"I'm so sorry I can't stay to see the rest of the show - " Greta
started, calmly.
Or so he thought.
"I'll especially hate missing the part where you balance his
balls on your nose."
Matthew lunged for her, but she escaped his grasp with a titter
and left the room, not bothering to close the door. She swept
past the mute diners, her victory plain for everyone to see. She
even paused at the door for a moment to take a few mints at the
hostess desk.
But when she pressed through the doors, leaving her stunned
audience behind, she felt strangely unmasked in the bright
sunlight. Something inside her shifted, and her elation quickly
drained.
She was overcome by a sudden panic. And then it hit her. Was this
her last hurrah? Would that young girl take over her reign as
Mrs. Matthew Locke? she wondered covetously.
She pressed her fist to her mouth and forced herself to
concentrate on her task at hand. She had to get to the bank with
the signed transfer. Then she would feel better. Yes, she told
herself, catching Matthew with his little tart would strengthen
her decision, would reassure her. She couldn't wait to tell
Jean-Pierre she had caught him, red-handed.
But this small euphoria was as short-lived as the last. As she
raced up the highway, a disturbing realization mocked her,
prodding obscenely at her sensibility.
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