"You want blood," he murmurs, sounding almost proud.
"I want everything," I correct. "I want his legacy. I want his pride. I want him to hurt."
Gabriel smirks. It’s a cruel, beautiful thing.
"Then we’ll take it all," he promises.
He looks over my head at Harper.
"You're the graphic designer," he says.
"I am," Harper answers, crossing her arms.
"Good. We’re going to need a rebranding strategy. And a forensic accountant. I have the accountant. You handle the image."
"Done," Harper says, grinning sharply.
Gabriel looks back at me. The heat in his gaze burns through my clothes.
“And that’s my cue to go,” Harper says, standing up. “Text me, B.” And then she’s gone.
"Go get dressed," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that makes my thighs clench. "We’re going to dinner."
"To celebrate?" I ask.
"To plan a war," he says. "And because you look far too good in my clothes, and I have about one second of restraint left before I bend you over this table and show you exactly how much I missed you today."
My breath hitches.
"It’s been more than a second," I say, clenching my thighs together as a wave of heat sweeps up between my legs.
"Blair," he growls, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
"I'll go," I say, stepping out of his reach before I do something reckless like beg him to forget about dinner.
I grab my clothes and head for the bathroom to get ready, casting one last look at the laptop screen.
Ryder Hollis made a mistake. He thought he was burying me.
He didn't realize he was planting a seed.
And now, with the devil himself by my side, I’m going to grow into his worst fucking nightmare.
While Blair gets ready,I make a call.
Four inches of paper sit on my desk. I’ve just finished printing everything Blair discovered out and stacking it together.
It’s a heavy, dense brick detailing the complete and total destruction of my son’s life, and looking at it gives me a sick sense of satisfaction.
Pages crackle in the silent office as my thumb catches the corner. It’s all here. The unauthorized transfers from Blair’s accounts. The emails sabotaging her clients. The receipts from hotels where he took women who weren’t her. The gambling debts he thought he was hiding from me.
A manifesto of failure.
His failure as a man, yes. But my failure as his father, too.
"I’ve still got the disinheritance papers," Cohen says on the other end of the line. "We can file them in the morning. Cut him off. Freeze the accounts. It’s a kill shot."
A photo attached to the file catches my eye. Ryder leaving a motel in Mulberry with a blonde who looks like she charges by the hour.
