Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
However, I’m not above using the moment—any moment, really—to taunt her. “I’m not here to collect you next. Don’t fear. You’re not up to my usual standards, though I am impressed,” I chide.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She’s a mouthy one. Even half-asleep.
Too bad she’s dealing with me.
“Not likely.”
I walk around the room, taking in the empty space I left for her to find. The men I sent to empty it did a good job. There is not one thing in the house but Payton. Even the art is gone.
“Then get gone,” she snarls.
“Again, not likely.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Would you like the long answer or the short one?” I ask. She shimmies to put her shirt back on, so I keep talking, “Short answer. This is my house. I own it. So yes, dear sweet Payton, you are, in fact, trespassing. And, as you’ve noticed, you have zero possessions here. No reason to return. As for the long answer . . . I really don’t feel like telling you.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“We’ve gone over this already. Nothing new here.”
“Let’s add creep to the list then. You came in like a creeper while I was asleep. What is wrong with you? Also, can you stop shining that flashlight on me?”
“Sure thing, princess.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Oh no. You don’t like that? It seemed fitting. I mean, who else was left an inheritance so large she can buy a small country?”
“I don’t think I can buy a small country,” she mutters.
“Oh . . .” I pretend to sound sorry, drawing a hand to my chest. “Twenty-two mil is not enough for you . . . your highness.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it. I just meant—”
“I think you mistake me for someone who gives a fuck.”
“What I am trying to say is—”
“Again, doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re in my house, and you need to leave.”
“What? Are you serious? I can’t leave. Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s 3:02 a.m. I’m sure you can crash on your friend’s couch. What’s her name again? Oh, yeah, Heather.”
Her eyes widen. I also don’t miss the way her jaw trembles. “How do you know her name?”
I won’t dignify the question with a response.
She looks pathetic.
Huddled on the floor like a little mouse.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she lowers her hand, straightens her sweatshirt, and stands.
Rising to her full height.
She’s still smaller than I first thought. Now barefoot, I peg her at five foot three.
I’m still almost a full foot taller at six-two.
“I will see you out,” I offer, though it’s more like a warning.
Her arms cross over her chest. “I’m not leaving.”
“What part of ‘you are trespassing in my house’ did you not understand?”
“All of it, I guess. But you are the one not understanding. It’s three o’clock in the morning. You will not tell me to go out on the street at night.”
“You have two choices.” I hold up a finger. “Stay and get arrested.” I hold up a second finger. “Or leave.” I point the two fingers at the door, highlighting her only real option, though watching her get arrested could become a fun memory.
Her eyes narrow, and she rights herself even further.
“I can’t believe you’re his son. You’re nothing like him.”
“What do you know about my father? You think he was a saint,” I grit out. “He was a monster.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Never compare me to that man.”
She shrugs. “Feels the same right now.”
“I don’t care what you think of the great Ronald Aldridge. The real Ronald sold his daughter to the Russian mob.”
Her eyes go wide.
With only my phone for light, it’s hard to see her face clearly, but I can see the shock. She didn’t know. Ever since I found out about Payton, I pondered her involvement in this mess. Wondered if she’d known about what my father had done to Ivy.
Did Dad tell her? If he loved her so fucking much, if they were the family he chose, the one he really wanted to be with, did he protect them from the truth? From us. Were we the other family? Or were Payton and Erin?
At this point, the answer wouldn’t do me any favors.
But it’s obvious right now she didn’t know about the Russians.
Good.
She should see the truth.
Feel it, too.
That’s what I want.
I want her to feel fear. Feel helpless.
To feel it, even if it’s a small sliver of what Ivy and I felt . . . Hopeless. I can’t make him pay. When I’m done with her, she will have assumed that emotional debt for him and her part in Ivy’s misery. Even if I now know she didn’t know that he sold her to the Russians, I will make her life hell until I find the proof that she knew about us, and then I will take all the money away from her.