The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

“I have no idea what normal people do, but I don’t think Sutton is anything near normal. Oh, he may have fooled you with that Southern boy act, but he’s as fucked-up as any of us. More.”

“You would say that,” I say, though I sense the truth of his words. The weight of them.

“I’ve seen Sutton date a lot of women. Charm them. Make them fall in love. He doesn’t stick around. At least I’m honest about it. I’ve never promised anything to a woman.”

“Never promise anything, never let them down, right?”

“Is that wrong?”

“No, it’s perfectly right.” I’m unable to hide the hurt. “Christopher Bardot, always doing the most correct thing. A-plus on your Honesty in Sexual Relations exam. The model student.”

His eyes flash at my tone. “I’m going to drive you home now.”

As if I would take a ride from him. He was burning for me only thirty minutes ago. Now he’s so cold I’m practically shivering. I would probably freeze to death by the time we got there. “No, thanks.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Difficult. Difficult? Oh, you haven’t seen difficult yet.”

“Goddamn it, Harper. Would it kill you to do what I say once in a while?”

“I might listen to you if I thought you actually gave a damn. Sutton told me what you did, keeping all the construction crews away from us.”

“That was for your own good.”

My laugh feels like acid in my throat. “Right.”

“I know you’re upset,” he says in an overly reasonable tone. “You’re under a lot of stress right now. Do you need more help at home? I can speak with the service.”

I want to set him on fire with my eyes. “Now you want to help? When my mother struggled for so long, so many years, that you could have made easier? Because it took her getting cancer before you let me control the fucking trust fund?”

He could be made of stone, this granite statue planted in front of me, eternal and unfeeling. “The money doesn’t help?”

The money… God, the money. I would burn it all to the ground.

Some speck of sanity remains inside me, because I know that wouldn’t help anyone. “No, the money doesn’t help when cancer cells are eating her alive, when they’re starving her from the inside, and she refuses medical treatment.”

He looks at me with his onyx eyes, and I think he might actually say something human. Something like the Christopher Bardot I met years ago on my father’s yacht. It would devastate me, to see kindness from him. It would give me hope.

A lift of his shoulder. “It’s probably for the best.”

“For the best? It’s for the best that she isn’t letting the doctors help her. They have new treatments, advances in medicine.” My voice rises, and I know I sound crazy. I feel crazy. Maybe it was foolish to expect kindness from this man, but this coldness is a new level. “How can her dying be for the best? Tell me that, Christopher.”

“Better that she goes sooner than prolong it.”

He should not be able to shock me. I know every dark angle inside Christopher Bardot. I know better than to expect anything like compassion from him, but God, I’m stunned. My mouth is open. No words come out. There’s only silence for an endless moment.

“I hate you,” I whisper. And it’s not a sexy blowjob kind of hate.

It’s a bone-deep grief.

I don’t want wine, but I take a sip anyway, letting the acid wash away any lingering taste of him. The first sob takes me by surprise. It’s loud, filling a room made for excess and pleasure. The second one I capture with my hands, shaking with the force of it. Sorrow isn’t a quiet thing; it’s an earthquake inside me. It takes over until I’m breaking apart, sitting still, trying to catch my tears and failing.

Someone appears in front of me. A large hand on my shoulder.

Then I’m wrapped in strong arms and lifted.

It could be anyone taking me anywhere. Christopher taking me home—finally, finally. That terrible prince taking me to the depths of hell, for all I know, but I press my face into the broad chest. The linen becomes soaked immediately, cold against my skin from tears that are hot on my cheeks. One long sob that I can feel in the base of my throat, and I suck in air, breathing in the earthy scent of Sutton.