Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
I stare back at the road because I can’t trust myself not to get us into a freak accident. “What are you struggling with?”
“What?”
“You said if you weren’t struggling, you wouldn’t stay with me. So what are you struggling with?”
“Hello? Have you forgotten that I lost two years of my life?”
“And?”
“You’re my therapist now?”
“Try me.”
“So you’ll use it against me in the future? I’ll have to pass.”
“I’ve never done that.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Didn’t you say you don’t want me to control you? If we’re going to find a solution around that and reach some middle ground, you’ll need to communicate with me.”
“Says the one who thinks glaring and staring are the hallmarks of communication.”
“They can be. Now, stop fighting for the sake of fighting, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
She stares at her nails, some shimmering pink with a fuck ton of sparkles. “Were you there that night?”
“Which night?”
“The last night I remember. When we met at that VIP room and you were such a delight.”
“A delight as always, you mean.”
“Naturally.” She rolls her eyes in an epic theatrical show. “So you recall that night?”
“Yes, why?”
“I…clearly remember leaving the club and, well, I was driving to Raj’s place, but there was a strange car without headlights following me. I called the Met Police, and I swear…I swear I had an accident.”
I tap the wheel once. “But?”
“But Cecy, Ari, Mama, and even Gemma said there was no such thing. I went home as usual. There was no accident.”
“What’s the issue, then?”
“What’s the issue? If that’s not true, then there’s something terribly wrong with me.”
“Yes. It’s called alcohol.”
“Alcohol doesn’t make you imagine a whole scenario.”
“Drugs do. You took a hit or two of blow that night aside from your medication, didn’t you?”
She opens her mouth, then clamps it shut, breathes shakily for a few beats. “Did you follow me out?”
“Why would I have?”
“You threatened me to go home. Besides, you tried everything under the sun to make my life miserable at the time.”
“I did, huh?”
“You still do. You really didn’t follow me?”
“And if I did?”
“W-what…” she trails off and swallows. “What did you see me do?”
“You stopped by the side of the road, probably too drunk or high to realize where you were. I drove you home.”
“You did?”
“It was either that or leave you to be kidnapped, assaulted, and murdered. Not specifically in that order. Before you get any ideas, I did it for Mum.”
Her expression lights up like a myriad of fireworks. Fuck me. The innocence painted all over her face stabs me in the chest.
Good thing I have nothing there.
“You made sure I went home?”
I nod.
“Oh, thank God.” The words are a low whisper. I don’t think they were intended to be said out loud.
We arrive at the house and I stop the car at the entrance. “Go in. Have a lovely evening.”
She stops with her hand on the handle. “Why aren’t you coming in?”
“I have other engagements.”
“So you get to go out and have fun but I don’t?”
“Our ideas of fun are different. You go out to drink. I go out to earn money to afford your expensive tastes.”
“In that case.” She smiles sweetly, which I know is as fake as her social circles. “Have a horrible evening.”
She nearly rattles the goddamn door off its hinges as she slams it shut and storms to the entrance with a ferocious yet entirely enticing sway of her hips.
I shake my head out of the reverie I’m in when I catch myself watching the door long after she goes inside.
Count to ten.
You can’t fuck the attitude out of her. Yet.
Get it together.
I shoot Henderson and Sam a text, reminding them of their pending execution if they let her out of their sight.
Sam replies with a thumbs-up emoji and Henderson reacts with a thumbs-up to my text.
Bunch of unfeeling wankers.
My favorite type of people.
“Nice of you to grace us with your mythical presence.”
I smile at my father as I grab a flute of champagne from a passerby. “No need for a standing ovation, Daddy dearest.”
He’s not amused by that. Not one bit.
But then again, my father is one hundred percent bulletproof to my impeccable charms and finds my shenanigans extraordinarily tiring, insufficiently creative, and massively headache-inducing.
“Mind explaining why you left in the middle of a meeting?”
“An emergency.” That caused damage to a one-of-a-kind car, a ridiculous liquor bill, and a migraine I had to down a few ibuprofens to drown. All because of an infuriating woman who has pink, glitter, and my pending demise up her sleeve.
I throw a fleeting glance at the men around us. Gentleman’s club. Naturally, I was introduced here when I hit puberty and my father—and grandfather—decided I’d be the perfect successor for their empire.
I am.
Don’t believe anything my cousin Landon tells you. He’s not my competitor or my counterpart.