Callan

The man standing in front of me was my ex-boyfriend, Callan Garrod. He barely changed during those three years I hadn't seen him, but at that moment, I finally saw him without his fake mask of modesty, dressed in an expensive dark navy suit and black shirt. Aside from his rich-boy attire, he had the same sleekly combed pale-blond hair and icy-blue eyes that gave a disturbing stare. One corner of his thin lips was curled into a vicious smirk, as his eyes went through my length.

"I have to admit that I'm impressed. You used to swear that you hated money, and now you are here, in the crown of Manhattan's richest… Isn't that a hypocrisy?" He chuckled, his eyes lustfully measuring my curves.

I hated his eyes on me. I felt as if my body was being evaluated by him. I could see he enjoyed the view, while I found the view of him nauseating.

"I was invited here," I squeezed through my clenched throat.

"Oh, really? Now, that's interesting. Care to say who invited you?" Callan's amusement grew