Page 150 of Morally Black Betrothal

“Why don’t we all go upstairs?” I suggested between my teeth as the elevator door opened.

Simone looked obviously relieved. “Thanks, yeah. Where’s Kylie?”

There was no answer. Selena stared at me for the entire ride up, like she wasn’t totally sure she wanted to speak in front of me.

Well, too fuckin’ bad. I wasn’t about to leave her alone with Simone either. Not like this.

Her silence at least allowed me to observe their differences. Though Simone had told me they were identical twins, I wouldn’t necessarily have thought so. The foundation was there, of course. Same height, same approximate size and weight, same facial features. But while Simone was the picture of health with clean, makeup-free skin and her lush hair pulled back into a thick bun at the base of her neck, her sister was the kind of mess that takes years to make with alcohol, sun damage, and hard living. She had tried to mask it all with things like fake eyelashes, cheap hair extensions, and the heavy makeup smeared from crying. But next to Simone, she looked like a bad photocopy of an original piece of art.

She was just plain ugly. Not physically—she looked too much like her sister for me to ever think that. But I wasn’t even a little bit attracted to the woman because of how evident her soul had damaged her looks. I had spent all of two minutes with Selena Bishop, and I already knew she was a poison I wanted as far away from the woman I—well, if not loved, certainly cared about.

And yet I’d just invited this toxin into our home.

The elevator opened, and Selena dragged Simone inside like the place belonged to her, not me.

“Holy shit,” she said as she took in the staircase, the living room, and the views of Boston. “So this is how the one-percenters live.”

“The office,” I said. “It would be a good place to talk.”

Simone nodded and directed her sister down the hall to the spare office that was more for guests than for me. I had my own upstairs.

I closed the door behind us.

“All right, Sel,” Simone said. “Let’s hear it.”

I quirked a brow, a bit surprised. I’d never heard that tone from her before—one where she was taking charge and even standing up for herself a little bit. I liked it. A lot.

Selena flopped into one of the chairs opposite my desk like a disgruntled teenager. “I tried, Simmy. I really did.”

“Tried what?” I wondered under my breath. “Basic manners?”

Simone shook her head at me, then turned to her sister. “What exactly happened? Where is Kylie?”

“It’s Ezra. I gave him the money. But…” Selena’s bottom lip quivered as she looked over at me. “He saw the news. He saw you.”

I frowned. “Who saw me?”

“The man my sister owed money to,” Simone said quietly.

I leaned back against the door and crossed my arms. “Why would it matter if he saw me? Lots of people know who I am.”

“Well, he saw you with me. Or, he thought it was me, even though it was Simone.” Selena bit out the words like they tasted bad.

I tipped my head. I didn’t particularly like her tone. Or the idea that anyone could confuse the two of them. Would you confuse a Hyundai for an Aston? Powdered milk for the real thing?

Simone touched her sister’s arm. “Did you tell him it was me and not you?”

“He figured it out. Obviously, someone like me wouldn’t be shacked up with this guy.”

Again, that bitterness. My impression of Selena Bishop was quickly shifting from irritation to significant dislike.

“How much?” I asked. Better get to the point.

“Brendan, I don’t think that’s what she’s here for,” Simone said lightly.

I shook my head. “It’s why she’s here, angel. Isn’t it, Selena?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at me, but she didn’t argue.