Page 7 of Ruthless Lord

Charlie

O ne day earlier…

I find my father in his study. He’s leaning back in a large, overstuffed Eames chair, feet up on the ottoman section, as loud jazz blares in his face.

His eyes are closed and his narrow lips are pressed together.

His bald head gleams in the soft overhead lighting.

Speakers worth more than a small house make the walls and the thousands of records lined up in stacks vibrate ever so slightly.

Dad doesn’t look back at me, but he knows I’m here. He wants me to stand awkwardly while his favorite piece of music comes to a roaring end, and only then will he finally grace me with his attention.

Screw that. I march over to the turntable and lift the needle off the record.

I do it carefully, though.

I’m not a monster, and it isn’t the record’s fault my dad’s a prick.

His eyes open and he frowns at me. I face him, hands on my hips. A few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of high-end audio gear is stacked all around me. It’s hard not to note that my father’s study has almost nothing related to business anywhere.

“I see you’re home.” His voice is low and crinkly. I’m pretty sure it’s put on for effect, but I really don’t know.

“Albert told me you wanted to talk.” Some of my confidence starts to drain away as my father smiles like he knows something I don’t.

“Yes, that’s correct. Come, take a seat.” He gestures at another chair set off to the side. Out of the “sweet spot,” the place in the room where the music sounds the best. Since guests don’t deserve that experience.

I hesitate but end up shuffling over as he continues to glare at me. I sink down into the seat, perched on the edge.

“You smell like smoke and alcohol,” he says, nose wrinkling.

“What do you want, Dad?”

“I thought we might have a friendly conversation.”

I laugh once, even though it’s not funny. “We haven’t had a friendly anything since Grandfather named me as his heir.”

Dad’s frown somehow deepens. He’s good at looking disappointed. I’ve been finding new ways to make his face look pissed all my life, but it never fails to amaze me how many new expressions he has for sheer and utter disgust.

“There’s no need to bring that into this now,” he says softly. “I only wanted to ask you about your evening. Did you have a nice time at the warehouse?”

I keep my chin raised, even while inwardly I’m freaking out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, Charlotte. We both know I receive updates on the happenings at our business. From what I hear, you had a very interesting night.”

Anger grips me. I really need to stay under control, but I can’t help myself. “Sounds like you already know what happened to me. Not going to ask how I’m doing?”

His eyebrows lift in mock surprise. “I didn’t know you needed that. Seems you were already taken care of.”

I could puke. I really hope that isn’t innuendo coming from my own father. “Someone helped me, if that’s what you mean, no thanks to your asshole security team.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’m sure they would’ve gotten to you eventually.”

“Right, after I was stabbed to death. Which would’ve been nice for you, right? One less daughter and one less problem.”

“The thought had occurred.”

“What do you want, Dad?”

He sighs dramatically and gets up. I keep myself under control and refuse to let him see me squirm. I’m exhausted from having sex for most of the night and still aching between my legs, and I’m deeply aware of how badly I need to shower. But I don’t let any of that show on my face.

Give this man a glimpse of weakness and he’ll pounce.

“Do you know who it is you went home with last night?” He takes the record off the turntable and puts it back into its sleeve.

“I know the man who helped me is named Stefano.”

“That’s right. Stefano Bianchi.” He slips the record back into the wall, carefully and lovingly running his fingers over the spines.

I don’t think he’s ever looked at me like that a single time in my life.

I’ve been letting him down since the day I was born, and that’ll never change.

“A very dangerous man, by all accounts. And what, twenty years older than you?”

I grimace slightly and have to look away. I didn’t realize he was that much older than me…

“What’s it matter how old he is? Stefano saved my life.”

“I suppose it’s good you thanked him so thoroughly then.”

That’s a step too far. I stand up, blazing with rage. I’m aware of how precarious this situation is, but I can’t help myself. “If all you’re going to do is make baseless accusations?—”

Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Baseless? Oh, Charlotte. You should know me better than that by now.”

My stomach drops. Because I really do know him. Maybe better than anyone in the world. My father is a snake and a slime. He’s rotten mold at the bottom of a leaking bathtub. He’ll kill without a second thought so long as it gets him what he wants.

And all he wants is my inheritance.

“Bullshit,” I snap, trembling. I want to get out of here right now, but I have to call his bluff first. “You have nothing.”

