The next warning sign was my father’s favorite chair. It lay on its side, one leg splintered, near the front door. The door itself hung slightly open, winter air whistling through the gap.
The familiar musty smell of our house was wrong—overlaid with copper and fear and sweat. My boots crunched on broken glass from the side table. Dad’s readingglasses lay crushed beneath the debris, one lens cracked like a spider’s web.
Dark drops led to the kitchen. Not quite brown, not quite red.
Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as I stumbled against the counter. My pills were at Alek’s. Fuck! I couldn’t look away from those drops of blood, couldn’t force myself out of the kitchen.
I knew exactly where my father was. I knew what I had to do. And I knew I had to do it before the guys got here and tried to stop me.
The drive to Carter’s office was a blur of skipping heartbeats and growing certainty, uncaring how expensive the car ride was.
My phone buzzed—Alek, then Cole, then Tristan, whose victory I was spoiling with the fact that I just couldn’t stop hurting them. I silenced the phone with trembling fingers. They’d lost enough because of me. I was going to end this tonight, no matter what it took.
Carter’s building loomed, all glass and steel and power. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the uneven rhythm of my artificial valve. No medication. No backup plan. Nothing left to lose.
The security guard recognized me. Of course he did. Carter had been waiting for this moment all along. “Mr. Carter is expecting you, Miss Jackson.”
Of course he was.
I tugged on the hem of my jersey and took a deep breath, ignoring the stutter in my chest. Time to make the deal I should have made from the start.
The elevator ride to the top floor stretched forever, each mechanical click of my valve echoing the floor numbers. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. My vision blurred. Twenty-five.
Carter’s office suite spread across the entire twenty-sixth floor, Yorkfield glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I pushed open his office door without knocking. The familiar scent of cigars and bourbon hit me first. Then, my father’s cologne. Then, the copper of blood.
“Eva.” Carter didn’t look up from his desk. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”
My father sat in one of the leather chairs, hands bound behind him. Blood matted his red hair and ran down his collar. His eyes met mine, proud and determined. He’d take a bullet for me if he could.
I had to do this for him.
“Let him go.” My voice came out steady, despite the stutter in my chest. “You can have me instead. That was the original deal I offered, wasn’t it?”
Now, Carter looked up. A smile spread across his face—the same one he’d worn when he made that deal with me the first time.
“The original deal?” He leaned back, studying me. “As I recall, you offered yourself in exchange for his gambling debts. That was before you cost me millions in betting revenue and before you conspired with my son to ruin business deals. It was certainly before you thought you could take me down, little girl.”
My heart skipped. Caught. Skipped again.
“I’m worth more now,” I managed, “as punishment. Isn’t that what you really want? Someone to break so you can hurt your son?”
“Someone to break?” Carter’s laugh filled the office. “My dear, you’ve been breaking yourself for months. Breaking my son. Breaking that pathetic coach. Breaking poor Tristan’s dreams.”
He stood, circling his desk. The room swayed. I locked my knees, refusing to show weakness. My heart thundered arrhythmically against my ribs.
“Me for my father,” I said. “He walks out of here, and you never look at him again, no matter what.”
Carter shrugged. “He walks out of here, and I ignore the debt he owes me today.”
I slammed the flat of my hand on the desk so hard, it shook, and a letter opener rolled to the ground with a thud.
“Forever, you asshole.”
Carter looked me up and down, taking his time. “All right, Miss Jackson. You for your father’s debts, and I’ll leave him alone forever.” He walked over to my father and sliced through the cable ties holding him to the chair.
My father stumbled to his feet, reaching for me. “Sweetheart, don’t?—”
