Why don't you get a taste?
Golden girl Alison Rivers has it all: brains, looks, money, a father who adores her, and any man she wants... Or so she thought.
When she sets her eyes on Lorenzo Visconti, her academy's Italian, irresistible principal, sh...
Again, sorry for the delay but these next 2/3 months are going to be really rough on your girl.
Anyway, an update on the thing I spoke about on my profile: I confronted the guy and he told me that he didn't snap a pic, but that he only saw my intimate area from the reflection of his phone, however, the Live Photos clearly show him looking at his phone after and also showing it to the guy next to him. Also, some of the guys said that he tried to take a picture, some say he never did. My take on this is: he definitely snapped a pic, but since I was also wearing stockings there was nothing visible, so he didn't keep it. I'm simply glad that nothing was sent around.
QOTC: what do you think that Alison will do now?
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I get into his office without knocking, deeming it completely unnecessary at this point. I turn around with a bright smile and lock eyes with him, the man of my dreams. "Oh, Lorenzo!" I run up to him and wrap my arms around his torso in a tight hug, so tight that it nearly leaves him breathless, and I snuggle into his frame. "Mmm, I hated not sleeping next to you."
Lorenzo, however, is rigid, motionless. His face does look a little bit tired, and I can't help but wonder if thoughts of me have kept him awake. "Get off of me, Alison."
That icy tone makes my blood freeze inside my veins. I start trembling as pure anxiety washes over me, engulfing me entirely. I slowly move away and glance up at him. "Wh— what's wrong?" My voice almost fails me. Dear God, I'm so in love with him that I'm about to burst into tears.
"You." He declares firmly and quite simply, sitting in his chair and, without minding me, going back to focusing on his work. "Please get out of my office."
Against my better judgment and overall pride, I'm already crying pathetically, and I have to plant one hand on his desk, for I feel my legs giving out. It's not what he is saying that hurts me, but the way he says it, almost hatefully. "Lorenzo..." I try to plead, but every existing word abandons me and only his name remains.
"God, Alison, do you ever do anything besides crying? Get the hell out of here." He almost yells out in irritation, raking one hand through his short hair. Each muscle in his beautiful body is extremely tense— just as he is, and his jaw is clenched, too.
It hurts, hearing him talk to me like this hurts so badly. "Why? Why are you treating me like this?" I question through sobs, curling my fingers around the sleeve of his shirt and desperately clinging to it, to him.
Yet he slips away. With an abrupt movement, he brusquely pulls his arm away from me, as if he were disgusted by my touch. "Why?" He asks, a note of disbelief coloring his now hostile voice, looking at me as if I have just uttered the stupidest and most obvious question. "Because you're a whore, Alison. You're the reason why I cheated on my beautiful and amazing wife, you tainted me with your dirty, filthy hands. That's why."
