Page 89 of Wicked Fortune

Matthew is The Cat.

TWENTY-NINE

“I didn’t want you to learn about it like this.”

I almost jump out of my skin at his voice, and I whip around to find Matthew standing in the open doorway, his gorgeous face reflecting the shock that I feel. Thief. Cat. Stair Man.

Matthew.

“It was you.” I want to say more, but I was barely able to choke out those words. And, honestly, no more words are necessary.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell⁠—”

“Oh, the hell you have.” My voice is like acid. “Maybe when I told you about how someone stole it. That seems like it would have been the perfect entree into the I’m a thieving prick conversation.”

He slides his hands into his pockets. “It would have. Yes.”

I point behind me to the safe.

“You stole it. My family’s diadem. The one that was the anchor for our home, our life. I told you what happened when—” My voice breaks, and I take a step back, rapidly blinking away tears. “You stole it,” I repeat, but this time my voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

It’s one word, but it is heavy with pain and guilt. Right now, I really don’t care about his pain. And I want him to wallow in guilt.

I cross my arms and glare. “So why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

He takes a step toward me, moving slowly with one hand extended, as if he’s trying to befriend a stray kitten. “That’s easy to say, but harder to do.”

“Why?” I snap the word out.

“Why do you think?” I hear the edge of frustration in his voice. “And how would that conversation even go?”

“Maybe it would start with, ‘Aria, I have something to tell you.’ And, oh, maybe we’d have that conversation before you got me into bed.”

He drags his fingers through his hair. “Do you think I don’t regret what I did? Don’t regret staying silent?”

“I haven’t got a clue what you regret, Matthew.” My voice is so brittle it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter like glass. “I don’t think I know you at all.”

He takes a step toward me, his long stride closing the distance between us. The air seems to shimmer with his proximity, his nearness making it hard for me to think. And harder to revel in my fury.

“Why?” I demand. “Why the fuck did you steal it? Just so you could put it in a safe? So you could own something pretty and keep it hidden in the dark?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, all I see is the calm businessman. This is the Matthew Holt who negotiated himself into the entertainment biz, then pulled himself to the top by his fingernails.

A career that was launched, I realize, by a dangerous leap off a diamond. “Hardline.” My voice is low and heavy with understanding. “You used the diadem to launch Hardline.”

His hands slide back into his pockets, and he moves even closer. He must see the way my eyes narrow, though, because he stops, then leans back against the couch. “The yellow diamond, yes. The diadem I sold to finance my first couple of indie films before I formed the company.”

I stew on that, because something’s not right. “You, what? Pawned them?”

“Sold,” he says, his voice toneless. “Outright. You get a better price that way. The yellow diamond by itself. The diadem with the smaller diamonds intact.”

“You bastard.” My throat feels dry. Cracked. Hell, my entire body feels cracked. As if just the slightest gust of air could shatter me completely. “That diadem is a treasure. A Hollywood legacy. And Vivien Lorainne gave it to my family. To us. You destroyed us,” I shout. “You ripped my family to shreds. We almost had to live on the streets because of you.” The words are pouring out of me, hard and painful. But not one word reflects what’s truly eating me up. Not a single syllable even suggests the true depth of my pain.

“Aria, please. I⁠—”

“I trusted you,” I whisper, my heart turning to stone. “Back then. You saved me. That monster was going to—” I cut myself off with a shudder, unable to even whisper the vile ways that fucking babysitter’s evil boyfriend would have touched me. Used me. Because hadn’t he been leading up to that every time he came into the house?