

I dart my eyes away, hacked off.

Clacks resume as he's now sauntering toward me. Right before me he stops and lowers his hand to reach for mine. Then gradually raising it, he automatically brings the red petals of the bouquet into my concentrated view. My annoyance somehow gradually gets lost in the bouquet and admiration shrouds my senses on closing it on my gaze. Up close, it sure is a lovely work of art. Even my body members concur, and a tiny portion of my brain briefly hosts the thought that it wouldn't be so bad receiving such treatment from a man who truly adores me. But I keep all of these feelings swirling within me far away from my face as I do not want another aesthetic image of both of us popping up in my newsfeed, with me looking like a smitten bride.

I lift my eyes in a spiritless manner to him.

"The evening will move on quick, I assure you," he says, attempting to place his hand on my head when I smack it off midway using the back of my palm. Then I push the bouquet into his bosom violently, shoving him away from my path before pressing forward to sit on the seat behind him. This time around, I don't give a hoot about the eyes behind the lenses hovering around us. Whatever they see and interpret, that's their problem, not mine.

He places the bouquet on the table before me and then takes the seat across from mine. To perhaps alert the servers, he courteously claps his fingers against his palm heel twice.

Chimes follow and in their sources, sliding doors on both sides of the counter paces away, open. Ladies in black suit jackets and skirts emerge, both rolling out trays containing food and wine respectively. The red scarfs around their neck match their pencil heels, and they could not prove their mastery better than the way they're marching majestically toward us in perfect unison.

The pair round our table on both sides as they begin to set it.

The one by my right with food on her tray crosses one hand over her stomach in a civil pose while the other hand stretches back and forth as she arranges the ceramic plates before us. Simultaneously, our glasses are getting filled with a silver-colored beverage by the other lady. The glasses stand tall gracefully, their stems well over six inches. The liquid in them glitters as the tiny bubbles clinging to the glass illuminate in the light, sprinkling some elegance to their appearance.

'If only you can stand just as tall before Ivan and still shine. Before he throws a bullet that'll crumple all your resolve and ideologies as a sheet of paper destined for the trashed can.'

I know, right? Ivan knows how to tread where it bites the most.

He raises his eyes unintentionally, bumping into mine. Abruptly caught peering at him, I shoot my eyes away with the speed of light. Without looking, I try to pick up my glass to drink from it and distract myself as I can still feel the heat from his gaze searing my side profile. The action, thoughtless and chaotic, fails as my fingers only graze the stem of the glass, the rate it travels not slow enough to grip it properly.

The consciousness that the glass would fall ripples up from my fingertips to my brain, and I jerk my face forward to find the food server holding on to the base of the glass firm enough with both hands. I look up at her and she smiles politely, blinking like she's saying, 'I got you.'

"Leave us," he tells. They bow with both hands crossed in front of them before walking away.

"Cheers, Laurel," he says, tipping his glass at me.

Seconds afterward, running footfalls intrude our space as Aspen suddenly shows up in our midst.

He cuts his one-man-race off at Ivan's chair, seemingly disconcerted. But he manages to keep his cool, at least by not panting into Ivan's ears and making himself look worthless before his boss. Who knows? That alone might get him fired.

"There's been a problem, sir."

Ivan who hasn't twitched a muscle at the fuss since his arrival, busy swirling his glass and watching its content move in rhythm, finally asks, "What happened?"

"The – the deal, sir," he completes, stretching forth a cell phone to Ivan.

His bland eyes fire up in seconds as he swiftly grabs the phone from Aspen and plugs it into his ears.

Suspense begins to cloud over us, the atmosphere glooming the longer Ivan's call lasted without him uttering a word and just contorting his brows. In no time, his visage gets consumed by a livid expression. It's that moment when the sky is the darkest, the alarm for an impending rageful rainstorm, the loudest.

The glass-whirling finally stops. The moment halts together with it. Then his hand drops, and he extends the phone to Aspen who receives it with both hands.

'He good now?'

'Absolutely not' comes his active reply when he upends the table, crashing all that is on it on the floor. My hands jerk instinctively to grab the cup but it's too late now. All left are clinks, clangs, clatters, and of course, the poor shards of the elegant glass that no longer exists now.

He ended up reducing it to nothing after all.

            
            

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