“I promised Sterling some alone time,” Adair says, grabbing my arm.
“Ohhhh.” Poppy’s mischievous wink tells me that Adair’s been telling everyone about her plans to nail me. I wonder if Poppy’s on the list of girls next in line for a piece of me.
“I should probably go.” I hitch a thumb in what I think is the direction of the door. “You have a horse to attend to.”
“Nonsense,” Poppy cuts in. “He’s being taken care of. You aren’t going anywhere. Besides, don’t you have a present for her?”
I don’t know if she means the pathetic one I left in her car, the one wrapped in cheap paper I found at the student union, or my dick, which seems to be what Adair’s really after. At least one of them’s worth something.
“He gave it to me earlier,” Adair blurts out.
Is she embarrassed at the idea of opening a present from me in front of her rich friends? She would be if she knew what was inside that stupid package.
“I should get back to the dorms,” I repeat, my whole being wanting to walk away from this place, from her, from all of them.
“But my dad’s out of town,” she reminds me in a whisper. “I thought you would stay the night…”
So, she still expects her birthday treat. Poor little rich girl needs to fill the gaping hole inside her. Maybe she’d be a different person if her dad actually showed up for her birthday. I don’t know. But then how could he turn a blind eye? Of course, it’s not like he can’t watch all of this on security cameras, relive each happy moment he bought for her instead of being there. No wonder Adair uses people like she does. How can I expect her to think of me as a person when I have something of value she doesn’t own yet? I wonder what her dad would think if he knew his little girl was planning to screw some poor kid from Queens. What would he think of his prize possession on her knees in front of me? I remember what Cyrus said about cameras and how Angus MacLaine hates when people touch his belongings.
I’ll stay, but I’m going to make her work for it. She’s going to beg for it, and I’m going to make sure Windfall’s cameras catch every minute.
Adair
Present Day
Sterling isn’t my only problem—he’s just the one that hurts the most. The whole shitshow that is my life is why I’m driving aimlessly through downtown Nashville, wondering if I’m crazy or stupid or some dangerous combination of the two.
I’m homeless. It’s one of the many thoughts rattling around in my brain—and it’s getting louder each second. Self preservation in action, I guess. It’s a problem I can actually fix. The rest of my thoughts?
They’re all about him.
Heartless. Evil. Bastard. I’m at least five miles away from Sterling’s place and distance is not making the heart grow farther. My brain is shouting every insult it can come up with to drown out the whispering doubts vying for my attention.
I don’t want to hear those. I scream the loud ones, the angry ones. I call him names. I shout so loudly another driver’s head turns, a puzzled expression on his face. I feel badly until he flips me off. I turn some of my rage on him, but it doesn’t silence the doubts. They scratch at my brain, tickle against my nerves, refuse to be ignored. The quiet thoughts are the dangerous ones.
I should have known better.
No one will ever love me.
I’m an idiot.
I’ll never be anyone other than a MacLaine.
And the worst of all?
He loves her.
Sutton.
Sutton who called me a bitch. Sutton who begged him to come home. Sutton who usually gets her way. Sutton who implied this was all a game. Sutton, the woman I’ve never heard a thing about, and Sutton, the woman he loves.
I want to leave everything behind me. The old Roadster isn’t very fast—not by modern standards—but it’s always willing. I drop into second gear, sending the engine screaming towards the red line. A woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk screams something at me as I pass, but I’m beyond caring if I woke her baby. I mash the throttle around a corner, sending the tail of the Jag sideways, and I have to wrestle the steering wheel into submission.
I knew Sterling had an agenda. I sensed it from the very beginning. He told me as much to my face. I let myself believe it was about money—about proving himself. I wanted to believe it, too. I wanted to believe he had returned to Valmont to show off what he’s become.
I should have known better. He came back to hurt me. I didn’t want to think it then, but refusing to believe something doesn’t make it any less true.
And knowing that’s what brought him back? It shreds me, because it means nothing we shared was ever real. Then. Now. I deluded myself into thinking that he loves me—that he sees past my family’s wealth, that he forgives my privilege, that he understands me.
It’s a lie.
Everything we felt. I didn’t want to see. I needed something real. Why am I surprised? My whole life is a lie. One stacked on another. It’s all as precarious as a house of cards, and Sterling Ford is a hurricane. I was never going to survive him.
I went to Sterling for shelter after my brother, Malcolm, pulled the rug out from under me again. I took a job as an editor at Bluebird—another thing I lost in the last twenty-four hours. Malcolm made sure of that. He betrayed me before I could even fill out my tax information. I can only imagine what Trish, Bluebird’s managing editor, thinks of me now. Not that she’ll ever be honest with me. I’m the boss. The owner. It’s so like my father to leave me the one thing I always wanted—a job working with books—just to remind me that I’ll never be free of him. One last demonstration of power from beyond the grave.
Because I didn’t ‘earn’ it. It’s not mine. It’s just another hand-out. I never earned his respect or admiration while he was alive. I never had what it takes. Giving me the publishing house was a pity inheritance, which is the most scathing character critique Angus MacLaine could give. In his opinion, pity was for the weak-minded and the weak-spirited. There wasn’t a benevolent bone in my father’s body. Compassion was for suckers. Leaving me Bluebird was one last dig. One last demonstration of his disappointment.
Not that he’d left us with an empire. The MacLaine dynasty is little more than a crumbling ruin now. That’s what he’s left all of us: crumbs.
Minor stakes in the company.
A few newspapers he didn’t sell off before his death.
A name that opens doors but can’t sign the checks.
A money pit of a house.
My mother’s car and…
An apartment at the Eaton.
It’s another pittance, another reminder I’m still dependent on him.
But I’m not homeless. I just have to swallow my pride and take another bit of his ill-willed charity. I’m trading one deal with the devil for another. Who am I kidding? I sold myself a long time ago. There’s nothing left to break. No heart. No soul. No will. The best I can do is find a safe place to pick up the pieces and figure out who I am now.
Daddy might have thought I didn’t have it in me. He might have believed that I was nothing but a disappointment. But he’s dead, and I have nothing left to prove to him. I’m not the property of the MacLaine family name. No one owns me. Daddy didn’t. Malcolm doesn’t.