“I was drowning in that tiny house with a needy toddler and a man that couldn’t afford to take me to the movies, let alone out of the country. I left for my sanity, and I will not apologize for it.”
“Let’s be honest, sanity has been running from you for a very long time. You’ve yet to gain it.”
She shrugs with a smirk.
I continue on. “And don’t pretend you left because you were suffering some mental breakdown. You left your doting man and child because you are an entitled, spoiled bitch that only cares about herself.”
By now, Noah is fast asleep on my shoulder. No matter how unhappy or stressed I am, I would never dream of leaving my baby. I can see if my mother was suffering some kind of mental break. Postpartum depression is a real thing. However, she didn’t leave because she was sad, she left because she felt entitled to more.
“If I’m such a bitch,” she sneers. “Then you and that baby can get the hell out of my house.”
This time I smile. “Your house?” I chuckle. “See, here is a lesson I can teach you. Maybe instead of always trying to quickly marry the next big bank account, you should build a better relationship and trust with the man. Maybe then, he’ll put your name on some of the shit he owns, and you’d leave a marriage with more than clothes and jewelry.”
The smugness from earlier is long gone from her face. Although my mother is good at snagging the next wealthy man, she was never good at securing anything for her future. Every one of her divorces left her with nothing more than a little spending money and a bunch of expensive bullshit.
Which is one reason she’s had to remarry so many times. For all the shit she’s talked about teaching me a lesson, she hasn’t done well learning any of her own.
Turning to go put my son down for his afternoon nap, I make one last statement.
“Until James tells me to leave, I think I’ll stay.”
As I head to my borrowed bedroom, my phone chimes with a text again. I glance down at the screen.
Bestie:He called again. Are you ever going to tell me what he did?
Instead of replying, I stuff the phone down in my pocket. The ache in my chest returns. Why did he have to ruin all that we had built?
chapter Two
Saint
Nico
“Thank you all for coming to support the Sandra Wake Foundation for domestic violence awareness. Your generous donations help find homes and safe dwellings for victims of domestic violence,” the dark brown-skinned woman standing on the stage says.
Her words drown out as my thoughts stray. The only reason I was at this fundraiser was for Tiffany. Every year I make a large donation to a non-profit. I charged my wife with choosing the non-profit this year. She picked the Sandra Wake Foundation because not only did it help victims of domestic violence, it was ran and operated by a black woman.
I take a sip of my champagne, feeling the emptiness in my chest. Four days. Four muthafucking days, I haven’t been able to hold my son or lay eyes on my wife. My body gets hot and flushed just thinking about that shit. I haven’t slept since the day she left. The vein in my neck throb with my fury.
My crew searched everywhere. All her friends and family are monitored. I’ve even stalked her bank account trying to see if she uses her card anywhere. Nothing. I’m losing my fucking mind without her and my son back home.
“Niccolo Basille, the man of the hour.” I turn to find William Ingram walking up to me. His French bodyguard, Francois, not far behind him.
“Will,” I say in greeting.
William Ingram is the heir and now owner of the Ingram Family Group. Once a major hospitality chain, IFG has since downsized. Years of bad business deals, family scandals, and terrible reputations dwindled the nearly 600 hotels spread out globally down to a measly 163. Poor Will has been fighting for the last decade to keep the remaining hotels open.
“What brings you out of the house?” he teases. “I thought you were too good to mingle with the common folk.”
A chuckle escapes me. “I am, but every now and again, I like to grace you with my presence. Give you muthafuckers something to strive for.”
He tosses his head back and laughs. When I first moved into the hospitality business, Will’s father and many others tried to convince him that I was his enemy. However, neither of us took the bait. We aren’t friends, but we damn sure aren’t enemies.
“How’s it going?”
I shrug. “I can’t complain.”
“By the way, I saw the write up in the magazine about that East River resort. That place is absolutely gorgeous.”
