Throne of Truth

What the hell?

Larry instantly covered my face with his briefcase, wrapping his arm around me as he guided me toward David who leaped out of the Range Rover, barreling through the reporters to get to me.

Wrapping me in his protective embrace, David glowered at the churning body parts in our way. “Leave!” he boomed, protecting my other side, marching with Larry as we bulldozed through the paparazzi.

They side-stepped to avoid being run over but it didn’t stop their probing questions.

“Ms. Charlston. Are you in a romantic relationship with Penn Everett?” a young man shouted.

“Are you having an affair with Greg Hobson?” a middle-aged woman with blue-rinsed curls yelled.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for the owner of such a prominent retail store to be dating two men at once? Both who are in jail, no less?” a male reporter with a squeaky voice asked.

Each question I cowered a little more.

Oh, my God, how did they hear?

Who leaked? Who tattled?

“No comment,” Larry snapped, keeping his briefcase obscuring my face. “Go away.”

I kept my head down as David opened the back door to the Range Rover, giving me shelter to hop into.

Larry jumped in too, not bothering to call his Town Car.

The questions kept plowing through the windows. Questions I had no answers to. Questions I should’ve been prepared for thanks to my high-society position, and how juicy my tale would be the moment the smell of controversy arose.

Right now, I was considered top news.

Penn’s background would be dug up. Mine would be plastered beside his. Greg’s actions would be known nationwide.

Oh God, Dad is going to flip.

The pandemonium of journalists brought everything home.

How deadly serious all of this had become.

How far we still had to go before it would be all over.

Exhaustion pressed me into the soft leather seats as David honked the horn and took off, barely giving the reporters time to jump out of the way.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Penn

DINNER WAS YET another sad affair of under-cooked potatoes and over-cooked beef.

At least this time, no one tried to talk to me. I’d earned a reputation over the past couple of weeks that I was a loner with history. I had respect because some old timers remembered me from my previous stints, but I had a mystery that newbies wanted to ruffle up and put me in my place.

I’d avoid all confrontation as long as I could, but eventually, something would snap, and I’d be in the middle of a war I didn’t want.

Yard time after Elle and Larry left ensured I could run off some of the stress of seeing them. I’d fucking promised myself I’d deny visitation if they came. But that was before the temptation and overwhelming desire to see Elle overrode my common sense.

I’d braced myself for pity or loathing in her gaze, looking at me in my prison uniform. I waited for hesitation about her feelings for me, or the awful condemning admittance that she couldn’t handle this.

But she hadn’t done either of those things.

She’d watched me as she always did—as if she wanted me to jump on top of her and fuck her in terribly dirty ways. She listened to me as if I meant something. She spoke as if this was personal, and she’d have my back all the way. She touched me as if she cared for me despite everything I’d done.

It didn’t escape me the way Larry looked at her. He was proud of her. Shit, I was proud of her. It made me wade through guilt that I could ever think she was a spoiled brat. Sure, I knew how hard she worked now. I understood that Belle Elle wasn’t given to her or that she coasted through life on a trust fund. She worked her fingers to the bone. And she was strong—so fucking strong.

Why did I ever doubt she would fight for me if I’d given her the chance?

I’d had everything so wrong.

Assumptions had sure made an ass out of me and look how fucked I was. If I’d just knocked on her door that night, we might’ve avoided this whole disaster. Greg would never have thought he stood a chance with her because I would’ve claimed her.

I would’ve ensured she was mine just like the necklace I’d given back to Stewie was hers.

I was a moron back then, but I wouldn’t be a moron now.

She wanted me? She had me. Because, Christ, I wanted her.

Tonight was TV night for the guys in my block. A lot mingled, not really listening, playing cards or placing bets on events they’d never be able to pay regardless of winning or losing—unless it was with things gained from inside.

Rubbing my face, I forced my body to let go of the lust Elle had created. Unsuccessfully reminding myself that Elle and I wouldn’t be fucking for a long time to come. Celibacy was the new rule in our relationship. Which made it so goddamn hard as I wanted her so bad.

I needed her even worse.

I needed her to lie to me for a change and tell me this would all go away and I’d be free again. I needed her to touch me and tell me she’d wait for me no matter how long it took, even while I pushed her away so she didn’t waste her life alone.

I scoffed at the thoughts, hearing the truth behind them.

She didn’t need to touch me to assure me she’d wait for me—I saw her loyalty in every blink and heard it in every vowel.

And she didn’t need to lie about my freedom.

I would get it back.

Eventually.

Larry was fighting for me. He’d win.

He has to.

There was no other scenario I could accept.

Stretching out my legs with ankles crossed, I did my best to unwind and watch the men around me—taking note of their weakness and strategies, cataloguing who to chat with versus those to stay away from.