It’s two days after Sloane’s birthday. He’s just informed me that he has to do shit at the clubhouse all day long. I mention in passing that I’m going to drive to Frisco and check in on his mother and also my own. My parents’ summer party is just in two-week’s time, and I usually help her every year with last minute details anyway.
“I don’t know, Genny, that shit with that cop doesn’t sit right with me. I’m not sure that I want you traveling alone like that,” he murmurs.
I wrap my hand around the side of his neck. “Nothing will happen, baby. I’m just going to visit your mom and come home,” I explain.
He shakes his head before his eyes meet mine. “You’ll have a prospect on you.”
“But—”
His jaw clenches before he speaks. “But fucking nothing. You’ll have a prospect on you, Imogen. That fuck wants to rape every part of you, and I’ll be damned if you’re unprotected. He won’t have the opportunity to even look at you sideways let alone do anything to you.”
I gulp at his words. His face is set deadly serious and he looks worried. I relent. “Okay,” I whisper.
“He’ll follow you, but nothing more. He won’t have contact with you unless it becomes eminent.” I nod.
He lowers to give me a swift kiss before he squeezes my waist and tells me he loves me. Then he’s out the door.
With a heavy sigh, I think about how I can ditch my guard. I shouldn’t. Sloane’s right. That cop is more than just a little frightening. Maybe I can talk my guard into keeping a teeny-tiny secret for me?
I need to visit my father.
Sloane won’t suspect that I’m actually going to add in a trip to see my father in my visit as well. I want to know what his problem is, and why he wants my husband to go back to prison so badly that he would pay a police officer to try and catch him doing something illegal. I have no doubt that Sloane does do illegal things, but I’m not so convinced my father is actually a good man, either.
When I arrive in the city, I don’t go to my mother or Kalli. I drive straight to my father’s office building. Dressed in an expensive sheath dress, and even more expensive high heels, my makeup perfect—as well as my hair—I look every bit the part of Imogen Carolina Stewart-Huntington.
With my head held high, too high, I walk right past reception into the elevators. I continue right past my father’s secretary, who tries to stand and chase after me, but she’s too slow.
I close and lock the door to my father’s office without even looking in his direction. I hear him clear his throat, and I make my way to the chair in front of his desk. I sit before I lift my gaze to meet his cold-dead one.
“Good morning, father,” I state. He looks peeved. No—beyond that. He looks pissed.
“Can I help you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes on me, as if to intimidate me.
“You can call off your police officer. What is your exact reasoning for wishing to send my husband back to prison?”
My father’s eyes widen and then he clenches his jaw. “What are you talking about?”
“Personally, I thought you were smart enough not to pay off a stupid policeman. I figured you’d at least find someone who was smart enough not to throw your name out there. Or one who at least doesn’t threaten me with rape every time he’s in my vicinity,” I shrug. His face gets even redder as he becomes angrier. If I loved him the way a daughter should, I would be concerned over his heart. “Tell me what you and Graham had cooked up, and exactly why you want my husband gone, and don’t bother saying it’s because I can do better. We both know that you could give a shit about whatever man I have and how he treats me. This is all about something you have to gain.”
I watch as he leans back slightly in his chair, smiling like a fool. “Maybe you really are my daughter,” he states.
“Of course, I am. We look exactly like each other. Now, tell me, I have other shit to do today.”
“Graham was going to invest in some shit he had insider information on. He’s no longer around. I assume your husband took care of him for beating the shit out of you. Too bad he couldn’t have waited until the information he had came to light. Luckily, I didn’t give him the account information yet,” he explains.
“So all this was so you could make more of something you have plenty of—money.”
He shrugs with a grin. “You can never have too much money, Imogen. In that regard, I’ve always wondered about your paternity. You don’t crave it like I do; you don’t spend it like your mother does. You seem to be content in that shitty little town, living in a house a quarter of the size of the one you can afford, and being with a man who is scum.”
“Like you’re not a criminal?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve answered why you pushed for Graham, but not why you want to send my husband back to jail.”
