The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

For some unknown reason, my thumb moved to touch her face, and a white heart blinked on the screen. A frustrated sigh punched from my lungs. She had over a million followers, so it was unlikely she’d notice I’d liked her picture. It was just twelve hours old and had already amassed fourteen hundred comments.

Most were heart emojis or single words like beautiful, but one of them caught my attention.

Maybe lay off the carbs.

“Fuck you,” I said into the silence of my empty gym.

That person didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. I dumped my phone into the holder, ramped up the speed on the treadmill, and stared across the way to the mirror, finding my expression furious. I was covered in sweat and had a sneer on my lips, my feet pounding against the belt and my arms swinging to keep up with the ambitious speed I’d set.

I looked very much like the monster I could be.

The comment became a splinter buried beneath my skin and continued to bother me. I appreciated the way Sophia looked. She had high, full breasts, a narrow waist, and hips that flared. Everything was proportional in her perfectly feminine hourglass, and I found her more appealing than the emaciated look some retailers pushed with their advertising.

The remainder of my run was spent considering how much money it would take to track down the commenter, inform them they were wrong, and extract their apology. Whatever the figure, I could easily afford it. I had to let that knowledge satisfy me instead of acting on it.

Once I was physically exhausted, I shut down the machine, toweled off, and retrieved my phone. I continued to scroll through Sophia’s older posts as I made my way up the two flights of stairs and turned in to my bedroom.

My feet slowed to a stop at the picture of her in a pink dress, her arm linked with a black man wearing a tuxedo. There was no need to look at the date to confirm when it was taken. I recognized the sunny background as the gardens on the south lawn of my estate, and furthermore—I was there the day the image had been captured.

It was Royce and Marist’s wedding.

I’d either forgotten or never cared enough to remember that Sophia had been the bridesmaid paired with Tate. The photo had been taken as they’d paraded up the aisle at the ceremony’s conclusion, and both were beaming a wide smile—although hers outshone his.

I’d been so blinded by my obsession that day, it was hard to recall anything outside of it. This picture was proof I had missed how stunning Sophia had looked. Together with Tate, they made a handsome couple.

Curiosity needled at me once more about why they hadn’t dated. She came from a good family, was well-educated, attractive, not to mention she was a former Olympian, meaning she had excellent drive and focus. Perhaps that was his issue. He found her intimidating.

Well, I did not.

She was challenging, but I enjoyed a challenge.

I scowled at myself as I dropped my phone on the charger and tried not to stumble on tired legs as I pushed toward my shower. The goal was to get it hot, but not hot enough that it’d put me to sleep. I’d rested on the shower bench and woken to freezing water running on me more times than I cared to admit.

Was Sophia seeing someone? There was no evidence of a man in her life on her feed.

I pressed my fingers to the center of my forehead like I could push the question away. All these inappropriate thoughts about her had to stop. They were merely the product of a curious mind weak with exhaustion.

She was helping me restore my reputation, and any kind of relationship, especially a sexual one, would be counterproductive. The last thing I needed right now was to pursue another woman drastically younger than I was. I should be focused on Evangeline, not Sophia. No matter how tempting the girl and her dazzling smile were.

You can’t have her.

That, unfortunately, only made me want her more.

As I’d instructed, Sophia wore the blue dress.

When she strolled into the meeting carrying a tray of coffee cups and leaned over to set it on the center of the table, Mr. Parsons lost all sense of subtlety. His gaze washed down the length of her body and lingered on the sculpture of her legs.

A territorial urge, not unlike jealousy, flickered inside me.

It was unsettling. The whole point of her wearing that dress was to make the men look. Why was I now displeased that they had?

Her attempt to ignore me was valiant, but as the day dragged on, I decided I wouldn’t allow it. After the meeting concluded, I found reasons to call her into my office. As my assistant, she’d been given the desk just outside my door, and she appeared aggravated each time I’d summoned her.