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He smirks with amusement. “It does.”
Inside, I’m boiling over, but on the outside, I remain a calm and collected adversary. I want the information. While I’m done apologizing for the whole Parker debacle, I think a little intel on Naomi will get me a long way with Megan.
“Well?”
“Josephine is faring quite well. She’s living a life of luxury she’s accustomed to, eagerly preparing for her wedding day. You can assure Miss Taylor that all is well if she’ll even listen to anything you have to say.”
What the fuck.
“What are you insinuating?”
“I know that your beloved is back in her old apartment and not living with you. Did you two have a lover’s spat? It would be a shame if you’re not there to witness the birth of your firstborn child.”
I remind myself to text Vaughn just as soon as I step foot outside this hotel and tell him to do a device sweep of the apartment and the club. This psychopath may have bugged one or more of my offices. How is he always a step ahead of me?
“It would be nice if Naomi could assure her of that herself. I’d like them to have a conversation.”
“You want them to speak after all that’s passed between them?” Fabre walks toward the suite window with his hands clasped behind his back. “You must love your fiance very much to even bother with this.”
“You know I fucking do.”
He pivots on the ball of one of his shiny Italian-made shoes, turning around with an overconfident swagger I want to crush in the worst way.
Soon.
“Then why haven’t you tried to kill me yet?” he asks flippantly.
“Murder is a delicate matter.” I stare at him with violent intent. “It needs to be slow-cooked and seasoned properly like a stew, but once ready…it will be utterly delicious.”
Fabre knows exactly what I mean.
I’m growing tired of this dance between us. It feels as if I’m only treading water, waiting for the right circumstances to strike. But assuredly, his reckoning is coming…I’m just not sure if the egomaniac believes in his own mortality or not.
“I’ll have Josephine call her tomorrow at six pm your time. Just make sure your little artist picks up.”
The way this fat fuck pushes my buttons.
Little artist?
I just have to remember this is all for a greater purpose. I need Megan to be happy, and I need her back in my bed where she belongs.She needs to see that I’m doing the work. No matter how excruciating it is.
“Agreed.”
Chapter 17
I Am An Artist Dammit
MEGAN
For the first time in weeks, I’m focused on my art, which feels incredible. Growing up, I was made to feel like an outcast in my incredibly toxic family, so I always sought refuge within my art. Sketching and painting have always been the perfect escape, but never in a million years did I think I could forge a real future showing and selling my art. Now that I am, it almost feels surreal.
I am an artist.
I am an artist.
I am an artist.
Perhaps if I say it a hundred more times, I’ll actually believe it.