"Go home, Ryder," I say, reaching into my pocket for my keys.
"But the board... the donors..."
"I said go home." My voice drops an octave, turning into the growl that makes grown men in boardrooms piss themselves. "Get out of my sight before I remember that I’m the one who pays for the roof over your head."
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that weak throat of his. He looks like his mother, but he has none of her spine. He has none of mine, either.
He enters the club to do damage control—or get drunk, which is more likely—and I turn toward the valet stand.
I hand the kid a hundred-dollar bill to bring my car around fast. I need to be moving.
Because Ryder is wrong.
I knew.
I knew Vivienne Ashford was going to be here tonight. I knew she was fucking my son. I knew she was volatile and desperate and looking for a stage.
I’ve known about Ryder’s infidelity for six months.
I could have warned Blair. I could have pulled her aside, shown her the photos my private investigator took, saved her the public execution.
But I didn’t.
I let it happen.
I watched the train wreck in slow motion, and I didn't lift a finger to switch the tracks. Because I needed her broken. I needed her to see Ryder for exactly what he is: a boy playing a man’s game.
I needed her to be humiliated so completely that she would burn the bridge herself.
Because if she’s standing on the ashes of her old life, she’s going to need someone to build her a new one.
And that someone is going to be me.
The valet pulls up in my Aston Martin. I slide into the leather seat, the engine purring a low, dangerous note that matches the vibration in my chest.
I don’t head toward the estate.
Instead, I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and open an app that doesn’t exist on the standard app store. A black map loads, a single red dot pulsing steadily on the screen.
There you are.
I’ve been tracking her for eight months.
Illegal? Sure.
Do I give a fuck? Not even a little bit.
The dot is moving toward the lower end of Emerald Hills, heading for that shoebox apartment she tries so hard to make look like a home.
I merge onto the highway, keeping a three-mile distance. I don’t need to see her car to know where she’s going. I just need to know she’s safe until I can get my hands on her.
God, the urge to touch her is a physical pain.
It’s a dull ache in my jaw, a tightness in my chest, a throbbing pressure in my cock that hasn't gone away since she walked into the ballroom tonight in that green dress.
Green. The color of money. The color of envy.
She looked like a queen. And my idiot son treated her like a pawn.
