What I needed was to buy time until the money Jaime released from my trust fund had wrapped around the possessions I wanted to purchase like an octopus. I had a very clear idea of how I wanted to play this out, and it was important that Fairhurst thought I was untraceable during that time period.

Plus, I needed to lay low in case the boys in blue paid a visit to Carlisle Castle after what I did to Fairhurst’s lover. No one had filed a complaint in the days that followed, but life had a way of surprising me, especially with a curveball from Fairhurst.

Harry hadn’t reported any missing items from his house. He must have been waiting for our long-overdue conversation, or pulling his own tricks out of his sleeve.

Now that I’d done what I had to do, I’d thought I’d torture him a little by letting him stew until Monday. But as it happened, I didn’t feel like keeping away from Lenora for that long, so Friday—today—would have to do.

I pushed open the door to Fairhurst’s office without knocking first thing in the morning, striding straight to the chair in front of his desk and taking a seat. I had a cup of steaming coffee in my hand—the other one I left by Len’s room every morning, not that she deserved anything from my ass.

Making myself comfortable, I took out a joint and tucked it into the side of my mouth. Technically, it was illegal in the UK, but I still didn’t give much of a crap. I could take a shit on Harry’s desk and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Fairhurst knew I had him by the balls.

He was on the phone. When he noticed me, he apologized to the person on the other end, hung up, and tossed his phone across his desk. Making a point, I crossed my legs and rested my feet on said desk, leaning back and enjoying the view of a pale-ass Fairhurst waiting for the verdict.

I glared at him with a shit-eating smirk.

Finally, he knotted his fingers together, sloping forward and trying to look like the responsible, rational adult he wasn’t.

“How?” His face twisted in disgust.

If nothing else, I appreciated his desire for knowledge. I’d just taken away his leverage, destroyed his false evidence, pissed all over his house—not just metaphorically—and stolen his valuables. And he asked me how. Curiosity was vanity, though. We wanted to know things so we could control them. Destroy them.

“Next question.”

“What makes you think Mr. Maples won’t press charges? I’d be happy to confirm it was you behind that prank in my walk-in closet.”

“And I’d be happy to confirm why I did it. Which, coincidently, is how I know you’ll keep your lover’s mouth shut.”

He snapped his own mouth shut, his jaw clenching. I tipped the ash from the joint onto his floor, looking around. It was a fine-looking office, with one of his paintings hanging in front of his desk.

“No files. No laptop. No camera. No leverage.” I counted with my fingers. “Sucks to be you these days, Harry. A part of you probably wishes you’d executed your plot and fucked my mother over before I could ruin you. You know I never told her about your shitty scheme? Her heart doesn’t deserve to be broken. She actually likes you.”

Goddammit, Mom.

He looked away, probably recalculating his next step. My feet were in his fucking face, and behind them, I knew he could see the golden victory in my expression.

“I guess you came here to lay out your demands. You know I’ll cooperate. I did get you into this program, didn’t I?”

He’d accepted me because I blackmailed him.

I shrugged. “Anything you have to give, I have no interest in.”

“Is that so?” He quirked one eyebrow, standing up. “You’d be surprised. Money, sex, and power speak. I offer plenty of all three.”

“There are no bargains between gods and mortals. You will kneel, and as we’re both well aware, you’re also going to fucking enjoy it.”

It was my turn to stand up. He assessed my face, refraining from making a move. I remained calm, stony, and tranquil. He rounded his desk and stood in front of me, then began lowering himself to the ground, an act of goodwill.

Before his knees touched the floor, I spun on my heel and gave him my back, walking over to the painting hanging on his wall—the one I couldn’t get—and put my joint off right in the eyes of the pretty Italian girl with the perfect tan in 1950s summer in Ischia.

He stared at me from his place on the floor, silent.

“How’s business, Harry?” I asked conversationally, staring at the girl.

She had deep brown hair, a sad face, and now two cigarette burns for eyes. Harry Fairhurst’s technique of painting eyes was what had made him famous. They looked so real, you sometimes looked down to avoid eye contact. I knew that better than anyone, because I was well-versed in escaping the eyes he’d painted that stared at me in my own house.