Phantom: Her Ruthless Villain (Ruthless Triad 5)

The sight of the pretty magazine-worthy room made me seethe for some reason. Rage surged through my body, and before I could stop myself, I flipped over the gilded cream vanity seat sitting in front of the white French Provincial princess dresser.

I didn’t want to stop there either.

I yearned to rip down the canopy curtains from the bed crown, tear the gallery frames off the wall, throw all those vintage pillows out the window, and hang on that cute little chandelier until it came crashing to the ground.

My breath came out in short, angry spurts. I wanted to destroy this room so bad.

Okay, Olivia, you need to calm down.

I listened to that reasonable voice inside my head and went through the same protocol I employed when life got too overwhelming at the clinic.

First step: Stop, breathe, and label the feeling.

Okay, I’m.…I’m breathing, I’m labeling all the feelings: anger, resentment, jealousy, wrath—so much wrath that I don’t know what to do with it or how to function….

I breathed some more to keep another wave of helpless rage from overwhelming me. I breathed and breathed until I was ready for the next step: call Eric or Bernice.

Sure, this was a personal problem, but considering I didn’t have any friends I could talk to outside of them, I’d have to employ the same protocol.

Okay, Eric was back in California, visiting his family—not even up yet.

But maybe Bernice would be available? Her cousin-in-law, Colin Fairgood, always flew her and O2 down to Tennessee for Thanksgiving because Bernice and his wife were what Bernice referred to as “best cousin friends.”

I pulled my phone out of my purse. Maybe she’d have a little time to talk me down from this rage cliff before I completely flipped out?

I had one of those wallet cases so that if I misplaced my phone somewhere, I’d basically lose my entire life. Thank goodness Garrett had simply dropped my clutch into the brownstone’s mailbox the morning after the gala as I’d requested, or I would have been up the creek without a paddle.

Not that I could feel any gratitude toward Garrett. Especially right now.

Unfortunately, the barely controlled rage had my hands trembling so bad, I dropped the phone on the floor at just the right angle to make the wallet part’s flip-door fly open.

And out came that business card I hadn’t been able to bring myself to get rid of even after I slunk out of the Dragon’s penthouse. The phone number he’d given me before I left his grandmother’s hospital room. His words whispered through my head again.

“You ever need anything, this is the number to call.”

He’d meant for emergencies. I should only call him in case of an emergency. And this was many things—frustrating, humiliating, and enraging—but it wasn’t an emergency.

So I called Bernice. No answer. Then one of those canned responses that iPhone’s give you the option of sending when you can’t be bothered to type out a text popped up on my screen:

“Sorry, can’t talk right now.”

I knew Bernice was probably just busy, and I shouldn’t take it personally. But after my father’s announcement, my heart trembled with hurt. Everything felt personal. Everything felt like a rejection.

And that business card continued to stare up at me from the floor.

I stared back at it. And a few moments into our stand-off, I caved and thumbed the number into my touchscreen number pad.

Then I got to feel even more foolish than I already did, as I raised the phone to my ear. I mean, it was Thanksgiving. And he was an international man of business. He probably wouldn’t even answer—

“O, what’s wrong?” his voice came down the line, intense and strong.

“Hello, I um…” just decided to call my first and only one-night stand for some comfort.

“I was just calling to say Happy Thanksgiving,” I told him instead.

There was a long beat of silence. Then: “Most people send text these days. They got those Bitmojis set up for every holiday now.”

“Yes, yes. Bernice showed me how to make an avatar on my phone,” I replied, trying to match his casual tone. “I should have gone with that.”

“Nah, I like this,” he answered. “A real-life conversation on the phone. Look at us—showing all those other thirty-somethings how good ol’ fashioned talking on the phone is done.”

I laughed. And somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to ask, “Where are you?”

“At my parents’ house in Queens.”

Queens—well, that explained his tough-guy accent. “Oh, how nice. Are you having a good time?”

“No, I’m bored as fuck. How about you? Where are you at?”

“Um, I came home for Thanksgiving Weekend. I always do. Glendaver—really my dad—hosts a fox hunt every year, and afterward, there’s always a big party. All our executives, business partners, and other prominent Kentucky families come out for it. So I’m expected to attend, even after the divorce. Especially after the divorce. It’s always so important to Dad that his daughters present a united front with him no matter what.….”