"Whatever you want, little bird," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.
He guides us toward the exit. But as we walk, I see him pull his phone from his pocket. He types a quick message, his face grim.
I don't ask who it’s to. I don't ask what it says.
But I have a feeling Vivienne Ashford is about to have a very bad Christmas.
I’ve been watchingmy wife sleep for over an hour.
Most men would be exhausted after the night we had, but sleep feels like a waste of time when I could be doing this.
Blair is sprawled on her stomach, taking up seventy percent of the mattress. One arm hangs off the edge of the bed, and her face is buried so deep in the pillow that her dark hair fans out like ink across the white pillowcase.
She’s drooling a little.
A spot of dampness darkens the fabric near her cheek.
The urge to wake her up and drag her body under mine is an ache in my bones I know will never go away, but I force myself to stay still. Her body needs to recover. The doctor was clear about stress with the baby and after her accident, and after the chaos of the gala, she needs every second of rest she can get.
My hand strokes down her back, feeling the heat radiating off her skin and the softness of her. She’s carrying the future of the Hollis name in a body I’ve claimed in every way a man can claim a woman, yet I want her more now than I ever have.
The vibration of my phone against the nightstand breaks my obsessive, wandering thoughts.
I snatch the device up before the second buzz can disturb her, sliding out of bed in one fluid motion. The hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet as I walk to the window, putting distance between the business I need to handle and the woman I need to protect.
One notification sits on the lock screen.
Cole: It’s done. Merry Christmas.
I take a deep breath and let it out, knowing the final obstacle to our future has been handled.
Vivienne Ashford is dead.
There are benefits to having a friend in the murder-for-hire business.
I stare at the gray sky outside, waiting for a flicker of guilt to manifest. I wait for the twinge of conscience that society says I should feel about ordering the death of a woman I watched grow up alongside Ryder.
Nothing comes.
Only the cold, practical sensation of a loose end being tied off.
Her first mistake was humiliating Blair last month. She doubled down when she handed Ryder the keys to that BMW. And then she gave me no choice when she manipulated a weak man into trying to kill my wife.
This was only going to end one way: with her no longer breathing.
I don't know the specifics of how it went down yet. I gave Cole two instructions: make sure she’s dead, and make sure her reputation dies with her. I wanted ruin. I wanted scandal. I wanted her name to live in infamy in this town forever.
But in the worst way.
Cole Callahan is a professional. If he says it’s done, it’s done.
I delete the message.
Turning back to the room, I check on Blair. She hasn't moved.
And I can breathe a little easier knowing she’s safe.
Ryder is nothing. James is in custody. Vivienne’s gone.
