My head is too jumbled to make sense of what’s going on. Everything that happened since he walked into the ceremony feels like it occurred in a drunken haze, although I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol.
Bryce glances at the rearview mirror. “Jude is limping toward us.”
My eyes dart to the mirror to my right. Sure enough, Jude is coming—fist raised and looking like he’s going to use it. No need to worry about appearances when the wedding’s already been ruined.
God, I hate him. I feel a sudden need to put on a show the jerk won’t forget and show him I’ve always despised him. So I put a hand on Bryce’s cheek and press my lips on his, knowing Jude can see us. They’re very familiar but also different—warm, but harder and more recalcitrant. Like I used to, I run my tongue over Bryce’s lips, then pull the lower one in and suck gently.
He doesn’t open his mouth. None of the tender passion from when we were dating shows on his face. Instead, his eyes slide toward me, studying me without blinking, as though he wants to see how far I’ll go.
My skin cools. This isn’t the Bryce from before—sweet, strong and protective. The Bryce sitting next to me is harsher and sharper, full of thorns and jagged edges. If I get too close, I’m going to get shredded.
Suddenly, all my confidence disappears.Why did I think he would hold any kind of feelings toward me?He’s only come for me because he wants to humiliate Jude. Didn’t I see enough of their rivalry while the three of us were at Harvard?
I feel like a fool, standing on a stage, playing a role I can’t possibly pull off. I sit back and straighten up, my eyes focused ahead. He runs the pad of his thumb over his mouth, then lets out a scornful laugh. “Was that a joke?”
“What?” I say shakily.
“You used to kiss better. Don’t tell me your skills have gotten rusty over the years.” He looks in the rearview mirror, smirking. “Time to let him fume in our exhaust.” He glances over. “Get it…?”
He floors the Rolls-Royce, leaving Jude behind. I can see him shaking his fist.
Bryce doesn’t say anything as the car weaves through the L.A. traffic. I stare at my hands and run the pads of my index fingersalong the edges of my thumbnails over and over again. Anxiety—different from what I felt when I was about to say “I do” in front of everyone—thrums in my heart. I’d like to believe Bryce came with good intentions, but I know better. He might’ve decided he doesn’t want to be the asshole who broke his word, but it’s taken him too long for me to trust him completely.
But he said we’d finish our talk from the office, so that means he’s open to lending me the two million. I can’t ask for more than that right now. I’ll figure out the rest as it comes along. After all, it’s become clear that no matter how carefully I plan my future, one unexpected event can derail everything.
First things first—I need to come up with a way to convince Bryce I can make regular payments on the two million. Jude forced me to resign from my job in Wisconsin and refused to let me apply for another position in L.A., saying his wife doesn’t need to worry about money. But I can probably find a job fairly quickly. I have lots of experience in marketing. Many of my campaigns have added significantly to the bottom line. Actually, my old company might rehire me if they haven’t found a replacement yet. The hours are reasonable, and I rarely, if ever, had to work overtime. I can probably get a side gig to pay the loan off faster.
So for the moment, anyway, my course seems clear. Hash out the terms with Bryce. Get in touch with my boss in Wisconsin. Find a position as soon as possible and make payments. I should consider taking Sherry with me. Now that the family’s gone bankrupt and Aaron’s turned into a gambling addict, her staying in SoCal doesn’t seem so desirable. Wisconsin’s far enough away that she’ll be at least somewhat insulated from his idiocy.
Suddenly, I realize the car isn’t going toward Huxley & Webber. Instead, it’s headed to—
A huge mansion appears in front of us. Unlike the ornate Oberman estate, this one is more contemporary, with rectangular wrought-iron gates. But the walls seem overly tall, like the chief concern is privacy, and excessively thick, like the other main concern is safety. Which is weird. Bryce isn’t some celebrity hounded by paparazzi, and doesn’t live in some hotbed of crime.
He drives along a winding road. Succulents in various shades of green, purple and red cover a vast garden with walking paths made with flat white rocks. Up ahead is a sprawling two-story building with turrets that look almost medieval. I spot at least ten security cameras, but I suspect there are more.
He stops the car in front of the mansion.
“We’re talking here?” I ask.
“Yes.” He gets out.
I follow him. The front door of the mansion is massive, made of thick wood that could likely withstand a battering ram. The inside is done in cool gray and ivory, with some marble and crystal. A postmodern oil painting in blue and red hangs in the foyer. The splash of color stands out, making the place feel less sterile.
A nook at the corner between the foyer and the rest of the house holds a gorgeous crystal case with the nameBryce Emmanuel Huxleyengraved on the latch. Inside is a long cane with PIETAS ET UNITAS etched in elaborate silver filigree. The knob is a silver wolf’s head. It looks expensive and dignified.
A gigantic kitchen boasts state-of-the-art appliances. Copper pots hang from hooks above, and a huge wooden butcher’s board occupies the black granite counter mottled with white and gray. Given how spotless everything is, either he never cooks or his cleaning staff is amazing. My money’s on the former—none of his pots have a single ding.
He takes me to the living room with two plush leather armchairs and three leather couches, all of them pale gray. The center table is a glass top supported by the sawed-off trunk of some massive tree, maybe an oak.
Remembering what happened in his office, I wait for an invitation to sit. Bryce heads to the wet bar and pours some whiskey into a glass. “Want some?”
The offer is tempting, but I need a clear head. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and the adrenaline from earlier is wearing off. “No, thank you.”
He takes a sip while studying me over the rim of the glass. His gaze is so intense, I feel like my skin is burning. “How much do you owe Jude? Two mil?”
“No. He hasn’t given me any money yet. He thought I might run if he gave it to me too fast.” That was what he claimed, but I know better. He wanted something to dangle in front of me, so he could watch me squirm and struggle. He enjoys that—gives him a sense of superiority and fulfillment that nothing else can.
Bryce nods. “Good. I don’t want you having an excuse to meet him again.”
