Erica
He was an arsehole.
There was no other word I’d rather use from the whole dictionary to describe the man sitting on my left, eating his breakfast like he wasn’t playing with me. It suited him just fine, describing his personality to the T.
I sat between the two men, one of them was having no problem eating his breakfast that was thankfully already served in our respective plates when we came out on the terrace. And there was no sign of Mario and Elijah who always stood sentry near the French doors to the balcony which made it crystal clear that the arsehole had planned this all.
Unlike Antonio, Ephraim wasn’t eating his breakfast like he should and neither was I, not because I wasn’t hungry but because the bastard wasn’t letting me. Never, and I mean never since I came here he ha
