Was my dad banging her, too?
It’s the only scenario that makes a lick of sense.
My father wouldn’t have left everything to her over a fatherly relationship, considering he didn’t have a paternal bone in his body.
Payton looked shell-shocked when her sister accused her of fucking him at the will reading, but she could be a good actress.
What else could it be?
I’ll find out the truth.
I’ll get to the bottom of it.
I don't care what it takes. This is my new goddamn mission.
Payton stays by the door, even as Mr. Baker returns to his seat, nodding to the empty chair he pulled out.
My gaze scans over her, followed by the scumbag lawyer.
Maybe she’s working with him?
They could have concocted the plan together.
Finally, she steps into the room. There’s a question in her eyes. Something like rage and fear twisting in one hailstorm within them.
If anyone knew the shit I’m thinking of doing to her, they would say I’m crazy.
It’s not about the money. Sure, it sucks to lose something that’s rightfully my family’s, but that’s not why I’m doing this. We have more money than we can spend in ten lifetimes.
It’s the principle.
Payton might not have technically fucked with my family’s life, but she’s the reason for our pain. She is the only one I can hurt. And I will.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
And I am about to serve hers up with extra fucking ice.
“What do we have to talk about?” she asks, making me want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m not some prepubescent teen, so instead, I glare.
“So much,” I deadpan. “Now, Payton, please make yourself comfortable. I know this isn’t my office, but I also know we will be here for a long time.”
“I don’t understand why,” she mutters under her breath before finally taking a seat and turning her attention back to the weasel shit lawyer.
If I was unsure of his involvement, it’s looking clear to me now. He definitely has a hand in this, so that’s why my plan is in place.
“Don't look at him,” I order. “He has nothing to add. He is merely the moderator.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” she asks him, ignoring what I just said to her.
I can feel my skin heating.
She is infuriating.
“Ms. Hart, other than advise you, there is nothing I can really do regarding the late Mr. Aldridge’s will. As I said before, the trust doesn’t revert to you until your twenty-second birthday, which isn’t that far off. Maybe—”
“There is no maybe!” She jumps to her feet.
“Sit down,” I fire, and I watch as she stumbles as if she’s not sure what to do.
Her confusion on how to approach this lingers in the air.
“Sit down, now.”
She does what I ask and sits back in the chair. She’s obviously nervous. My voice probably scared her, but I’m sick of this shit.
Her knee bounces while her nails sink into the skin of her palms.
After a beat, there is a tightness to her jaw that wasn’t present before.
She’s angry.
It’s not just the look that she fires off, nor is it the lines that furrow around her eyes that give her away. No. Her hatred seeps out of her like an intoxicating perfume.
I want to sniff it up and wear it.
Fuck.
As much as I hate her, and I do, she’s irresistible when she’s angry. I love the challenge her strength brings. She’s a raging inferno, and I’m tempted to touch the flame.
A small part of me wants to forget this feud and kiss her, which is the craziest fucking thought I’ve had since I met her. I put it in park and tell myself to cut this shit out.
There is no time for that now. No time for it ever.
Not with her.
Not after what I’m about to say.
“I own you,” I tell her as if I’m discussing a recent acquisition in the stock market. My eyes lower to my nails. I bring my hand to my face, pretending to examine it. I’m well aware she is fuming across the table, and it takes everything in me not to smile.
Her palms slam down. “The hell you do—”
I like her fire. It’s refreshing. It’s also useless.
There’s no way she’s winning an argument against me.
I blow on my nails and polish them against my dress shirt, sparing her a cursory glance. “Actually, until you turn twenty-two, I own you.”
“You have to pay for my—”
“Stop right there . . .” I lift a finger, treating her as I would an untrained dog. “I only have to pay for necessities, and I don’t think a house to yourself and a fancy car on top of that expensive private university is a necessity.”
“It’s not your place.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, princess.” My lips part and spread. “It is. My father, your benefactor, for whatever reason, decided to leave you this money for services rendered.”