Page 65 of Lucas

“What?”

“Well, it’s just... It’s already after five.” An apologetic lilt threads through her words. “I was about to head out, and I’m pretty sure the carts are shutting down for the day too.”

I glance at the clock. “Shit.” She’s right. “It’s okay. Go on home. I’ll manage.” I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair, and rush out the door.

If I hurry, maybe I can find something before they close.

I spot the sandwich cart on the sidewalk and beeline for it, praying I haven’t missed my window. The universe owes me this one small mercy, damn it.

“Hey there,” I call out, pasting on my brightest smile as I approach the haggard-looking vendor. He’s alreadybreaking down the cart, metal chairs stacked beside it. “Please tell me you’ve got something left. Anything. I’m desperate.”

He barely spares me a glance, too focused on wiping down the spattered counters. “Sorry, miss, just closed up.”

“Pretty please? I’ll take anything you’ve got.” I clasp my hands under my chin, willing to beg if I have to. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

With a sigh, he cracks the lid of the cooler and rummages around. “Think I might have one egg salad left. Probably been sitting there all day though, can’t vouch for it.”

“I’ll take it!” I lunge across the counter, snatching the cellophane-wrapped sandwich from his grip before he can change his mind. “You’re a godsend.”

He waves off my effusive thanks, already turning back to his closing duties. “Yeah, yeah. Just take it. I already cashed out the register, anyway.”

I toss a quick “You’re the best!” over my shoulder as I book it back inside, my stomach rumbling.

The elevator takes six eons to reach my floor, and I bounce on the balls of my feet, unwrapping my sandwich with unsteady hands. The first bite is heavenly, ambrosia on my tongue. I can’t remember the last time I tasted anything so good.

I practically inhale the rest, barely stopping to breathe, and toss the crumpled wrapper in the bin by my office door.

Skipping lunch wasn’t a good idea, but the missed meal is the least of my problems right now.

Father’s been cooking the books for years. Skimming off the top, fudging numbers, funneling funds to God knows where. Probably straight into his overstuffed pockets.

And now he expects me to help him cover it up. Expects me to fall in line like a good little soldier, just like always.

Fuck. That.

I may be a lot of things—a disappointment, a pawn, the discarded carcass of his legacy—but I’m not a fucking criminal. I won’t destroy evidence. Won’t aid and abet his malfeasance. Not even with the threat of his retribution hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles.

That still leaves me in one hell of a bind. If I don’t play ball, he’ll frame me for the whole sordid mess quicker than I can blink. And if I do...? I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop, jumping at shadows and dreading the knock of the feds at my door.

I’m well and truly fucked. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Oh no. I squirm in the Jeep’s seat as my stomach cramps and churns, a wave of nausea washing over me. I still have at least a ten-minute drive to the estate.

I can make it until I get there. I can.

I have to because there’s no way I’m stopping out here in the middle of the fields.

And what good would stopping do, anyway? I need to get home.

Oh shit, a spasm grips my abdomen, and I bite my lip, accelerating past the speed limit until the large house appears around the bend. Seeing it, I exhale in relief.

I’ll get into bed, curl up under the covers, and it will be fine. I just need to make it to my room.

Lucas’s Jaguar isn’t in the driveway. Good, he’s not back yet. I can sneak inside unnoticed.

After that horrible event, I have zero intention of speaking to him ever again, and certainly not now when all I want is to lie down and rest, not argue with him.

I rush inside as another wave of nausea hits me.