“I have the chance to take over a company. Its profit would be more than Graham’s little scheme, and it would be a long-term investment with an infinite amount of return,” he sighs. “The man is in his sixties, single and looking. He likes you, thinks you’re gorgeous. He’s seen you around at social things the past few years. He gets you, and he’ll retire, selling his company to me for much less than it’s worth. In the end, it won’t matter. You’ll get my money anyway, as my only child,” my father explains.
Shaking my head, I press my hand to my stomach to keep from throwing up all over my father’s carpeting. He’s trying to pawn me off like chattel. Arranged marriages happen, especially in our circle.
If I were single, I might at least go on a date with this guy—except, he’s my father’s age. Not to mention, I’m very married and very in love with my husband. The manipulative way my father is trying to get what he wants is what makes me more sick than anything.
“No,” I state. “Keep all your money. Write me off, give it to charity, burn it, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if my husband is sent to prison or not, I’m not marrying this man. I’m married, and I’m staying married. There’s no other man for me, father. I’m sorry that you don’t know what it feels like to have love, but even if Sloane dies, I won’t remarry. He’s it for me, daddy,” I whisper using a word I haven’t called him since I was a child.
He flinches at the sound, and his eyes come back to me, a hint of the man I knew as a child beneath his cold stare. It leaves quickly.
“Imogen, you don’t know what you’re giving up. You don’t know what you’re keeping. I have pictures,” he murmurs.
“I don’t care. I love him.”
I watch as he reaches into a drawer in his desk and pulls out a stack of enlarged pictures and tosses them to me. I catch them and try not to, but I look at them. It’s Sloane. He’s fucking a girl from behind, his eyes open. When I focus on them, I see that he’s high as a kite.
“This was dated four years ago, father. I’m sorry, but this man is not the man I’m married to now,” I state.
“Look at the next one,” he grunts.
I flip to the next picture and look at the date. It’s only a few months ago. Actually, it’s the day he got out of prison. I only know the date because I distinctly remember Kip calling me the day he got out. It’s burned in my memory banks. And now, the vision of him fucking that new whore who confronted me in the grocery store is also burned in my brain.
“Not four years ago,” my father states. I look up to see he’s grinning as my eyes fill with tears.
“Doesn’t matter,” I whisper through the knot in my throat. “There is so much more happening and I want to know what it is.”
“It doesn’t matter? I think it does, Imogen. And what? Money isn’t a good enough motivation? Graham thought it was a good enough one to marry you and knock you up. He wanted my money and knew it was the only way he could get it all.”
“Nope, this picture doesn’t matter,” I say, popping my p as I stand. I let all of the photos, except the one I’m holding, fall to the ground. “Call off your hounds. I’m not marrying your friend.”
Without another word, I turn around and I walk out of his office, my nose not quite as high as it was when I entered. At least my tears don’t fall until I’m in my car, alone.
I don’t go to Kalli’s or to my mothers. I decide to go to my home. I’m meeting the real estate agent at five this evening to have her take photographs so that she can list it for me to sell.
Right now, I just want to be alone. I power down my phone as I pull into the garage and close the door. I slip my shoes off as I walk straight to the master bedroom, and I pull back the sheets before I crawl beneath them and wrap them around my body.
The man watching me probably calls Sloane immediately, but I don’t care. I need to be alone for a little while. I need to cry and maybe scream. I need to process.
I cry, but I don’t scream.
I sob and wail. I knew he’d been with the girl before we officially got back together, but seeing it, seeing his eyes looking clear of drugs and sober as he fucks her. It tears another piece of my heart out of my chest. I grip the picture in my hand. I don’t plan on holding any of this against him, but fuck—it hurts.
I’ll be okay in a little while, only because I know that this man in the photograph is not the Sloane I’ve had for weeks. Eventually, I fall asleep from my crying jag, thankful for the break from my tears.
Dialing my mother, I can’t help that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is wrong. I’ve texted and called Imogen about ten times, but her phone goes straight to voicemail and all messages are unread. Something is wrong.
