Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I grunt, taking the crutches where they lean against the back of the sofa.
“You already manage fine without the wheelchair,” he says. “But don’t hesitate to use the chair if your knee needs a break. It’s not a weakness to let your injury rest, you know.”
“Yes,” I say, having no such intention.
We agree on a time for tomorrow’s appointment before he leaves. Then I use the downstairs bathroom to shower. When I brush my hair in front of the mirror, I take in the scars and the mismatching acrylic eye. The production of the custom-made eye has started. In a month’s time, I’ll have an eye that looks exactly like my own. The only difference is that I won’t be able to see through it. I looked into bionic eye implants, but the research is still in its early days.
Turning my face to the right, I inspect my reflection. From this angle, with the damaged side of my head in the shadows and the left half untouched, I look perfect. Anyone seeing me from this side won’t guess there’s anything wrong with my face. It’s a cruel illusion.
A knock falls on the door.
“Sav,” Livy calls. “Are you in there?”
I pull on a pair of tracksuit pants and fit the eyepatch before opening the door.
“Ah.” She smiles. “There you are.”
“I didn’t hear you get in.”
“We’re a little early. It’s been a long day.”
My gut tightens. “Is Anya okay?”
“Sure. She went upstairs to run a bath. She needs a little relaxing.”
“I ordered dinner. It’s in the warming-drawer.” Taking in her off-shoulder T-shirt with Flashdance written in bold letters over a big lightning bolt on the front and the baggy exercise pants, I ask, “Going somewhere?”
“I have a stage dancing class. Claire is in her crib.” She walks backward, giving me a wave. “She shouldn’t wake up for another two hours.”
I grab my crutches and follow her into the hallway. “Who’s driving you?”
“I’ll get an Uber,” she says, donning her coat and taking a scarf with tussles from the closet.
“You won’t.” I open the front door for her. “My driver will take you.” I nod at the man on duty, a silent instruction not only to summon Kevin but also to send a guard with them to keep Livy safe.
“Thanks.” She goes on tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “You’re still a gentleman.”
I still disagree, but I give her a half smile and see her to the car.
When I’ve gone back inside, I hover in the entrance for a moment, pricking up my ear. The house is quiet. I move to the staircase. If I focus hard, I can hear the sound of running water.
Leaving Anya to her bath, I go to the study and install myself behind the desk to go over the documents my financial adviser emailed. I created a trust fund for Claire to ensure all her financial needs are taken care of until the day she comes of age. An education policy will cover her tuition fees. There’s enough to send her to the best schools and university. My life insurance will be sufficient for Anya to live comfortably as well as afford the best security for the rest of her life. She won’t have to spend all her time at an office, doing my books, instead of being a mother to her daughter.
Happy that all of that is in place, I turn my attention to After Dark. Dante will inherit my shares. He has the savvy to make a success of the business. In case both of us don’t make it out, the shares are to be sold and the profits shared between the men. The house is paid off, so Anya won’t have to worry about settling a big bond. I sold the Corvette for a million. It’s worth a lot more, but I was in a hurry. I couldn’t wait for a better offer. The money is enough to see us through for a while and to pay for the extra weapons I ordered.
I’m nitpicking through the stock list when Claire’s crying reaches me through the open door of the study.
I still.
Is Anya in the bath already?
Guilt assaults me when I imagine her getting out of the water, dripping wet, and hurriedly drying herself off to tend to her daughter when she needs that downtime more than anything.
My gut twists as the crying continues, yet I remain frozen to the spot in a bout of panic, torn between running upstairs to soothe Claire and staying the hell away.
What if Claire chokes?
What if she cries so much she throws up?
She can drown in her own vomit.
Fuck.
The fitful pitch of her sweet baby voice reaches a new crescendo. I don’t need a monitor to hear that. The desperation in that cry is loud enough to travel through the house.
Flying out of the chair, I grab the crutches. Forget about the stairs. It’ll take too long. I rush to the elevator, get inside, and slam a palm on the button.