Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
She flinches at my raised words, but I keep going—not to punish her, but because she refuses to face the past.
“Fourteen scars. Six fractures that healed incorrectly. Multiple signs of concussions and neglect, and that isn’t even everything. That is only what the tests show. They don’t show how you hurt her here.” I whack my chest with my fist. “And here.” This time, I jab my finger at my temple.
Her eyes fill with tears, but I don’t look away. This has been a long time coming.
“You should be grateful I’m even letting this go to court,” I add, voice low. “Anyone else would be dead. You may not like being judged by that one stupid night”—I air-quote my last three words—“but what you don’t realize is that one night is the only thing keeping you alive.”
She glances down, her jaw trembling. For a moment, I see the version of her I once believed in, where she could have been a better mother if life had been kinder to her.
If she’d been stronger, everything might not have gone so wrong.
“I didn’t know. I swear. I-I was there, but I wasn’t...” Her words fade into a heavy, deep sigh. Her posture slumps in shame as tears streak her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
With my hands balled, I nod, accepting her apology, even though it’s a blend of genuine and fake. It’s a weak response for a weak apology. She was right when she said I constantly judged her on the night we met. I thought I’d met my soulmate. Things didn’t work out as I’d hoped, but Camille came from that night.
I’ll never regret that.
Because of her, I offer more leniencies than I’m known for. Before Camille, I shot first and asked questions later. Now, I try to remember that my actions don’t just reflect on me. They affect Camille too.
“For the record,” I say, softer now, “I will never stop you from seeing Camille… once I believe she’s safe with you. I don’t have proof of that yet, and that’s why I can’t let you see her.”
“I understand,” Anna murmurs, wiping under her nose to remove the gunk spilled.
Silence settles over the car, thick and suffocating.
At the hotel, I exit first since traffic is heavy on Anna’s side. Anna slides out and immediately collapses. I catch her before she hits the pavement and pull her in close.
As a familiar burst of light blinds my vision, Anna grabs my face and presses whiskey-scented lips to my mouth. I pull back instantly, revulsion twisting through me, before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Don’t,” I warn quietly when Anna wordlessly pleads for me to remember the memory of our first kiss and how it led us to an unlocked storage room.
I’ll never forget it, but she’s tainted it with every forced attempt since.
She either doesn’t hear me or refuses to. “We were good together, Dante.”
Two more camera flashes blind me before I place my hand on Anna’s back and guide her inside. Whatever she took affects her quickly during the elevator ride to the top floor. I have to carry her down the hallway to her room, then knock when I remember she isn’t carrying a purse or any form of identification.
When the door opens, a woman in her mid-fifties stands inside. Her gaze is shrewd and emasculating, and the deep groove between her brows deepens when she spots an inebriated Anna in my arms.
“Anna.” She rushes forward, distressed and another emotion I can’t name. “Where have you been?”
When Anna’s response comes out as gibberish, the woman signals for me to follow her. I shadow her into a penthouse suite, which was obviously paid for with the twenty million Anna agreed to during our original custody agreement.
After I place Anna on a bed in the secondary room, the woman turns to me. “I’m Anna’s mother.”
My brow quirks. This is Camille’s elusive grandmother. I’ve heard a lot about her, but we’ve never met.
Camille’s grandmother drapes a blanket over Anna’s legs, then leaves Anna’s room. In the spacious living room, she extends her hand in greeting. I accept her handshake, but my guard rises. Whether it’s the situation or instinct, the way she assesses me is calculating and emotionless. She doesn’t care that I’m her granddaughter’s father. She sees a big payday. I’m certain of it.
“Thank you for bringing her back,” she says smoothly. “You must be Dante.”
I nod. I could leave it there, but I don’t want everything Lucia has done with Camille to unravel. My daughter runs into my arms and giggles now.
I won’t let anything jeopardize that.
“When Anna wakes, please remind her that we have an agreement. She can’t come within a hundred yards of Camille until the judge makes his ruling.”
Her expression shifts as a cold, strategic mask slides into place. “Would you like a drink?” she asks, already pouring one. “We need to talk.”