I didn’t say thank you. Any other day I’d appreciate it, but I wanted to disappear.
Aria drew herself up, her arms dropping to her sides. “I want you to know that security here at Ardnoch will protect your privacy. You’re safe from the tabloids, and you can come and go across the estate as you please. If you wish to leave the estate for any reason, we’ll assemble a team to escort you.”
Shock rendered me speechless. For the past few months, I’d dropped in on Ardnoch for a few days here and there, and anytime I met Aria, she was antagonistic as fuck. The conclusion I’d come to, since as far as I knew I had done nothing to warrant her disdain, was that she knew of my background and thought I was beneath her.
However, today a story broke in the news that I was complicit in the murder of a homeless man when I was thirteen years old … and she’d decided to be almost welcoming. It made no sense.
“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Hunter?”
I sneered. “No judgment today, sweetheart? I thought you’d be salivating over this?”
Her eyes widened at the nastiness in my voice, and I tried not to drown in them. “I was reminded this morning that I should never believe what I read online.”
Her kindness, for some reason, made everything worse. “A mandiddie,” I bit out.
“Yes, but I don’t know the circumstances. I do know that you were a child when it happened, and the man standing before me saved my friend from an assault and an experience she would never have gotten over.”
I stiffened. Aria was referring to an event a few months ago. I’d been talking with one of the security guards on the estate, Walker Ironside. He was well known in the biz as a top privatebodyguard. Elite military background. And he was Scottish. I’d been trying to lure him away from the estate to work for me when we’d heard a scream from one of the rooms. It turned out a housekeeper, Aria’s friend Sloane, had warned Walker of a member’s untoward behavior. He’d been keeping an eye on the situation and thankfully had a key to the bastard’s room. Byron Hoffman was the son of a studio head and considered himself untouchable. When Walker and I burst into his room to find him suffocating Sloane while attempting to rape her, I’d wanted to tear the evil son of a bitch to shreds.
News had just broken that Byron Hoffman had been arrested for multiple counts of rape. Rumor was that the owner of the estate, Lachlan Adair, was responsible for finding his victims and convincing them to come forward.
“One has nothing to do with the other.” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged with a smirk. “A man died. Turns out I’m the scum you thought I was.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “I never thought you were scum, Mr. Hunter.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You think I’m scum, I think you’re an uptight, frigid, elitist snob. That’s life. Now, do you have my room key or not?”
Aria’s eyes flashed, her jaw clenching seconds before she whirled and marched around her desk. She threw open the drawer, snatched up the key card, and strode back to me to slap it in my open palm. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin toward the door in a silentget out. Buried behind the anger, I saw her hurt.
That knot in my gut twisted again.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. What I said was true. And I didn’t want her fucking sympathy or understanding.
Karma had caught up with me. Maybe I did deserve this.
I was an orphan from Falkirk, a commuter town between Glasgow and Edinburgh, where the socioeconomic divide was vast. I could anglicize my broad Scots accent and mask my origins, but there was no scraping off the poverty or dirt that clung to the soul of that wee foster kid who chased after boys who’d had humanity beaten out of them from the start. They’d done things I was brutally ashamed of.Wehad.
Maybe dangling this life in front of me was part of Karma’s punishment. It wasn’t just enough to have the past catch up with me. She wanted me to feel the pain of knowing what it was like to come out the other side … only to have a better life ripped away from me.
Aria Howard was the daughter of Hollywood legend Wesley Howard and world-renowned supermodel Chiara Bellucci Howard. She’d met the fucking president of the United States. Lived a privileged life in Malibu. And every inch of her was immaculate. Not a hair out of place. Nails perfectly manicured. Makeup subtle and perfume expensive. Rolex on her wrist, diamonds in her ears. Clean and luxurious all the way to her soul.
She’d never known dirt. Never waded near scum.
She was … Not. For. Me.
I’d known that from the moment we’d met. And I didn’t need the goddamn reminder now.
Without another word, I turned and slammed out of her office.
Two
ARIA
February
From: Ariella Branch
To: Aria Howard
