The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

“Saved by the bell. You killed my hard-on, but that just means I’ll take you up the ass next time. You’ve got a week, Mrs. V. One week before I turn all your nightmares into reality. You better believe it.”

He let go of my hair. My face hit the floor with a thud. The entrance door slammed behind me.

I lay there, allowing myself a rare moment to break. For the first time since Paxton had left, I cried, pressing my swollen, hot, and bruised face to the floor.

Curling into a ball, I bawled like a baby, the agony rocking me back and forth.

I cried for making all the wrong choices in life.

For being deserted by my husband.

For paying for his sins.

For cycling in the storm, wet and cold and desperate, and for being so freaking, unbelievably, pathetically stupid.

For wasting Auntie Tilda’s precious Cloud Wish on Cillian Fitzpatrick, who turned out to be the villain in my story.

For believing her stupid miracles in the first place.

Minutes, or maybe hours had passed before I peeled myself from the floor, slapping the dirt and blood from my scraped knees. I dumped my bag into the trash can outside the building, shoving my wallet into my panties to hide it, then went upstairs to Belle’s apartment.

My sister had to believe I had been violently mugged.

I couldn’t drag her into this mess.

A week. I wanted to scream.

Seven short days.

Before my life would be over.

“Employee compensation within the oil and gas industry is currently on the rise, and we came up with a great plan to preserve key staffers and encourage potential prospects to apply to Royal Pipelines…”

My mind drifted as my HR director, Keith, delivered what was surely one of the most boring pitches I had ever listened to in my lengthy corporate career.

Across from me, Hunter was on his phone, probably renewing his Pornhub Premium subscription.

Devon sat next to me, dutifully fulfilling his role as the head of my compliance department by scowling at his phone and ignoring the out-of-country calls that kept going through to his answering machine.

The man was going to inherit a dukedom in a few years (if he ever bothered to show his face in England), yet he refused to set foot in England.

I tapped my Montblanc pen on the table, staring out the window.

Three days had passed since Persephone had shown up at my door, accepting my offer.

Three days in which I had time to reflect on the fact that, indeed, a storm had paralyzed most of Boston’s public transportation that day.

Three days in which I’d completely forgotten Minka Gomes existed.

Three days in which I’d imagined Persephone birthing me babies that looked like little replicas of her—with blond curls and cyan eyes and sun-kissed skin—and wasn’t half-disgusted with the prospect.

My phone pinged with an email notification while Keith continued boring the room to death.

I slid my thumb over the screen.

From:

To:

Hiiiiii Mr. Fitzpatrick,

Just wanted to let you know the jeweler was sent to Ms. Gomes’ apartment earlier this morning for the ring measurements, and I have them here with me.

Should I proceed to pick the engagement ring on your behalf, or would you like to take a look after all? Please let me know. ?

Relatedly, Ms. Diana Smith, the PR director for Royal Pipelines, would love to schedule a brief meeting with you this week concerning the official announcement of your engagement to Ms. Gomes to make things official.

I’m enclosing your weekly schedule. The highlighted slots could be secured for the meeting.

If you need me for anything (and I do mean anything, LOL) else, let me know

xoxo

Casey Brandt

Executive Personal Assistant to Cillian Fitzpatrick, CEO of Royal Pipelines.

I glanced up from my phone, frowning at Hunter.

He glared back at me, mouthing fix it from across the board desk.

Maybe I did need to fix this.

My brother was pitifully soft and cared not only about his average-looking wife, but also about her hang-ons.

Then there was Aisling to think about. She had a gentle soul and didn’t deserve to mourn Persephone if the latter was murdered by some street punks.

Then there was Sailor. If Persephone was found chopped into minuscule pieces, floating in Charles River like stale tofu in a miso soup, she could lose the baby.

Choosing to ignore the fact I’d never previously shown signs of conscience, integrity, or consideration to anyone other than my dick, I’d decided to give Persephone one more chance to redeem herself.

This would be my pro bono.

Marrying a girl to save her from sure death.

Flower Girl was going to owe me so much after the solid I was about to give her that she was going to be indebted to me for eternity. That meant I could shape our relationship any way I chose, and what I chose was to see her three times a year, for important holidays, company events, and an annual sex-a-thon (if I was going to pay for her and her future boy toy’s luxury lives, I would make sure he knew who she really belonged to).