Page 48 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

Stormcan help.

“Goddamn it, why! Why the hell is this happening?” Those irritating tears start again, tracking toward my ears and causing my face to burn.

Storm. Why did it have to be Storm Sandoval?

He didn’t even acknowledge the twins.

I sit up straight in bed so fast I get dizzy.

Flashing like a horror show, I get glimpses of the hazy months leading up to birth.

Deciding that even if Storm didn’t want me, he should have the right to know his children.

Calling him over and over, ultimately leaving a goddamn voicemail with the news.

Going into early labor and realizing Storm Sandoval didn’t give two flying fucks about me.

“Fuck him,” I snap, the sound loud in the empty room.

I drag my hands over my face, wiping away the tears I can’t seem to stop, then grip the edges of the bed for balance. I have no time for this. No time to be weak—no time to focus on the past and the lies I lived under for the six months Storm and I were together.

Because that’s what it was: a six-month fling that left behind a few presents.

Raiden and Tempest. What I would give to feel their tiny bodies next to me right now.

I glance at the clock on my phone.

The kids. Storm. Zane. My company.

I can’t think about it all at once. I need to focus. One thing at a time.

Shaking off the dizziness, I try to find some semblance of control.

I doubt I’ll ever see Storm again, even if that fact makes me feel…it makes me feel. As for Zane…well, if he decides he wants to jump stupid, then he can jump stupid. I’ll be ready for him, because I’malwaysready.

So, what’s the next right thing to do?

My phone chirps with my email notification sound, bringing my head out of my overwhelming spiral and back to the tiny world within the device. A lot is happening, but the next thing, the most important thing, is getting to the twins.

Theyneed me. They’re waiting on me and have gotten the scraps of my attention, and for what?

Picking up my phone, I take a deep breath and open up my messaging app.

Yenn, do you think I could borrow your jet?

Thirty seconds after I hit send, Yenn’s bright face pops up on my screen—a stylized photo from her trip to Fiji a few summers ago. I answer the call, and after a second, she’s in 4K on FaceTime.

“What’s going on? Because you never want to fly private likeever,and now you’re saying you need my jet? Where? For why? With whom—and is their dick big?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I find myself chuckling. Yenn can always lighten my mood. In the background, the low hum of music and chatter tells me that she’s out with friends despite the late hour.

I guess, like a normal thirty-two-year-old single woman.

“There’s no dick involved, Yenn. I need to get to France, and I don’t want to try to finagle a commercial flight. Do you think King can hook me up?”

Yenn grumbles, “Oh, so you want a dick in the negative way.”

“Girl,what?” I drawl, tired.