Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Her mother jerks to him. “You can’t be serious? You can’t let her marry him,” she bellows.
“It’s better than ruin,” he snaps, voice breaking. He turns back to me. “You have a deal.”
I nod slowly, savoring the moment he signs his soul away with words.
“Good, I’ll draw up the final paperwork. We’ll do it legally. Privately, though. No one can know. Do you understand?”
This part is imperative. If my uncle ever finds out what I’m doing, he’ll kill me.
Her mother’s eyes narrow.
“Don’t worry,” I coo. “I won’t hurt her.” Not that she cares. “Not physically.” I turn toward the door. “Tell your daughter,” I say softly, “the wedding will be soon.”
“She won’t agree.”
I pause, then glance back at the vile woman. “You’d be surprised what people agree to when they realize I’ve left them no other choice.”
With that done, I walk out of the office and down the hallway.
The last time I was here, I was a boy . . .
Now I’m not.
Now . . .
I’m their worst nightmare.
28
Victoria
The phone rings while I’m halfway through a sad excuse of a sandwich—gluten-free bread, wilted greens, and the most pathetic piece of turkey I’ve ever seen—when my mother’s name flashes across the screen.
Shit.
Why is she calling?
I freeze.
She never calls twice in two days. She barely calls twice in two months.
I can’t handle any more of this shit. For a moment, I consider not answering. With all the shit going on with my family, though, I don’t have the luxury of denial. I need to know what she wants.
I swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom?”
“Victoria, you need to come home. Now.”
Hello to you too.
Would it kill the woman to show a little emotion toward me?
“What happened? Did something else go wrong at the company?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just come home.”
“What’s going on?” Silence crackles on the other end. “Mom?”
“I can’t say it over the phone . . . just come.”
Something in me goes very, very still. “Okay,” I breathe. “I’m coming.”
The estate sits two hours outside the city.
With every mile, my heartbeat climbs higher into my throat. This is the second time they’ve dragged me back this week.
The moment the wrought-iron gates appear, I swear I might pass out. Which won’t bode well for me since I’m driving. The guards open them automatically.
The house looks the same as it did a few days ago, so I know it didn’t burn down like our factory. It’s still too big and way too perfect, but it’s standing, so at least we have that going for us.
I park, then step out and head inside.
Once I’ve entered, I head through the foyer without a word, searching for my mother or father. I find them in the dining room.
My mother and father sit stiffly at the far end of the long table, dressed like they’re attending their own funeral. The table is set for dinner—polished silver, crystal glasses, candlelight flickering.
Four place settings.
I stop. “Who else is coming?”
No one answers.
My father doesn’t even look at me. He gestures stiffly toward the seat across from them. “Sit.”
“I’m not sitting until someone tells me—”
“Sit,” he repeats, voice clipped and strained.
My pulse kicks into a sprint. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
I take one step toward the table—
And the dining room door opens behind me.
I turn.
My heart stops.
Holy shit . . .
It can’t be.
But it is.
My mouth opens and shuts as I try to find words, but my throat feels extra dry as the man who’s haunted my dreams for years enters. Lorenzo walks in.
No.
No, not walks. He storms in but then in a complete contrast to his entrance, he closes the door with a soft click that makes my skin prickle.
He’s older now. With broad shoulders, and a defined jaw.
This is not the boy from the boathouse.
This man . . . This is someone else.
My breath stumbles out of me. “Lorenzo?”
His eyes flick to mine. No warmth. No softness. No recognition of the girl who loved him.
Just hatred wrapped in ice.
I take a small step forward. “Where have you—?”
He lifts a hand.
Just a single, silent gesture.
My words die immediately.
He walks past me, slow and deliberate, every step echoing with power and danger. He sits at the empty place setting, smoothing the tablecloth with gloved fingers as if he’s straightening a throne.
His presence fills the room. All-consuming.
My father swallows hard and my mother grips her napkin so tightly that it tears.
“Let’s begin.” Lorenzo’s voice slices through the air.
My chest tightens. “Begin what?”
He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Your parents have been . . . very busy.”
My father clears his throat, attempting something like authority. “The company has suffered recent—”
Lorenzo slams his palm down on the table.
Everyone jumps.
“Do not speak,” he growls, eyes pinning my father like a knife on display. “I told you to let me handle this.”
My mother trembles.
I stare at them. What the hell is going on? “Dad?”