“I really don’t,” he said with reluctant acceptance. “He has more integrity than I expected.”
I reached into the bag for the the breakfast potatoes, burned like they’d been sent to the brink of hell, just how he knew I would want them.
They tasted like freedom. They tasted like love.
They tasted likehome.
Through a mouth of homefries, I told Dad, “I’ll do what it takes to convince him. If he tells me that it’s him or the job, you can expect my resignation.”
Dad’s expression tightened before a small nod.
“If he’s willing to come back here, I’m moving in with him. even if it’s in,” I swallowed the lump in my throat, thinking of how much I adored his family, “Queens.”
“Queens?” Dad winced, appalled that I’d consider an outer borough.
“Whatever it takes,” I said. Richard said that love was a luxury I couldn’t afford … but it turns out, it doesn’t have a price tag.
Connor's silhouette stood frozen in the doorway. His gaze darted between us. “Need a few more minutes?”
“No, I’m ready to go,” I said, turning to my dad. “If you want to remain part of my life, personally or professionally, you’ll back me to remove Spencer. You’ll speak out against the harm he’s caused."
When Dad nodded, I continued. "I need somebody I trust as my right-hand, somebody who won't go behind my back to sabotage my happiness. So next week, you'll start training Connor as your successor." I didn't have to keep all of this on my shoulders—he would share the load, if I asked him. "Is that ok with you?"
Connor nodded, speechless. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and even though I could feel his muscle tremble under my palm, I gave his arm a gentle squeeze.
Dad's eyes seemed to twinkle with respect and a newfound sense of purpose. He'd been bearing the responsibility of keeping Sinclair Larssen running for over twenty years, and he hadn't had somebody trustworthy at his side like I did. His posture relaxed, like he'd been waiting for somebody to share the load.
I rolled my suitcase toward the exit, with one final thought for my father. "And you’ll apologize to Cruz when you see him next. On your knees, if that’s what it takes.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Just like I’m about to do.”
Dad nodded. “Go get him, Princess.”
“I’m not a princess,” I said, flashing my teeth. “I’m a goddamn cobra.”
"Nothing Comes 2 U," Prince, Sinead O'Connor &/or Chris Cornell
Cruz
Iwasagoddamnidiot. My tombstone will read:Here lies Eric de la Cruz, who threw away millions and starved on his foolish pride.
I’d thrown that check in Arthur Blackstone's face like a self-important asshole, feeling a puff of pride that I hadn’t let him buy me off … and the minute his towncar pulled away, I choked on my regret.
I fled down the side alley of the diner to hide. Doubled over, gasping, gripping my chest where it felt like my heart was breaking all over again. My back scratched against the brick wall until my ass hit the wet pavement. I grappled for my phone. With shaking hands, I called Kate and choked out the diner’s name.
She found me ten minutes later and brought me back to her and Paul’s house for a nap in her guest bed, explaining that panic attack hangovers were normal and exhausting. When I woke up, we took a slow walk around her neighborhood while I told her everything—because if anybody could understand the regret of walking away from a Devil’s bargain, it was Kate.
I wanted to hole up on her couch under a blanket fort, watch baseball and pretend I wasn’t the world’s biggest moron. And for a few hours she let me, because she’s the best friend imaginable. Until she convinced me I’d feel better if I showered and put on clean clothes for a low-key dinner. Her treat, she insisted, because my integrity wouldn’t buy me shit.
It wasn’t until she suggested dinner that I realized I’d missed recording today’s video. Kate assured me that it was okay … and it was. What did I think would happen? Victoria would finally respond, like I was ringing a bell and she’d salivate like a fucking dog? Of course nothing fucking changed.
When Kate drove to Fucking Donnelly’s, my stomach lurched. “No, please not here. Not today.” I couldn’t face those memories of meeting on the dance floor, singing with her on that stage … but Kate insisted she had a reason, so I trudged behind her into the bar.
As Kate ordered herself a glass of Merlot and forced a beer bottle into my hand, I sank lower in my seat, replaying the last time I’d been here. From behind the drum kit, I’d seen the glimmer of her copper hair even under the stage lights.
“Cobrecita,” I’d said after taking the guitar, “get that sexy ass up here and sing with me.”
She’d glared, pretended to be angry, but I’d seen her nerves beneath. Cool on the outside, as always, but I’d been close enough to see her hands shaking. She let me see the fear paralyzing her beneath her bravado. Her eyes locked on me: her port in the storm.
Her voice had leached into my bones. Her gaze had seen into my soul. She belted about not caring what other people said because they knew nothing about our love.
