Page 133 of All the Forbidden Things

Silence. It’s so loud and destructive, it almost makes my ears bleed.

“Aaron?”

“There are some new accusations being made, I don’t know what they are, but they’ve told Dikasha we may want to renegotiate the conditions once we do.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah . . . look, we knew she’d start playing games at some stage.”

“They started the weekend when she fucked with Billie. How far out is Mick?”

“He’s not long left, will be with you around five, I reckon. Listen, Max.”

“What.”

“You best bring Layla with you.”

“What? Why? No. No fucking way.”

“I don’t know what’s going on Max, knowing Whitney, she’s just fucking with you because of the eviction notice, but I don’t want to take any chances. Let’s play everything by the book and have Layla available to her if that’s what we’re told to do.”

I want to throw up the turkey and all its fucking trimmings I’d just eaten for lunch.

“Bring Billie with you. I’ll book you a hotel room near Waters and Co’s offices, they can wait there until we find out what the fuck is going on.”

I say nothing. If I open my mouth, I’m pretty sure I’ll just spew all over the dining table.

“I’ll call Micky with the hotel details, and I’ll meet you there.”

I remain silent.

“Max?”

“What?”

“We’ve got this. She doesn’t stand a chance once we present her with everything we have. I know it’s hard, but try not to stress too much.

I end the call.

“Don’t forget you need towear your Carnage shirt,” Billie tells me with a fake smile plastered on her pale face. She’s tried her best to remain upbeat, but I know it’s all bullshit and bravado. Fake, just like this whole situation with Whitney and her new accusations.

The drive from Hampshire back to London was made in almost total silence. Even Layla has been quiet. And, now, here we are, holed up in a hotel on The Strand, awaiting Aaron’s arrival.

“I’m not wearing that stupid fucking T-shirt to a custody meeting about my kid. Grow the fuck up, Bamm. Today’s a day when I need tonotlook like a rock star who’s banging his nanny.”

I hated myself before the words left my mouth, before they’d even entered my head, before I knew such spiteful words existed, but because I was angry and so fucking scared, I said them anyway.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

She looks like a little girl as she sits on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs. Because she’s so short, they don’t reach the carpet. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, and her eyes are wide as she stares at me.

I drop to my knees in front of her. “I’m scared, and I’m sorry I snapped at you. I just need to hold you for a minute before I go.”

She launches herself at me, and I hold her, breathe in the citrus of her perfume—her sunflower scent—and attempt to fight off the nervous anticipation controlling me.

“I’m scared too,” she whispers against my chest. “What if this is my fault, what if they take her away from you because I got drunk? What if you lose her?” She can barely stand because she’s shaking so hard.

“No, baby, that’s not it. It’s something else, something new, and whatever it is, it’ll be nothing. She’s got nothing on us, she’s just trying to fuck with us because I want her out of the house.”