Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82973 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
This morning, she’d swiped Todd’s keys while he slept off a drunk that had him stumbling in at four a.m. and copied them all. She’d returned his ring an hour before his brief appearance at the family’s Sunday dinner a few hours earlier—a ritual the Pershings undertook for the press and the public, not any real desire for togetherness. As usual, it had been somewhere between stilted and silent, except for Todd’s mother filling it with meaningless chatter about coming social events and the important members of the press the family, Madison aside, must dazzle. Since she lived in Todd’s background, unless they needed her for an appearance or a photo op, reporters were told she was “unavailable” that day. Her entire existence was a hollow lie.
She’d rather have the bleeding truth over a pretty delusion.
She stomped to Todd’s door, half expecting goons standing guard to stop her. But she saw no one.
Clearly, her darling husband hadn’t expected any intrusion on his vice this evening. All the better for her.
Her hands shook as she slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Since Todd often came home smelling like sweat and sex—if he came home at all—it wasn’t hard to guess what he did here. But it was early. Hopefully, he was still alone, not coked-out and having an orgy.
She crept inside, then quietly shut the door and scanned the apartment. Of course, the place would be as upper crust as Todd’s upbringing. It had a staged quality, as if no one actually lived here, merely used the square footage for show.
The contemporary sofas with their low-slung backs and minimalist pillows in creams and grays were European and had obviously been chosen by a big-budget decorator to perfectly accent the moody, monotone art above the sleek fireplace. The cost of the bleached zebrawood flooring could feed an average family for a year. It gleamed from wall to wall, giving the apartment an unbearably wealthy, hip vibe. A tall, onyx statue of a galloping horse provided an unexpected, masculine flair. It shined black in the moonlight beaming through the bare floor-to-ceiling windows with unfettered views of the city, seemingly swallowed up by the foggy night.
On the far end of the room, an overtly masculine bar ran the length of the room’s lone exposed brick wall, bisected by shelves lined with overpriced crystal and even more expensive booze. A black cabinet with mirrored doors and underlit glass countertops sat beneath, littered with a couple of glasses and an open, half-empty bottle of scotch older than her.
To her right sat a pristine kitchen—Miele appliances, white oak cabinets with marble counters waterfalling to the floor, a bold black backsplash, and a custom range hood. Pity. She doubted anyone had ever cooked here.
Sudden, muffled male voices sent Madison’s head zipping around. Todd was here. Who with? Damn it, she hadn’t wanted to confront him in front of others, but he hadn’t left her much choice. Besides, she didn’t want to put off freeing herself for even another moment. And some curious part of her was dying to know what went on in this place.
Glass shattering from another corner of the apartment startled her. Her heart picked up its pace when a guttural shout followed. The growl sounded full of rage, especially when a thud—like someone being slammed into a wall—followed.
What the hell was going on?
Madison bit back the impulse to call out and ask if anyone needed help. But the air in the unit felt…off. Over the last two and a half years, she had become well acquainted with the taste of malice. It sat acrid on her tongue. Bitter anger thickened the flavor.
She swallowed down fear she didn’t understand, grabbed her phone in case she needed to call 911, and tiptoed toward the voices, avoiding an overturned vase, probably priceless, now shattered all over the floor. The furious huffs and hisses grew louder and more insistent. She listened, giving into her screaming instinct to start rolling video.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Todd warned in a voice Madison almost didn’t recognize. She’d heard him pissed off, annoyed, and even incensed. This voice was harsh and full of unrelenting rage.
Suddenly, her heart thrashed like a wild thing in her chest. Foreboding burned her skin.
“Are you threatening me?” snarled another man whose voice she knew well, Brent Westbrook. “Think twice. And get that knife away from my fucking throat.”
Madison couldn’t see them, but those words gave her a visual very quickly. She slapped her free hand over her mouth. Why would her husband intimidate his favorite cousin and carousing buddy? More often than not, whenever Todd did something questionable, Brent was by his side. What could they possibly be fighting about?
“No, man. You’re not fucking up a good thing. I have to stop you.”
How? By doing what? He wouldn’t really hurt Brent, right?