I should have had a prospect with her when she’s gone into the city today. Not just following her, but with her person. It was fucking stupid of me not to. I don’t think anything has really happened, the prospect would have called me. I decide to check in with my mother before bothering him.
“Sloane?” my mother asks, sounding fairly chipper.
“Looking for Imogen. She come by to see you yet?” I bark, unable to exchange pleasantries with my mom, not until I know where my sunshine is.
“I wasn’t aware that she was to come by today.”
I curse, running my hand through my hair as I start to pace. I explain that she said she was going to the city today to meet with her mom about that stupid fucking party, and then she said she was going to check on her.
“You don’t think something’s happened, do you? I’ve been home all day,” my mother says, sounding worried. I’m beyond worried. I’m downright panicked, and I’m too far away to do anything.
I thank her, and she tells me to keep her informed and that if she can help to just let her know. She sounds nothing like the mother I remember, and I can’t help but be grateful that my piece of shit father is finally dead. My mother hasn’t sounded so lucid in the early afternoon as she has the past few times I’ve called her. Maybe there’s something salvageable between us. I hope so, for my children’s sake.
The prospect doesn’t answer my call, and I bark at his voicemail, instructing him to call me immediately before I start to walk toward the front door. Texas’ hand wraps around my shoulder and clamps down just as I take a step to leave.
“Where’re ya goin’?” he asks.
“I can’t get a hold of Genny. She’s not where she’s supposed to be, her phone’s off, and the prospect I had on her didn’t answer my call,” I state, trying to shake him off.
“Have Camo drive you. Last thing you need to do is lay your bike down because your head is not in the right place.”
I look up to Camo, who is standing beside him, and I nod in agreement. My gut churns, knowing down to my bones that something is not right. Even at her most pissed off at me, Imogen has always, always been reachable—if even only by text.
Camo and I run to his truck. He starts the engine and pulls out, sending his tires spinning, dirt and gravel flying everywhere before he speaks, “Where are we going?”
“Frisco, fast as you can without getting pulled over,” I announce.
He nods and, thankfully, doesn’t say anything else. I spend the ride calling her mother, who, like mine, hasn’t heard anything from Genny. I then dial the prospect’s number over and over again. Goddammit, where the fuck is my wife? I close my eyes and try to calm myself down, try to keep from crawling out of my own skin with worry.
“That guy who hurt her isn’t an issue anymore, remember that brother,” Camo murmurs next to me.
My eyes pop open and I turn to him, giving him a chin lift, afraid to speak. Yeah, Graham may not be a problem anymore, but that doesn’t mean that she’s one hundred percent safe. That fucking cop has been sniffing around and making threats.
She’s Imogen Huntington. Someone who wants money could hold her hostage or hurt her. In fact, her father could do all of those things to get whatever he wants from her, since he obviously wants something.
The rest of the ride is in complete silence. When I see the city in sight, my heart starts to pound in my chest with panic. I don’t know where I’m going to tell Camo to go. Maybe we’ll try her father’s office first, then go from there. Maybe I can scare the absolute fucking shit out of the old man.
“Where to?” Camo asks.
I give him the address to Genny’s father’s office building and then help him with navigating downtown Frisco. Once we’re parked in the garage, I slide out, checking to make sure my gun is at the small of my back. Camo slams his door, and I look over at him in question.
“You stay here,” I grunt.
He chuckles, shaking his head, “No way in fuck am I letting you go in there alone. You’re a loose cannon, brother,” he murmurs.
I lift my chin and start to walk toward the building’s entrance. I can hear him behind me, his boots heavy and pounding the floor with each step.
I ignore the girl at the front desk and walk straight over to the elevators, stepping inside and pressing the button I know will lead me to Stewart’s floor. Camo and I don’t speak as we ride up.
Once the doors ping open, we step out and make our way over to Stewart’s office. The door is open and the secretary is gone, probably to lunch. I turn the knob and walk inside of my father-in-law’s office.
Unfortunately, I walk in on him fucking his missing secretary. His head pops up, as does hers, and she lets out a scream as she tries to cover her naked tits. She’s sitting on his lap, reverse cowgirl, so I get a full view of her young, naked body. Fuck me, it’s like he and my dad are the same goddamn man.
