Boston stood up, adjusting his jacket. He looked like he wanted to burn the suit he was wearing just because it had touched her furniture.
"The ring," he demanded, extending his hand. "Give it to me. We're leaving."
Florrie didn't move to get the ring. Instead, she reached into the folder again and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
She slid it across the glass table.
It wasn't a legal document. It was an invoice.
TO: Boston Travis
FOR: Reimbursement of Custom Vera Wang Bridal Gown
AMOUNT: $1,000,000.00
Boston stared at the number. His brow furrowed. "A million dollars? The dress cost fifty thousand. I saw the bill."
"That was the retail price," Florrie said, her voice smooth as silk. "This invoice includes the 'Expedited Retrieval Fee' and the 'Used Goods Depreciation'."
"Used goods?" Boston looked confused.
"Asia is wearing it," Florrie said, a look of utter disgust crossing her face for a fraction of a second. "Once she puts her traitorous body in my dress, it's contaminated. It's trash. I can't wear it. I can't sell it. So you're paying for the replacement value. Plus emotional damages."
"You are disgusting!" Genevieve shrieked from the sofa, finding her voice again. "My niece is dying, and you talk about her like she's... she's a contagion!"
"She's been poisoning my life since she was born," Florrie said. "Now she's just doing it with more flair."
She looked at Boston. "Pay it. Or I add it to the lawsuit."
Boston looked at her. He took a deep breath, and suddenly, the anger in his eyes shifted. It cooled. It morphed into something slimier. Something that looked disturbingly like admiration.
He chuckled. A dry, humorless sound.
"You know," Boston said, tilting his head. "I never knew you had teeth, Florrie. I always thought you were just... soft. Pretty. Decorative."
He took a step toward her. Buster growled low in his throat, but Boston stopped just out of biting range.
"This fire..." Boston gestured to her suit, her hair, her eyes. "It's sexy. Much sexier than the weeping victim I expected to find."
Florrie felt her skin crawl. "Don't."
"Listen," Boston said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Asia... she really is dying. Three months. Six at the most. Once she's gone... I'll be a widower."
He smiled. It was the smile of a wolf looking at a lamb chop.
"Why don't we keep this channel open?" he suggested. "You keep the money. Keep the beach house. And when Asia passes... you can come back. We can try again."
Florrie stared at him. Her brain struggled to comprehend the sheer depravity of what he was suggesting.
"You want me to wait for my sister to die so I can be your second choice?"
"Not second choice," Boston corrected smoothly. "My permanent choice. Asia is just... an obligation. A PR move. You know I don't love her like I love you. In the meantime... I'll need comfort. I'll need a friend. A secret companion."
He winked. He actually winked.
"You could stay at the beach house," he added. "I could visit on weekends. It would be our little secret."
The nausea hit Florrie again, but this time, it was hot. It was a volcano erupting in her stomach.
She looked at the glass of whiskey Cherry had poured earlier. The ice had melted, leaving a layer of cold water at the top.
She stood up slowly. She picked up the glass.
Boston smiled, thinking she was raising a toast to his brilliant plan.
"To us," he said, reaching out.
Florrie threw the contents of the glass.
She didn't aim for his face. That would be too dramatic. Too cliché.
She aimed lower.
The ice water hit the crotch of his charcoal trousers with a splash.
Boston gasped, jumping back. The cold liquid soaked instantly into the expensive wool, creating a dark, spreading stain right between his legs.
It looked exactly like he had wet himself.
"What the hell!" Boston yelled, batting at his pants. "Are you crazy?"
"That," Florrie said, her voice vibrating with rage, "is for suggesting I be your whore."
Genevieve scrambled off the sofa. "You assault my son! I'm calling the police!"
"Call them!" Florrie shouted. She pointed a finger at Genevieve. "And I'll show them the bruises on my soul from your family's abuse for the last ten years!"
She turned back to Boston. He was looking down at his pants, humiliated. The stain was undeniable. He couldn't walk out of the building like this without looking like a toddler who had an accident.
"Get out," Florrie said. Her voice was low, dangerous. "Get out of my house. Get out of my life. If I ever see you again, Boston, I won't use water. I'll use acid."
"Buster!" she commanded. "Escort!"
The dog barked, a savage sound, and took a step forward.
Boston and Genevieve stumbled backward toward the door.
"You'll regret this!" Boston shouted, trying to cover his crotch with his hands. "You'll die alone, Florrie! No one wants a damaged, bitter woman!"
"I'd rather die alone than live with you!" Florrie screamed back.
She grabbed the invoice from the table. She crumpled it into a ball and threw it at him. It hit him in the chest.
"Don't forget to pay the bill!"
