Page 67

MIA

I park Rhonda the Honda into the snazzy driveway of the Baldwin family’s Hamptons villa.

It’s not where Brad lives now. According to every Forbes article I’ve read, the young heir to the Baldwin construction empire favors his Manhattan penthouse, right in the heart of Soho. Closer to business and pleasure—that’s how he answered in that interview.

But I know he’s not waiting for me there. Because I’ve never been in it.

Come to our love nest. Those were the instructions. That can only mean one place.

As I walk up to the gate, I can hear the crashing waves around me. It’s been ages since I could. It gives me strength—the roll of the tide, the scent of the sea—for what I’m about to do.

Face my past.

“Let me in, you sack of shit.”

The buzzer goes off. The iron gate slides open, like many times before, its metallic noise digging up memories. My heart starts hammering in response, remembering how unsafe this place was for us, how hard we’ve worked to put it behind us.

But I won’t run anymore.

Not if my son needs me.

I walk into the garden. It’s a bare, aseptic thing, curated by some landscaper who probably got to fund their retirement with it.

The Baldwin family never spared expenses.

Brad used to make fun of them for it—millions of dollars burned in vanity projects to look good in the eyes of their Hamptons’s neighbours. He used to be different .

Now, he’s worse than they ever were.

I get to the door. I lift my hand, gathering courage through long, steady breaths. In, hold, out. I can practically hear Yulian’s voice chanting those words, low and gravelly, the scrape of nails and the warmth of touch.

I chase the memory away and knock.

“It’s open.”

Of course. Why bother getting up?

When I close my fingers around the handle, I hesitate. Every instinct is screaming, Don’t go in. The scars on my forearm are tingling. Even if I’ve shut off my mind, my body remembers.

But I’m not the girl I was. There’s nothing he can do to me today that will hurt as much as it did then.

Because now, I know who he is.

I twist the handle.

I open the door.

And there he is.

Blond curls. Dark eyes, darker than sin. He’s lounging in an armchair by a crackling fireplace, a drink in hand, clad in a perfectly pressed white suit. The flames lick at the shadows, painting him red in the low light. Like the devil himself waiting to strike a bargain.

“You’re late,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “My friend got shot.”

“Really? The brown one?”

“Her name’s Kallie, asshole.”

“Right. Candy. Hope it was quick.” He waves his hand and forgets her. “Sit.”

“I think I’ll stand.”

“Don’t make me mad now, sweet thing.”

“I have a name, Bradley.” I cross my arms and stand my ground. “You might want to learn to use it.”

“Right.” He rises, whiskey swirling in his glass. There’s no ice—it must have melted while he waited. There’s a lot of things you can accuse Brad of, but lacking a flair for the dramatic ain’t one of them. “More than one, now.”

“Mia’s just fine.”

“See, I don’t think it is, Euphie.”

That nickname shoots through me like ice. I clench my fists, steel myself. Don’t let him rattle you.

“I want to see my son.”

“Your son?” He laughs, grating and unpleasant. “Don’t you mean our son?”

“He isn’t?—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone drops low, dangerous. I can see his fingers grip the glass tight, angry veins bulging on the back of his hand. “I had a paternity test done. He’s mine.”

Cold dread grips me. This is it—the nightmare I’ve been desperately trying to avoid.

He knows. Beyond a doubt, he knows.

Calm trades places with panic in my heart. “You had no right?—!”

“I had every right!” he snarls. “He’s my blood, Euphemia. He’s mine. ”

“He’s not yours,” I growl. “He’s his own person. He’s?—”

“He’s my heir. He belongs to me, Mia.” An icy, sickening smirk spreads across his face. “And now, so do you.”

I take long, steadying breaths. I can’t let him get the better of me like this—not now. Not when Eli’s life is on the line.

“Show him to me, or I’ll call the police.”

“Sure.” He smiles at my words, amused. No doubt, he’s had every Hamptons cop in his pocket since the day he became the new head of the family. “Right this way.”

He puts down his drink and struts off, further into the house. For a split second, I hesitate and glance back to the front door.

Get out. Get help. Don’t do what he wants.

But the thought of leaving my son is more than I can bear.

I follow Brad into the hallway. I remember the ins and outs of this place like it was yesterday—sneaking in at night, sneaking out in the morning. A Montauk girl playing hooky with the local playboy billionaire.

He always talked of changing up the decor in the house once he took over. Warming it up a little, making it more personal.

And yet, everything is the same as it was back then: white, rich, impersonal.

So is the room he shows me.

There’s a glass wall separating it from the hallway. A studio, hurriedly converted into a guest room, a single bed shoved in between a bookshelf and a desk.

And in that bed?—

“Eli!”