I watch as she stands and gathers her dress, covering herself as she slips into the bathroom that I know must be to the left of me. All of these big offices have bathrooms in them. I know my own father’s did.
These uptight fucks are too pretentious to share one ounce of space with anybody else, even while they’re taking a shit.
“How may I help you today, Sloane?” he asks, tucking his dick back into his pants and pulling them over his hips.
“Where’s my wife?” I growl.
I watch as his eyes widen in surprise. Then he smiles and laughs. “She finally left you this time, then?”
Shaking my head, I pull my gun out and point it at him. “Don’t move,” I warn as he reaches out, no doubt to call security or his cop buddy. “Where the fuck is my fucking wife?”
“You’re worthless, an absolutely fucking worthless thug,” he grinds through a clenched jaw.
“Like I’ve ever cared what you think of me,” I growl, taking a step forward. “Where is my wife?”
He smiles. When he does, he looks like the cocksucking snake he is. “Not sure where she could be. With access to her trust, she could be anywhere by now. I made sure she had a parting photograph of you to always keep with her.”
“Photograph?” I ask, gripping my gun tighter, grappling with the war inside of my head.
Part of me wants to pull the trigger, the other part knows he isn’t worth shit. He definitely isn’t worth going back to the pen over. Killing Graham and having my contact cover it up is one thing. He’s nobody but some rich asshole who works for his daddy. Stewart is a completely different story.
“Oh, you didn’t know that I’ve had a PI following you since you said I do? I should give him a raise. He’s obviously good at his job. I have pictures of you and all of your whores, Sloane. I knew they’d come in handy eventually. Imogen was visibly upset at the picture of you and your coming home party fuck,” he says, smiling widely.
“You didn’t,” I rumble.
“Why wouldn’t I? She’s useful to me, and I need her. I’ll do whatever I have to. It’s not like I forced you to fuck that young thing. You did that all on your own,” he laughs.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I reach for it, my eyes never leaving Stewart’s. I answer without looking at the caller ID. My mother’s voice is on the other line, and the three words she says to me makes my heart ramp back up again. Relief floods my entire body—I found her. Thanking her, I end the call and then finish this shit with Imogen’s father once and for all.
“Leave my wife alone. She’s mine. She’s not yours anymore. She hasn’t been since she was eighteen years old. Whatever game you want to use her as your pawn in, forget it,” I state. “And call that fuckhead cop off of me and her.”
“Or what?” he asks, arching his brow.
“You think you’re the only one who can play games, old man? I meant it when I said you didn’t scare me when I was a teenager, and you still don’t. I know what you love and I know how to take it from you, piece by piece,” I murmur.
He smirks, cockiness written all over his face, but I can see the fear behind his eyes. “I don’t love anyone,” he shrugs. I know he doesn’t love anyone. I’m not an idiot—not completely, anyway.
“I know you don’t love anyone. I know what you love, so watch yourself,” I say, shoving my gun back in my jeans.
Turning around to walk away from him, Camo at my heels, I hear him spouting something. I don’t give much of a shit about what he has to say. He fucks with me or Imogen one more time, and I’m tearing down his precious company and stripping him of his cash—penny by penny if I have to.
“Do you remember where Genny’s house is?” I ask as Camo and I slide into his pickup truck.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“My mom called while we were in there, that’s where she is,” I say.
Camo drives toward Genny’s and I stay silent, thinking. I’m sure seeing me and Destini upset her; it would anyone, but she knew it happened. I can only hope that she doesn’t hold it against me. When we pull up to the house, I’m surprised to see the prospect leaning against the front door. “The fuck?” I whisper.
“He ain’t gonna earn a cut anytime soon,” Camo mutters as he throws the car in park.
We both get out and I march up to the little fuck. He’s playing a goddamn game on his phone. Silently I reach back and punch him in the side of the head. “Take care of this weak punk,” I announce before I pound on the fucking door with my fist.