But still…
She places her palm in mine.
Silence isa weapon I mastered decades ago.
Most people can’t handle it. They fidget. They fill the air with useless noise because the quiet forces them to look at things they’d rather ignore.
But tonight, the silence inside my Bentley is heavy with victory rather than violence.
Blair is passed out in the passenger seat. The adrenaline crash hit her the second the engine turned over, knocking her out cold. Her head lolls against the leather, her mouth slightly open, a strand of dark hair stuck to her lip.
She looks wrecked.
She looks perfect.
I reach over and brush the hair away from her face. My knuckles graze her cheek, and even in sleep, she leans into my touch.
I pull my hand back and reach for her purse in the footwell, making sure I keep my eyes on the empty road long enough that I don’t kill us.
It’s invasive but I don't care.
I pull out her phone. The screen lights up—a picture of her and the girl who was at Red Rum with her earlier laughing withtheir arms around each other. I need to talk with Cohen about digging into this girl and finding out if she’s going to be a threat to my plans for Blair, but that can wait until tomorrow. Maybe Romeo can help.
It's dangerous as hell to do this while I drive, but I can’t wait until we get home. What if she wakes up? No, it needs to be now and if I pull off the road to do it, the absence of movement might wake her.
So I swipe up.
Enter passcode.
I glance at Blair. I’m not going to waste time trying to guess what it could be.
Instead, I hold the phone up to her face.
The lock icon snaps open.
First, I go to her contacts. I find Ryder’s name. My thumb hovers over it for a second, a surge of pure, unadulterated rage boiling in my gut when I open the message thread.
Ryder: Do you know how many times I had to fake it with you?
Ryder: You weren't even good in bed. I had to think about other women just to finish.
Ryder: You were like fucking a virgin every single time.
Ryder: Maybe that's why I kept cheating. Can you really blame me?
My jaw tightens until it hurts.
This little motherfucker.
My son. My blood. The boy I gave everything to.
Where the fuck did I go so wrong with him to make him intothis?
I tap the info icon.
Block.
I don't delete the thread. I want the evidence. I want to be able to look at it later and remind myself why I’m about to ruin his life. He doesn’t get to bully her. He doesn’t get to gaslight her into thinking she’s the problem.
