Chapter Twenty-Nine

Elliot

Anger and shame churn as I stride out of the penthouse, pounding against my skull. I have to get the hell out before I do something I’ll regret. I don’t trust myself to talk to her rationally. I’ve already hurt her. The marks on her arms… They’re probably going to bruise. Damn it. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I knew better than to lose control. The last time I lost it… Jesus. I don’t lose control, I don’t let women get to me. They just roll off like raindrops on an umbrella—just as inconsequential and forgettable.

The story of her rape goes through my head in an infinite loop. What the hell? None of the background checks dug up any info about a rape or subsequent pregnancy…or miscarriage. On the other hand, it makes sense that she wouldn’t tell anybody…although it’s mind-boggling that her doctors had no clue. But maybe she never got checked and just let her body do its thing.

I’ve stopped underestimating women—and how far they will go to get what they want.

A violent need to destroy something roils in my gut. I would do anything to go back and rip apart the son of a bitch who took her choice away from her.

You’re just like that boy…

Fuck. Fuck!

I tunnel my fingers into my hair and grip until it feels like it’s coming unrooted. I didn’t… She has no idea what the hell she’s talking about. But then how could she know when I never told her?

My siblings don’t know either. I’ve never talked about it. At first I was a malleable idiot. Then later I was too humiliated and furious.

I’m sure Dad knows everything—it fit his MO. But he also didn’t brag about his role. Men like him are supreme assholes but also know how to manage a public persona. To everyone else in the world, he’s a self-made man who was strict with his children and taught them the value of hard work. So what if he’s had six wives? His success excuses such a minor flaw.

I dig the heels of my hands against my eyes, then blink when the elevator stops at the garage level. I hop into my Maserati and drive, my mind working on autopilot.

The freeway is a tangled snarl of cars going nowhere fast. I get off and take other roads until I somehow end up at Ryder’s mansion.

It’s practically a fortress, with thick concrete walls and barbed wire on top. Security cameras monitor the premises twenty-four seven, and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if the place also has anti-air missiles to shoot down helicopters. Ryder hates uninvited media, and he absolutely abhors psycho fans, of which he has tons.

The gates unlock at my arrival. I’m on the special guest list, and can come and go as I please.

I park in front of the main mansion and climb out. As I turn toward the marble steps leading to the front door, I hear Ryder’s voice from behind me.

“Yo, Elliot. Over here!”

He waves from the pool. I walk over. “What the hell, man? Swimming at this hour?”

“Jet lag,” he says, heaving himself out of the water. Rivulets pour down his lean and tanned body. Looks like the time in Thailand was good for him. “Want a scotch?”

“Sure.” He goes to the bar and grabs a bottle and tumblers, while I take a seat at the table by the pool.

“Your wife okay?”

“Seems to be.” I drag my fingers through my hair again. I can’t talk about her past. It’s her private life, and I have no right to air it.

With a dark scowl, he pushes a full glass of scotch my way. “Boy, Number Six really fucked things up.”

“Yup.”

“She’s lucky there was nothing sharp around. Could’ve sworn your wife was going to cut her.”

No kidding. But it was more than just outrage. It was… I forcibly breathe through my mouth, hating the tight feeling in my gut. “When do you think he’s going to get rid of her?”

“Before the year’s over. Hopefully. You aren’t the only one who can’t stand her.” Ryder’s jaw hardens. “She insulted Paige at my place.”

I take a healthy swallow of the liquor. “Is there anyone she hasn’t pissed off?”

“Dad, maybe. She needs his money.”

I snort.

We finish our scotch in silence.

“It’s only a year,” Ryder says.

“Exactly,” I respond even as my heart thumps a little harder.

“You have a good prenup in place?”

I nod.

“See. There you go. Totally protected.”

“Of course.”

“Just… Don’t let her mess with your head. Buy her something nice and she’ll calm down.”

“Does your wife calm down when you buy her something nice?”

Ryder barks out a laugh. “No. She’d probably try to brain me.”

I make a noncommittal noise. “Mine would probably do the same.”

“Reeeeeaaaaaally?” He cocks an eyebrow. “So where did you find her?”

“At one of my favorite clubs, then out of that cake you didn’t send.”

“Bro, I swear I didn’t. Did you ever find out who did?”

“Nope.” That still bothers me. The cake company said it was handled by some guy who paid cash. Since their clients don’t always want their information made public, a lot of them don’t even give out their real names when booking a service. But the man wasn’t that old—maybe in his late thirties or forties, the company rep couldn’t say for certain—with rather ordinary brown hair and brown eyes and nothing else to notice.

“Maybe they got something mixed up.”

“Maybe.” I stare at the water. A breeze ripples the surface. “Strippers are supposed to be simple.”

Ryder gives me an unreadable look. “All women are simple…so long as you don’t care.”