I stand from the bed, grabbing my silk robe off a gray Queen Anne chair. “I’m not letting him get away with this. He probably heard that I wanted that house, and so he outbid us on purpose.”
“Olivia said the man’s attorney already filed the paperwork and closed the deal. There’s nothing you can do.”
“I don’t care what Olivia Barnes told you.” I put my arms through the holes of my robe. I feel disastrous. Like a tornado ripping through a city, shattering glass left and right. “I’m not waiting for you to call him in the morning.”
“We’ll talk to you tomorrow, Samantha.” Connor quickly hangs up the phone as I tie my robe and march to the door. He runs ahead of me, dressed only in navy drawstring pants, and he blocks my exit by outstretching his arms. He has too many inches on me. He is towering like he can thwart my mission. No. He’s in my way. I need through.
“Move,” I force.
“Think rationally.”
“Don’t condescend me.” I push him in the chest.
He hardly flinches.
“Richard,” I grit.
“Rose,” he retorts. “He just signed the papers. He hasn’t moved in yet. You’re going to knock on an empty house.”
“Then let me knock on an empty house, and then I will drive to his parent’s house and knock on that door. He’s either here or there. I know it.”
“How?” Connor questions, his deep blue eyes focused only on me. “How could you possibly know this, Rose?”
“Because I feel it.” I hear my voice and how unreasonable I sound, but my gut is telling me to storm down the street. Right now. I have to confront him.
“We both wanted that house, but this isn’t an end all. There are other neighborhoods—”
I duck below his arm. He catches me around the waist, his lips to my ear. “C’est le milieu de la nuit.” It’s the middle of the night.
“Perfect. I’ll have the satisfaction of waking up his traitorous ass.” I try to escape his hold.
He grips my forearms, pinning my back to his chest. “It’s winter. You’re wearing silk.”
“My rage is keeping me warm enough, thank you.” I tear out of his arms, mostly because he finally lets me go, recognizing that I need this, maybe. I have to see him.
I race down the hallway with a hurried stride. Connor follows. I don’t want to hear about other neighborhoods, twenty miles away. I had a long-term plan. We all had a long-term plan. We thought of this together, right after Halloween. And Sebastian ruined our future out of spite.
We’ve fought to stay in this gated neighborhood, to make it safe, and there are only ten houses here, only four on this particular street. The chance of another entering the market in the next five to ten years is slim.
That’s what this backstabbing realtor told us.
“There is a cold place in hell for traitors.”
Connor keeps up with my pace, passing doors along the hallway. I wait for him to make a jab at “hell” for not existing in his beliefs, but instead, he says, “You’re going to regret this.”
I hope not. “If you try to stop me, I’ll put an ice pick between your eyes.” Guilt plumes in my twisted heart for this comment, which isn’t unlike others I’ve said. I have no idea why that is, but I don’t let my mind rest to contemplate the nooks and crannies.
“Your dramatic threats don’t scare me,” he says, “so try again.”
I don’t try again. I fly down the stairs in a tirade, steam blowing out of my ears. I just keep thinking about the realtor and Sebastian, their faces on a bright red target. I propel darts at them in quick, violent succession. My mind is a grim, haunted place. This level of fury almost frightens me, my arms shaking. I think I’m scared more than I am angry.
Scared of losing all that we’ve built together. Scared of destroyed plans that I need to keep sane.
I swallow a rock, slipping on Lily’s flip-flops by the front door, two sizes too small. My heels hang off the back. I type the security code, failing multiple times to hit the right buttons.
“Are you sure fate isn’t telling you to turn around?” Connor mocks, leaning his shoulder against the door and observing my hostility with a mixture of concern and arrogance.
The security system beeps and blinks green. “See.” I point at the machine.
“I see that it took you seven tries to do something that usually takes you one.”
I raise my hand at his face and then swing open the door. The winter chill steals my breath for a second, but I march on ahead, the house in sight but a decent five-minute trek. Land sits across from our home, a nice view, and then diagonally is the closest resting mansion: gray stone with white trim around the windows, circular hedges framing the long driveway.
It’s gorgeous.
