Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elizabeth
Julian’s suite is much swankier than I expected. Las Vegas casinos treat him like a king. He gambles at least four times a year, betting tens of thousands of dollars a hand.
Lucky for him, he wins more than he loses. If that weren’t the case, he would’ve quit a long time ago. He didn’t make a fortune by being stupid about money.
The suite has a huge living room, a bedroom—which I don’t want to even glance into—and an office. Dad’s seated in a plushy leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. His clothes are expensive as usual, his white button-down shirt crisply starched, and he steeples his hands the moment I walk in, leaning back in his seat with his legs crossed.
Although he gives me a level look, I don’t miss the telltale twitch of his mouth or the smug glint in his eye.
“Elizabeth.” He gestures at a small chair. “Sit.”
I toss my purse on the seat, but remain standing. I’m in a power outfit—a deep magenta dress cinched with a thin silver belt. I’ve chosen sizable diamonds for my jewelry, and my stilettos are high with killer heels.
“The ones I want to see humiliated are your brothers.” The superior sneer on his face says he’s always wanted me bend the knee as well. “I won’t make you beg too badly. You’re a girl, after all, and know your place.”
I shoot him a look full of pure loathing and contempt. His eyebrows rise for a second before he waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t act some outraged modern girl. I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.”
“You never fail to amaze me. Every time I think you can’t grow any crasser, you prove me wrong.”
Anger hardens his face. “You still need to marry.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I pull a manila envelope out of my purse and toss it on the desk.
He doesn’t move. “What’s that?”
“See for yourself.”
He eyes me for a moment, then takes the envelope and dumps the contents on his desk. Color photos spill across the smooth surface. Him and some brunette—laughing, walking around with arms linked. Hotels. Naked in bed—my eyes—and more.
His face turns redder than a boiled lobster shell. “What the… What the fuck is this?” His hands shake as he examines one picture after another.
“Your mistress. Surely you aren’t senile already.”
“You… These are fakes.”
“You know they’re not.”
“She’ll never turn against me.”
“She will once she realizes you’re the cause of her miscarriages.”
His face goes paler than his shirt. “How do you…” He swallows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t deny it. I know everything. You’ve always supplied her with fancy tea that you claimed to have ordered just for her. Of course, you never told her if she keeps drinking it, she’ll have a hard time getting pregnant, and even if she does, she’ll lose the baby during the first trimester, thanks to a little black cohosh and dong quai powder you have added to the mix.”
“Ridiculous.” Sweat beads above his upper lip. “And even if it weren’t ridiculous, you can’t prove anything.”
“Oh, I already have.” I give him a beatific smile. “You don’t think I made the effort to come here without something concrete?”
“You bitch.” He hurls the photos.
The stiff papers flutter and fall on the floor around me.
I walk toward Dad, my stilettos digging into the photos. “You need to be nice to me. Your prenup says cheaters forfeit, with you giving up fifty percent of your assets to your wife, and your wife giving up all claim to your properties, which is quite fair. I’m sure it appealed to your pride and ego. You love playing the good guy as long as you think you’re cleverer than everyone else. This mistress of yours”—my gaze slides to the photos—“has been with you since Wife Number Two. That’s a lot of women to owe half a fortune to.”
He jumps to his feet. The purple vein in his forehead stands, pulsing visibly. “You owe me one!”
I place my hands at the edge of the desk and lean forward, purposely violating his personal space. “Yes, I do. And that’s the only reason Wives Number Two through Six haven’t gotten those photos.” I keep my eyes on him, my calm smile unfaltering.
Dad’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. I can see the calculations going through his mind.
“What do you want, Elizabeth?”
I straighten. “Hand over the portraits. No more games, no more deals.”
“Right now?”
I consider. “No. After Thanksgiving…but before November’s out. There’s no need to disrupt Ryder and Paige’s dinner party plans. It’s their first as a wedded couple after all. But don’t wait till the last minute. If you don’t hand them over before the deadline, the photos go public. And I’ll watch you give all your exes hundreds of millions of dollars each.”
The muscles in his jaw flex. “You think you’ve won?” he says, his voice hoarse.
“Won?” I tilt my head. “I’ve brought you a problem, then given you a solution. You ought to thank me.” I pause. “Oh, and don’t forget to buy a new place as far away from me as possible and move before the month’s over. I’m tired of living at Ryder’s. He and Paige are newlyweds, and I’m sure they’d like some privacy.” I turn and start to walk away, heady euphoria bursting inside me like a caterpillar from its chrysalis.
He slams the surface of desk with a fist. “This is blackmail!”
“So sue me.” I keep walking.
Once the door to his suite closes, I slump against the wall, letting out a soft sigh. My knees shake in a delayed reaction.
Tolyan comes up beside me. “Is it done?”
I nod, then take his proffered hand and enter the waiting elevator.
I’m almost certain Dad will give up the paintings to hide his mistress. On the other hand, he doesn’t always do the most obvious thing.
Now, I have to wait.