Scared of losing all that we’ve built together. Scared of destroyed plans that I need to keep sane.
I swallow a rock, slipping on Lily’s flip-flops by the front door, two sizes too small. My heels hang off the back. I type the security code, failing multiple times to hit the right buttons.
“Are you sure fate isn’t telling you to turn around?” Connor mocks, leaning his shoulder against the door and observing my hostility with a mixture of concern and arrogance.
The security system beeps and blinks green. “See.” I point at the machine.
“I see that it took you seven tries to do something that usually takes you one.”
I raise my hand at his face and then swing open the door. The winter chill steals my breath for a second, but I march on ahead, the house in sight but a decent five-minute trek. Land sits across from our home, a nice view, and then diagonally is the closest resting mansion: gray stone with white trim around the windows, circular hedges framing the long driveway.
It’s gorgeous.
“You’re shaking,” Connor says, worry edging his normally calm voice.
“In fury.”
A gust of wind blows, a larger chill snaking down my neck. I shiver, wondering if the universe is against me or on my side tonight. I can’t tell anymore.
Connor reaches out and clasps my hand. I’m afraid that he’s going to draw me towards our house, but instead, he cocoons my hand between his, rubbing them back and forth. The friction warms my skin.
The full moon casts more light than the street lamps, and in a matter of minutes, we hike up the driveway and climb the stone steps.
Connor scans our surroundings. “I don’t see a car.”
“It could be in the garage.” I debate on pounding my fist against the black door, using the silver eagle knocker, or ringing the bell. I decide on the loudest option and push the buzzer repeatedly, the bell audible through the thick wood.
Seconds pass, my heart thrashing, and then a light floods through the window. “He’s home,” I announce.
Connor immediately draws me behind his back, and before I can refute, heavy footsteps sound and the door swings open.
Blood rushes out of my head, color draining from my face. Dread and other mixed, panicked, and incensed emotions whirl through me at breakneck speed.
That’s not Sebastian.
It’s someone much worse.
11
ROSE COBALT
“I was going to invite you over tomorrow for some wine, but you both are too eager to see me, aren’t you?” Scott Van Wright rests his bare shoulder against the door frame, dressed only in white Ralph Lauren pajama pants. Even skimming his features—a douchebag smile, dishwater blond hair parted to the side, and thin stubble along his jaw and upper-lip—bores cavernous holes in my stomach and then fills them with acid.
My mind eats his words and spits them out. I charge him, ready to tear out his heart and curb-stomp the organ until justice is finally, finally served.
The second I pass Connor, he snags me around the waist, yanking me into his chest and holding me tightly, so I can’t rush into Scott’s house and unleash my pent-up rage.
“Better find a leash for her,” Scott says, not even moving a muscle. “In fact, you’re already halfway there.” His eyes flit to my bare neck, subtly hinting at the diamond collar that I sometimes wear in bed, only when Connor and I have sex. It’s a large reminder that he tricked me during the reality show. The executive producer of Princesses of Philly, Scott Van Wright, owns countless sex tapes of ours and sells them every so often to porn distributors for profit.
There was no way we could win that lawsuit, so Connor used the exposure and publicity for his company’s benefit, and I’ve been trying to fool myself into believing we won—that my private life, for everyone to see, has no effect on my mental state. I’ve stampeded the horror of what happened for two and a half years, the very last time I saw Scott, and meeting him face-to-face tonight surges every little bit of pain.
“I hope you die,” I sneer through clenched teeth, my eyes burning and welling with malevolent hate. I have no dramatic death planned for him. I don’t care how; I just want him gone, out of my life, my face, my world—nowhere near my sisters, my daughter, and my home.
Scott mockingly winces. “And I thought we were old friends, Rose.”
Connor snakes an arm around my collarbones, pressing me closer to his body, less like a cage and more like I’m a part of him, like we share the same wrath, even if mine is more outwardly apparent.
In a terrifyingly calm voice, Connor says, “This is the part where I tell you to speak like an intelligible human being, minus the bullshit. And this is the part where you explain how you can’t—that you’re incapable of speaking on the same comprehendible level as us because you enjoy theatrics. Because you would rather piss in circles and drum at your fucking chest than reach the higher place where we stand, towering above you.”
Scott’s douchebag smile begins to fade.
Connor says, “Now that I’ve cut out five minutes of pointless conversation, tell me why the fuck you’re here.”
“You’re still the same.” Scott crosses his arms but stays leaned against the door frame. I notice the cardboard boxes piled behind him near a grand staircase and black banister.
“Except now I’m twenty-six years smarter than you.” Connor isn’t even partially amused. I can feel his fingers pressing harder along my shoulder as he holds me close.
The talk of ages reminds me that Scott is thirty-one now. He wears an expression of distaste, as though Connor stuffed something foul in his mouth. I bet I share the same contorted look. Stomaching Scott’s presence revolts every part of me. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here without lunging forward and clawing off his face.
“Bullshit aside,” Scott says, “I’m not fond of either of you.” He nods to Connor. “You’re the biggest prick I’ve ever met, and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting hundreds of distinguished people.” His disgusting eyes land on me. “And you’re the most stuck-up rich bitch I’ve ever had to pretend to be in love with.” Before I can sling an insult, he adds, “But I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to work with you.”
My nose flares. “I wouldn’t work with you if it was the key to saving my life.” I’d die. I would without a doubt die before I placed Scott anywhere on my team.
He ignores my statement. “Things have changed since Princesses of Philly.” He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. His gaze flits to the stone steps. The winter chill wraps me tighter than Connor’s arms, the hairs rising on my neck.
I wonder if he means the sex tapes or if he’s referring to my daughter.
“Not enough that we’d ever need you,” Connor tells him. “So explain to me why you need us.” We’re in the driver’s seat then. I place my hand on Connor’s, the one that rests on my shoulder, his arm across my collar.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he says. “I could sell another sex tape and get one-point-five million right now.”
“That’s it?” Connor’s brows rise. “That’s not even a fraction of what this mansion costs. And didn’t you buy a forty-million-dollar yacht?”
Scott’s lips stretch in a stiff smile. “I have expensive tastes.”