The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

“It’s just a few thousand dollars.”

It’s a hundred thousand of them.

But my sister didn’t know that.

Which was the real reason I hadn’t asked Sailor.

“At least think about it. Even if it feels weird for you to turn to Sailor and Hunter, that sociopath Cillian would give you the money. Sure, he’d make you sweat for it—I swear, that asshole is as annoying as his face is sitable—but you’ll walk out of there with the money.”

Cillian.

After the suite incident, my friends and sister demanded to know what happened between us. I’d told them the truth. Most of it, anyway. About the bleeding heart and the steroid shot, omitting the part where I told him I was in love with him and put a curse on him.

Why get into the small details, right?

I’d managed to forget Cillian over time. Barely. Even the memory of him saving me faded and was washed away along with the Wish Upon a Cloud performance I was determined to suppress from my memory.

I hadn’t spoken to my Auntie Tilda since that day. That day, I stopped spotting lonely clouds in the sky and tried to move on with my life.

I fell in love.

Got married.

Almost got divorced.

Cillian, however, remained the same man who left that suite.

Ageless, timeless, and taciturn.

He was still single and as far as I knew, hadn’t dated anyone, seriously or otherwise, in the time since he’d rejected me on Sailor and Hunter’s wedding day.

Eight months ago—on the week Paxton had disappeared—Kill took the reins of Royal Pipelines, his father’s petroleum company, and officially became CEO.

How did I not think of him before?

Cillian “Kill” Fitzpatrick was my best shot at getting the money.

He had no loyalties to anyone but himself, was good at keeping secrets, and seeing people squirm was his favorite pastime.

He’d helped me before, and he’d do it again.

One hundred thousand bucks was pocket change to him. He would hand me the money if only to watch me turn into a hundred different shades of red as I slid pitiful monthly checks that meant nothing to him down his mailbox. I’d even agree to take back the curse where I’d told him he’d fall in love with me.

For the first time in a long time, I felt my mouth watering.

Not because of the pizza, but because of the solution I could practically feel grazing the tip of my fingers.

I had a plan.

An escape route.

The older Fitzpatrick brother was going to save me, again.

Unlike my husband, all I needed to do was play my cards right.

“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t think seeing Mr. Fitzpatrick is in your cards today.” The malnourished PA made a show of tossing her platinum ponytail, a venomous grin on her scarlet lips. She wore a bubblegum-pink vinyl dress that made her look like BDSM Barbie, enough perfume to drown an otter, and the expression of someone who would die before letting another woman stake a claim on her boss.

I showed up unannounced at the Royal Pipelines’ offices as soon as I finished work, asking to meet with Mr. Fitzpatrick. Sailor had mentioned that Hunter, who also worked for the family’s company, was accompanying her to her first OB-GYN appointment, and dipped early. I didn’t want Hunter to see me and pass the information to my friends.

When I showed up, Cillian’s personal assistant pouted the entire time she spoke with him on the phone.

“Hiiiiiii, Mr. Fitzpatrick. This is Casey Brandt.”

Pause.

“Your assistant for the past two years, sir.”

Pause.

“Yeah! With the pink.” She giggled. “Totes sorry to bother you, but I have Miss Persephone Penrose here without an appointment.”

Pause.

“She said she needs to talk to you urgently, but, like, refused to give me any further information?”

I wasn’t sure why the question mark was necessary. Then again, I wasn’t certain why his PA looked like she belonged in a pink Corvette, driving around with her plastic boyfriend, Ken, and puppy, Taffy.

“Yes, I know it is my job to get the information out of her. Unfortunately, she’s been most uncooperative, sir.”

Pause.

“Yes, sir. I’ll let her know.”

She looked up at me like I was gum stuck on the bottom of her eleven-inch heels.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick cannot seem to fit you in his schedule.”

“Tell him I’m not leaving until he sees me.” My voice shook around the words, but I couldn’t get out of here without seeing him. Without trying.

She hesitated, biting down on her glossed lip.

I jerked my chin toward the phone. “Go on, give him my answer.”

She did, then proceeded to slam the switchboard phone.

“He said he’s in a meeting that will likely last hours.”

“That’s okay. I have time.”

That was two hours ago.

The grand lobby of the Royal Pipelines’ management floor gleamed in gold accents. TV monitors following the company’s stocks all over the world markets glowed in green and red.

Casey was growing restless, drumming the tips of her pointy fingernails on her chrome desk.