Page 22 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

Dad lays his napkin on the table and strokes it with a wrinkled hand.

“I thought you might say that, so I have a little… incentive .” The sound of his voice, all cunning and slimy, makes me shudder.

I know him well enough to know that whatever this incentive is, it’s not one I can escape.

He opens his jacket and pulls out an envelope, which he places on the table and pushes towards me.

I don’t want to know what the fuck is in there—judging by the smug, self-satisfied look on his face, it’s the piece that will royally fuck me up the arse and play the checkmate—but I can’t leave without knowing what the old bastard has planned.

I pick up the envelope and open it. Inside, there are photos of a man fucking a girl from behind. Gripping onto her as she’s bent over a desk. She’s young. Probably underage. Illegal. But it’s not her that draws my attention. It’s the man in the images.

It’s me.

Horror seeps into every cell of my body.

I flick through a couple more images of the same from slightly different angles.

I don’t recognise the venue. The woman. How do I not remember this?

Wouldn’t I remember it? I don’t recognise her, or the room, or any of it, but it’s the most incriminating set of images I’ve ever seen.

I glance up at my father, who still looks delighted, like his final play has won the game and he knows it, and it all clicks into place.

I turn them over and slam them on the table, pushing them back at him. “These aren’t real.”

He sits back, amused. He picks up an unused steak knife and twists it in his hand. The blade glints and catches the light, making me blink. “No. But they look real, don’t they?”

Fuck . They do look real. And if it’s me in the photos and it took me a second to realise they weren’t real, they’ll fool everyone else for sure.

“The girl is real,” Dad says. “A living, breathing woman. Very compliant, especially for a fee. A talented actress too. Very convincing .” He draws out the final phrase, and my stomach turns over.

“She’s eighteen, but she’ll testify to say she was underage when this took place.

I have witnesses who will testify to it too. Say they saw you with her.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yes. You’re careless like that, aren’t you? Lounging in rooms where people are doing things you shouldn’t see.”

I grimace, thinking of Amy Moritz and her backup dancer.

“Maybe this time, it was you. Doing the things you shouldn’t have been doing, rather than just watching.

That sounds pretty believable to me. You’re that much of a fool, you’d get your dick out when other people are in the room with their cameras out.

” He laughs, and a memory rushes me like I’ve been doused with a bucket of ice water: me, as a little kid, cowering in the corner from a man I knew was insane.

But today, I don’t cower.

“You can’t do this.”

“I can. It’s all arranged.” He pokes the tip of the steak knife into the wood, marking the table. “All I need to do is press the button, and they’ll string you up.”

Tension wraps around my chest. “What the fuck did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

He strokes his chin, assessing me. “I won’t use any of it if you agree to the marriage. Say yes, and I’ll torch the lot right now.”

My shoulders tense. This could not be more fucked up. Half of me—maybe more than half—wants to leap over the table, snatch the steak knife, and slit the old man’s throat, letting the blood spill out. The other half—the more reasonable part—has me saying, “I won’t do that.”

He folds his lips, shaking his head as though I’m the disappointment.

The stupid kid who doesn’t know a good business deal when it slaps him in the face.

“Then you’ll go to jail. For a long, long time.

Maybe you won’t make it out. Despicable man like you.

Your behaviour has paved the way for this.

Everyone will believe it. Dug your own grave, if you will.

” He chuckles. “Is it really worth your freedom? Your money? Your entire life?”

Is it?

I grip the edge of the table and hold my tongue, not wanting to expose my true feelings to him. But I know he sees the weakness in me. I know he’s interpreting my hesitation as contemplation. Knows that I’m considering this. And I fucking hate that I am.

How hard would it be to marry Diana? And why am I so against it, aside from the rebel in me not wanting to bow to my father’s bullying?

Erica .

Why does she have to pop into my head at the most inconvenient moments? Would she even give a fuck if I got married to someone else? She’d probably kick me down the aisle herself. If she’s the reason I’m saying no, then I need to get my head examined.

“You have four months of freedom,” Dad oozes.

“Do whatever you want with it, but keep it discreet. Then you marry Diana. Pop that cherry.” A lecherous chuckle slips through his dry lips.

“Pump her full of pretty little Hawkston babies to secure this fucking hotel deal. After that, you can walk away. Give her a nice divorce settlement. And as a kicker, I’ll leave you the hotel in my will. ”

“Fuck you. No. I won’t do it.” I thump my fist on the table. “You will not control me like this.”

He leans back, chin propped in one hand, his elbow resting on the armrest of his seat.

He doesn’t look remotely troubled by my refusal, like he knows it’s only a matter of time before I bend to his will.

“You were always so eager to please as a child. Desperately trying to make us all laugh. To make us happy. What happened to that little boy, Sebastian?” He croaks out a laugh that has me convinced my father is truly evil.

“Tell him I miss him, won’t you? He would have done this for me. ”

“You killed him.” I push up from my seat, intending to leave before the urge to physically maim him takes over. I’m drawing the attention of other diners but I hardly see them. The world is a fucking blur.

He snorts. “Four months, Sebastian. Then we’ll announce the engagement.”

“The fuck we will,” I spit over my shoulder.

I stride through the restaurant, hoping I never have to see that fucker’s face again.

There isn’t even a trickle of love in me for that man.

I hope he dies a slow and painful death—preferably before Nico gets married in three months, so I won’t have to see him at the wedding—and that damn hotel never gets built.

But, as good as it feels to walk out on him, he’s the one with all the power.

If he wanted to, he could rip me a new one and leave me to bleed out in the street.

He’d do it too. No doubt about that. So while it might feel like I’ve achieved something as the door crashes shut behind me—my own little rebellion—I can still hear him laughing out here in the corridor, and it feels like shit.

No one wins against William fucking Hawkston. No one.