The Hating Season (Seasons #2) - K.A.Linde Page 0,108

could work. I’d gone to the Maldives for our honeymoon, thinking it would be the worst month of my life. We’d come back changed.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about the past. A few months where we didn’t want to kill each other didn’t mean that this was going to work as a marriage. Not how I’d thought in those days. No, this was arranged. We had the contract and prenup to prove it. No point thinking about what could have been. Not with the present circumstances.

Which meant that I was going to this dinner as a formality. A courtesy really.

Camden Percy didn’t care about me. Not more than anything else he’d purchased with his billion dollar fortune. I wouldn’t forget it again.

I stuffed my phone into my black patent leather Hermés bag, double-checked my ruby red lipstick, and headed for the door. With my armor in place, I left my apartment ready to handle myself in this shit show. Just like everything always was with Camden.

Traffic was a nightmare. Thank god I wasn’t stuck in Camden’s limo. Though I didn’t much prefer the taxi either. My foot tapped impatiently on the floor of the cab as I texted with Lark.

Miss you already!

Below that message was a picture of Lark, English, and Whitley in bikinis doing shots poolside. Bitches.

Stop having fun without me!

Enjoy your anniversary dinner. We’ll see you soon.

Soon. But not soon enough. Not only did I have to endure this dinner. I’d already agreed to do Christmas Eve dinner with Camden’s family. I couldn’t think of something that I liked less, but Camden had insisted. So, I was going.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of the building. Prime was located on the thirty-fifth floor with impeccable views of Manhattan and the most expensive steak in the city. Camden had taken me here on our first “date.” The rich interior and three hundred dollar bottle of wine hadn’t convinced me that this wasn’t a business deal any more than it did today. I was just a new sort of client for him. A new challenge.

I headed inside, bypassing the man at the front who greeted me. I already knew which table Camden would claim. The one where we were most visible.

And there he was.

He was seated at the center table against the floor to ceiling glass. The panoramic view was stunning. Nearly as stunning as my husband.

He was pure control. It was outlined in every inch of his Savile Row suit. The broad sweeps of his shoulders, the tight lines of his muscular thighs, the sharp cut of the suit to his narrow waist. His hand cradled a glass of red wine with all the delicacy of a new born baby, but I knew that his proclivities leaned toward destruction rather than comfort.

I forced myself to keep moving as his keen eyes landed on me in my skin-tight black Elizabeth Cunningham dress. They crawled over my long lean legs, my slim hips, waist, and perfectly perky fake breasts, the best money could buy. Then finally, finally to my face.

He was blank. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. What went on in that head of his. He was calculated and strategic in every aspect of his life. But I never actually knew what he was thinking. He never yielded an inch. Not now either.

He stood when I reached him and wrapped a possessive arm around my waist. “You made it,” he said as he pressed a kiss to my cheek.

I swallowed. “I said I’d be here.”

“Nice dress.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s new.”

“I like it.”

I stepped out of his grasp. What was he playing at? I couldn’t read him. I had no idea if he was just making fun of me. He’d made fun of my shopping habit enough over the last year. I didn’t need it on the night of our anniversary, too.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to the table. “I ordered your favorite wine.”

The sommelier appeared then to pour me a glass, and it was my favorite. I was surprised. He didn’t normally bother. Just let me order for myself. Usually vodka because being in his presence after the shit from the last year was excruciating in so many ways. I wondered what the catch was.

“You’re late,” he said after the sommelier left.

“Traffic.” I raised one shoulder and glanced down at my menu. A hundred dollar steak sounded appetizing with mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. My stomach grumbled, but