“An email came through with the subjectJett’s trust.”
His eyes flutter closed on a sighed, “Fuck.”
“Ryker.”
“I had a trust fund set up for him when he was born, but the name needs changed. So …”
“Show me.” I can’t breathe. And when he pulls up the document, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. “This is for twenty-five million.”
The room shrinks to the screen, to the snarky comment Martina made about Ryker sending lawyers out of state, to the timing of the La Lune Noire staff day care, to him listing me as an employee here when I quit my job postpartum, to his celibacy, and to the rekindled nickname. There’s too much to ignore.
“Wasfor twenty-five million.” He scrolls, showing me the correction, which clears up freaking nothing. “Now it’s seventy-five million because he gets twenty-five million at the ages of twenty-one, twenty-five, and thirty. Plus some other things.”
“Can we slow down for a minute?” I bury my face in my hands, hating myself for how blind I was and enraged that he kept this quiet. “You set up a twenty-five-million-dollar trust fund for the child I had with another man when I was still living with that other man?”
“What the fuck difference would that make?” His voice is sharp with anguish and betrayal. Because a part of him resents me for missing his intentions, and maybe he should.
Springing out of my chair, I snap, “To normal people? A lot.”
“Well, I’m not fucking normal.” He lurches out of his seat, landing before me.
“Obviously.” I gift him my most petulant eye roll as I take several steps backward. “This is something people do for family.”
And that’s the straw that breaks him.
His tone is gravelly, his eyes brim with pain, and his long arm flings out in ire toward Remy’s room. “That boy was my family the second he was conceived because he was part of you. Andyouare my family.”
That is a balm and a bruise.Oh, my heart.
It’s then that I realize he’s only held back because of me, because I’m broken, because I ran, because I keep telling him this is too much. But what was the reason before that? Was it only since I found out I was pregnant, since the day I began pushing him away?
My greatest dream and worst nightmare colliding.
Doing my best to squelch the tremor ripping through me, I inhale and exhale and feign composure. “That doesn’t sound like friendship. How would you have explained supporting my child to your future wife?”
“Say that F-word in reference to me again, and I’ll fuck it out of you.”
If I hadn’t already gathered it at this point, it’s crystal clear that friendship is off the table. It’s on the tip of my tongue to test him on that, to spit outfriendlike a curse and watch him go feral. I really love his unhinged side, but now is not the time.
He raises his eyebrows in challenge, but when I don’t cave, he keeps inching toward me. “Why did you pick the name Remy? You could’ve chosen anything. Why that?”
I’ve known that question was coming and had no intention of hiding it. I’m shocked it took him this long to ask, but it’s still not the same as his outlandish overture of millions. “Remy’s beginning was practically a horror film. I wanted him to have something to carry with him, something to be proud of.”
That stills him for a beat. He averts his gaze, but the torment is evident. It’s in his rigid shoulders and sharp jaw, his heavy breaths and bobbing Adam’s apple. Ryker might be a nefarious owner of the underworld, but he can’t conceal his emotions.
Finally, he resumes his slow stride. “Thank you for that. We’re not all that different. Maybe you’re not normal, Merce. Most people would appreciate being cared for like this.”
That’s the cold, hard truth. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You’re right. It’s just …”
“Just what?” He edges closer, in proximity to me physically and to my psychological state. “Why does it upset you to know I cared like that then? That I still do and always will?”
I shake my head, backing up toward the door as tears cascade down my cheeks. “It doesn’t make sense. You won’t understand.”
“Try me,” he coaxes, approaching me like I’m a wounded animal, and I hate that.
I’m tired of being broken, of hiding, of pretending. I’m sick ofAlice, even if I have no clue who Mercy is anymore. So, I stop, gripping the molding by the door to keep myself steady as I spill.