“You’re shaking,” Connor says, worry edging his normally calm voice.
“In fury.”
A gust of wind blows, a larger chill snaking down my neck. I shiver, wondering if the universe is against me or on my side tonight. I can’t tell anymore.
Connor reaches out and clasps my hand. I’m afraid that he’s going to draw me towards our house, but instead, he cocoons my hand between his, rubbing them back and forth. The friction warms my skin.
The full moon casts more light than the street lamps, and in a matter of minutes, we hike up the driveway and climb the stone steps.
Connor scans our surroundings. “I don’t see a car.”
“It could be in the garage.” I debate on pounding my fist against the black door, using the silver eagle knocker, or ringing the bell. I decide on the loudest option and push the buzzer repeatedly, the bell audible through the thick wood.
Seconds pass, my heart thrashing, and then a light floods through the window. “He’s home,” I announce.
Connor immediately draws me behind his back, and before I can refute, heavy footsteps sound and the door swings open.
Blood rushes out of my head, color draining from my face. Dread and other mixed, panicked, and incensed emotions whirl through me at breakneck speed.
That’s not Sebastian.
It’s someone much worse.
[ 11 ]
ROSE COBALT
“I was going to invite you over tomorrow for some wine, but you both are too eager to see me, aren’t you?” Scott Van Wright rests his bare shoulder against the door frame, dressed only in white Ralph Lauren pajama pants. Even skimming his features—a douchebag smile, dishwater blond hair parted to the side, and thin stubble along his jaw and upper-lip—bores cavernous holes in my stomach and then fills them with acid.
My mind eats his words and spits them out. I charge him, ready to tear out his heart and curb-stomp the organ until justice is finally, finally served.
The second I pass Connor, he snags me around the waist, yanking me into his chest and holding me tightly, so I can’t rush into Scott’s house and unleash my pent-up rage.
“Better find a leash for her,” Scott says, not even moving a muscle. “In fact, you’re already halfway there.” His eyes flit to my bare neck, subtly hinting at the diamond collar that I sometimes wear in bed, only when Connor and I have sex. It’s a large reminder that he tricked me during the reality show. The executive producer of Prince
sses of Philly, Scott Van Wright, owns countless sex tapes of ours and sells them every so often to porn distributors for profit.
There was no way we could win that lawsuit, so Connor used the exposure and publicity for his company’s benefit, and I’ve been trying to fool myself into believing we won—that my private life, for everyone to see, has no effect on my mental state. I’ve stampeded the horror of what happened for two and a half years, the very last time I saw Scott, and meeting him face-to-face tonight surges every little bit of pain.
“I hope you die,” I sneer through clenched teeth, my eyes burning and welling with malevolent hate. I have no dramatic death planned for him. I don’t care how; I just want him gone, out of my life, my face, my world—nowhere near my sisters, my daughter, and my home.
Scott mockingly winces. “And I thought we were old friends, Rose.”
Connor snakes an arm around my collarbones, pressing me closer to his body, less like a cage and more like I’m a part of him, like we share the same wrath, even if mine is more outwardly apparent.
In a terrifyingly calm voice, Connor says, “This is the part where I tell you to speak like an intelligible human being, minus the bullshit. And this is the part where you explain how you can’t—that you’re incapable of speaking on the same comprehendible level as us because you enjoy theatrics. Because you would rather piss in circles and drum at your fucking chest than reach the higher place where we stand, towering above you.”
Scott’s douchebag smile begins to fade.
Connor says, “Now that I’ve cut out five minutes of pointless conversation, tell me why the fuck you’re here.”
“You’re still the same.” Scott crosses his arms but stays leaned against the door frame. I notice the cardboard boxes piled behind him near a grand staircase and black banister.
“Except now I’m twenty-six years smarter than you.” Connor isn’t even partially amused. I can feel his fingers pressing harder along my shoulder as he holds me close.
The talk of ages reminds me that Scott is thirty-one now. He wears an expression of distaste, as though Connor stuffed something foul in his mouth. I bet I share the same contorted look. Stomaching Scott’s presence revolts every part of me. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here without lunging forward and clawing off his face.