Page 74

MARISELA

I ’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting here.

But it was dark outside. Nothing but streetlamps and headlights reflecting against the windows of my office.

Blinking and flashing different colors now and then.

Red, blue, white, and various shades of yellow.

Sometimes followed by the rumble of a sports car or street bike.

The sound of loud laughter or screaming carrying past the double panes.

The city was alive but the building was empty—though that wasn’t unusual.

I preferred it that way. I needed the quiet. The stillness and the freedom.

I enjoyed the groaning of the copper pipes, the humming of the air vents, and the flicking of the bulbs whenever I stepped outside the door and the sensors tracked my movements to the staff kitchen.

Not because I was hungry but because I knew I had to eat.

Or because my legs were stiff and needed a break from sitting .

Tonight was different. Tonight I couldn’t do anything but stare. Holding my breath until my body forced me to breathe again. Hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me. But the words scrawled in bubbly handwriting wouldn’t disappear.

I’m pregnant with your husband’s baby.

Another nameless girl threatening to go to the media. Another payout and another mess I had to clean up.

It wasn’t the first time some random woman claimed as much. It was just the first time it came with any sort of proof.

The letter on my desk was taunting me. The open flap of the envelope fluttering each time the air circulated in its direction.

Reminding me how some bastard with half a pint of Prescott blood—blood I didn’t share—could take everything I’d spent years working towards.

I crumbled the piece of paper into a ball, along with the sonogram that was folded up inside, and tossed it across the room.

I should have castrated the fucker when I had the chance.

Kept his shriveled-up balls where I could see them.

It was too late now. The last time I’d been near my husband’s dick was when he’d been too drunk to pull up his own pants, and I’d been afraid of getting blamed for his unfortunate trip down the stairs.

If I were smart, I would have sucked it up and pushed him. But it was too late for that too.

I cracked my neck from side to side and rubbed at the tension in my temples.

The girl could have been lying… Looking for some sort of easy handout like all the ones before her.

Then again, Tate was one quick fuck away from fertilizing a houseplant if he thought it was flirting with him.

And I didn’t want orphaned saplings on our doorstep any more than I wanted orphaned children.

I slammed a fist down on the top of my keyboard and listened to the crunching of the plastic. Was I too old to be breaking things out of anger? Yes, I was. But it still felt nice.

At the same time, panicking wasn’t good for anyone. I needed to know for sure first. I needed confirmation and then I needed a plan. But most of all, I needed discretion. The sort that wasn’t easy to come by when your last name had so many zeros attached to it.

Fuck…

I swiped up my phone from my desk and dialed out, the ringtone increasing my anxiety almost as much as the sound of his voice on the other side.

“Hi, Papa.” I gritted my teeth, while using my sweetest tone.

“I have a business opportunity I’d like to discuss.

” He mumbled something on the other side before I added, “Meet me at the house—oh, and bring your checkbook.”

It wasn’t a chill that ran up my spine. It was more like a set of claws scraping at my back.

Dissecting me from the inside out so that it physically pained me to put one foot in front of the other, my heels kicking at the gravel driveway as I approached the metal sign I left in the rearview the last time I was here.

The paint was new, the metal shinier, the ivy gone and the facade power-washed, but the feeling was very much the same.

Dread. And I hated it. Almost as much as I hated the reason for my impromptu visit.

I needed a favor from the only man stupid enough to help me. No, stupid wasn’t the right word. Adrian wasn’t stupid. But I wouldn’t call him loyal either. Insane, obsessed, too egocentric to care about the repercussions? Probably that last one.

His reasoning didn’t matter, though. Not nearly as much as the fact that I knew he would open the door.

I pulled the flask from my coat pocket where it sat next to my father’s checkbook and took a long swig, downing enough liquor to dull my nerves and not my senses. Returning it to its placeholder before extending a finger and pressing the bell.

A second later, the heavy double doors were creaking open of their own accord and I was placing a tentative foot over the threshold. Literally walking myself into my worst nightmare.

Everything was brighter, whiter, cleaner than I remembered it being. But the eeriness hadn’t changed. Neither had the antiseptic smell. It clung to the back of my throat, replacing the bourbon and triggering that part of my brain screaming at me to run .

I refused to run. I refused to be afraid. That was what they’d wanted. They’d wanted me broken and afraid. Pretty and compliant. I was only one of those things, though.

I’ll let you guess which one.

A hand landed on my shoulder and I pivoted on a heel, my blade pressing into that familiar spot along Adrian’s gut. Pressing, not puncturing. At least not yet.

He grinned. “Skipping straight to the foreplay, huh, little lamb?”

I retracted my knife before shoving it back into my pocket, next to my flask. Without letting it go completely. “I need a favor.”

There was no point in pretending my intentions were honorable. His never were. He’d also see right through my bullshit, toy with me longer than I intended on being here, try to negotiate before finally giving me what I wanted anyway. I’d much rather cut to the chase.

“And I need to see what you look like with my cum dripping down your thighs.” He shrugged. “It has been a while… Too long, Marisela.”

“I’m not fucking you, Adrian.”

“ Dr. Lambert . Remember where you are, Miss Cruz.” He turned around, not bothering to ask me to follow him. Because he knew he didn’t have to. He had the home field advantage.

This was Briarwood. You were either doctor or patient. And right now, I was neither.