I press myself up against the glass. My hands are shaking, my own eyes staring back at me, wide with horror.

He’s sleeping. In that empty bed, without a single plushie, not a splash of color anywhere. It’s not a room fit for a child. For Eli, who loves mess and chaos and star stickers on the ceiling.

“Nice digs, hm?” Brad says, standing closer than I’d like. “Definitely an upgrade from that shit hole you call an apartment.”

“He doesn’t have a nightlight.” That, more than anything, puts me on high alert. “He always sleeps with a nightlight.”

“Ah, yes. He did say that.”

“Then why’s it so goddamn dark in there?”

“He’s almost five. He’s got to grow up at some point.”

I stare at his frame, motionless under the covers. “You gave him something,” I realize. “You—you drugged him.”

Brad clicks his tongue in distaste. “‘Drugged’ is such an ugly word. I just tweaked his milk to help him get over that whole nightlight business. Couple of drops of Valium, three at most.”

“He needs an ambulance if you gave him any more than that.” Cold sweat breaks at my back. “Let me in. I need to check his pulse.”

“He’s fine.” Brad’s tone is annoyed now, bordering on pissed. “For fuck’s sake, give me some credit. I’m his father . I?—”

“You haven’t been his father a single day of his life.”

“And whose fault is that?” he snaps.

“Yours!” I’m yelling now, but I don’t care. If Eli wakes up, even better—I can get him out quicker if he’s walking. “You forfeited any right to him. Or do you not remember what you did when you found out I was pregnant?”

He averts his gaze. “Let’s not dredge up the past.”

“No, actually, let’s.”

“Mia—”

“You kicked me in the stomach.” The memories come flooding back as if it was yesterday. “You threw me to the ground, stomped on me, yelled that you’d never stand for?—”

“That’s enough.”

“—a bastard child with a whore for a mother. You called me a gold-digger, said he wasn’t yours, and that if he was, I’d better get rid of it or you’d kill m?—”

“ENOUGH!”

His fist connects with the glass wall. Spider cracks spread from the point of impact, ugly and jagged like the line of his snarl. He’s red-faced, panting, eyes bulging, hands twitching like he wants to?—

I step back. One step, just in time to avoid his other hand swiping for me.

“Don’t touch me,” I croak. “Don’t you fucking dare, Bradley Baldwin. Not unless you want your son to see exactly what kind of monster you are.”

His eyes clear at those words. With difficulty, he puts his right hand back down, unclenches his left fist on the glass. “I’m not that man anymore, Mia.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Always so high and mighty,” he huffs. “You want to know what Eli thinks of you? He thinks you’re a fucking liar.”

“Whatever you told him?—”

“I told him the truth. Nothing else.”

His gaze flicks to the sleeping figure on the bed, too drugged to be disturbed by our argument. My heart clenches for him—my son, my world, unable to even hear me. No doubt, this was exactly what Brad wanted.

“The truth is complicated,” I rasp.

“Actually, he didn’t find it so hard to understand.” His sneer is back now, as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. “You lied to him. You told him I was dead. Apparently, that was a big blow for the little guy. He kept going on about a promise—that you’d never lie to him, or something.”

Guilt pierces me. “It was the only lie.”

“It was enough.” He’s smirking now, victorious. “He doesn’t want to see you anymore. He hates you, Mia. You betrayed him. How can he ever trust you again?”

I want to call Brad a liar.

But I know, in my heart, he’s not lying about this.

Eli’s pure. He’s too honest for his own good, and very strict about it. I’ve been dreading the day we’d have to talk about this—how he’d react, if he’d ever forgive me. I wanted to wait until he was old enough. Until he could understand.

But now, that choice has been taken from me.

“Face it,” he says. “You’ve lost him. He doesn’t want you anymore, and I’m sure as fuck not going to give him back.”

Those words light a fire under me. “Yulian will never let that happen,” I say. “He’s far more powerful than you, and he cares about us. He?—”

“‘ Cares’ ?” Brad barks out a laugh. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured out what?”

“That he’s been working for me, too. Isn’t that right, Tammy?”

Suddenly, a figure slips out from the shadows. Blond, slender, pretty. Smiling like she’s sipping cocktails at a pool party, dressed in nothing but an oversized men’s shirt I immediately recognize as Brad’s.

Tamara.

I’ve never wanted to punch someone in the face so bad.

“Tell her,” Brad urges, grinning. “Tell her how Yulian hired you. Tell her what instructions he gave you.”

“I was supposed to earn your trust.” Her delicate Russian accent rolls off her tongue like sugar. “Keep the boy close, wait for the right time. Then I’d take him back to his father, and he could keep you instead.”