“Actually—” He walks over to a fancy table covered in old tube audio gear. There’s a folder lying at the end. He picks it up and brings it over with a tight smile. “Take a look.”

I flip it open and nearly scream.

It’s me and Stefano. In the photos, I’m entering Stefano’s house. Then it’s a grainy, zoomed, tight shot of me, topless, barely glimpsed through a set of blinds, clearly taken at a distance with a high-powered camera lens, my eyes are closed in pure bliss?—

I snap the folder shut. There are more photos, but I don’t want to see them.

I feel sick. I might throw up. I can’t believe this is happening.

How could I have been so stupid? His blinds were open? But knowing my father and his little minions, Stefano could’ve had the best curtains in the world, and they would’ve found a way to get the evidence they need.

“I’m your daughter,” I whisper, wanting to vomit all over my father’s expensive audio toys.

“Yes, I’m aware. Imagine how I felt when I was given those?” He clucks his tongue and sighs. “I took one look and knew they were very bad. What is your grandfather going to think, Charlotte?”

I can’t cry. I won’t give him that satisfaction. But tears flood my eyes anyway. I’m choked by them and have to take a second. I toss the folder aside, tempted to rip it to pieces, but there’s no way these are his only copies.

How could I be so stupid?

I knew my father wanted to destroy me. I’ve known it for years.

It’s like the second I became Grandfather’s primary heir, suddenly I was dead to everyone else in my family.

My father’s been trying to destroy me. My mother’s been treating me like a diseased freak.

Aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone sneers behind my back just waiting to sink a dagger deep into my spine.

No wonder I spend all my time at the warehouse pretending to be anyone else.

My own family despises me.

“You’re sick,” I finally manage to whisper. “Even for you, this is low.”

“Perhaps, but we both know how your grandfather is. He’s very traditional, dear. If he knows you’ve been fucking some mafia thug—” Father laughs lightly. “I suspect he’ll lose his mind.”

“What do you want?” But I already know. I stare at my father, loathing pooling in my toes, feeling like I’ve fallen off a skyscraper. I’m nothing but pulp on the sidewalk now. Just a smear of human meat.

But Dad’s smile hammers me even lower.

“Nothing.”

I pause a beat and let that sink in. “Nothing? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Charlotte, think for a second.” He checks his watch, smile getting bigger. “What time does my father wake up every day?”

Suddenly, horror hits me. I look at my phone. It’s a little past eight in the morning. “He didn’t know yet.”

“That’s right. I called you in here to keep you busy until your dear, beloved old grandfather had a chance to see those photos.” Dad selects a record and puts it on the turntable. “I have a feeling he’s getting quite the shock.”

“You sick bastard.”

“I’m the sick one?” He has the gall to look surprised. “You’re the one that slept with some disgusting criminal pig. Really, Charlotte, a fighter? A man so far beneath you? Ah, well, it’s better it ended this way, don’t you think?”

The opening lines of Queen’s “We Are the Champions” come on, Freddie Mercury’s voice like velvet, and I run the hell out of my father’s office, careening into the hallway.

It’s not too late.

Grandfather’s only been awake for ten minutes at most. He might not have seen the folder yet. If I can get to him first and explain, maybe I can salvage this. Somehow, I can make Grandfather understand.

As I run to his wing of the mansion, I wonder why I’m even doing this.

A part of me thinks it’s better this way. Give up the inheritance. Forget about the Westwood business empire. I’d be better off living on my trust fund for the rest of my life. I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone I want.

I don’t need this place or any of these hateful people.

But the family is mine. Even if they think I’m a worthless shrew who doesn’t deserve to inherit, it’s still mine.

Grandfather saw something in me. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knows. He turned me into what I am now. He made me clever and strong. And maybe I made a mistake with Stefano, but so what? Who doesn’t screw up? Grandfather’s not perfect. He’ll understand.

If I can get to him first.

I spring to his personal room. A maid’s outside the door, and she looks startled as I barrel toward her. “Is he in bed still?” I ask her, breathing hard.

She’s young, one of the newest members of the staff. It takes me a second to remember her name is Emily. “No, Miss Charlie, he’s having breakfast.”

I groan out loud. “I’m going in.”

“But he’s not expecting you, and you know we have orders?—”

I slam the door open. Grandfather’s morning breakfast hour is sacrosanct. No distractions, no interruptions. But to hell with that.

I storm into his suite.