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I would decide who deserved his fear. I would decide who deserved him.

Long before the rest of the world ever got the chance.

Chapter 27

Richard

The drive up the coast had been a fucking irritation from the first mile.

Traffic clotted the highway, sun glaring off the windshield, and the whole time I knew exactly what waited at the end of it.

Maggie.

Emotional. Needy.

Probably halfway through another bottle by now. Two months I’d been gone, handling real shit, including Samantha’s pregnancy, Seth’s birth, and the endless demands of a legitimate life. Maggie had turned it into her own personal tragedy. I could already picture the scene: tears, accusations, that emotional wounded look she wore like a badge of honor.

I’d given her the beach house because it was isolated. Far enough from the city that no one would stumble across it. Ocean views, high-end finishes, the kind of place women like her dreamed about while they were still shaking their asses on poles for tips. I’d handed her the keys and told her this was it. No more stripping. No more grimy apartments. No more wondering where the next check came from. She’d cried then too, but those had been grateful tears.

The moment I killed the engine in the driveway, the irritation sharpened into something colder. The place looked wrong. Overgrown shrubs choked the landscaping in patches, sand had drifted across the stone path from the dunes. I’d paid good money for a service to maintain it. Apparently they’d stopped bothering. The sheer fucking nerve of it all, on top of everything else, made my jaw clench. I wasn’t walking into this unprepared for whatever tantrum she was about to throw.

I reached into the glove compartment, pulled out the small vial, and tapped two quick bumps onto the back of my hand. I snorted the coke quickly. The familiar burn hit the back of my throat as I rubbed my nose, everything softening just enough to keep me less agitated.

Better.

Now I could deal with her.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The smell hit first: stale smoke, sour alcohol, something faintly rotten underneath. The immaculate house I’d gotten for her had turned into a goddamn squat. Empty liquor bottles lined the kitchen counter like trophies. An overflowing ashtray balanced precariously on the edge of the marble island, ash scattered across the surface. Dishes crusted with food sat in the sink. The curtains were all drawn. Expensive throw pillows were stained and crumpled on the floor. The white roses I had delivered weeks ago were dead in their vase, brown petals shriveled and floating in murky water.

I stood there in the foyer, keys still in my hand, and felt no pity. Just a slow burn of contempt.

She was throwing a tantrum. That’s all this was. A spoiled child smashing her toys because Daddy didn’t call.

I’d given her everything she needed. Financial security. Freedom from that degrading strip club existence. Clothes that actually fit her properly instead of cheap club shit. Jewelry that caught the light when she moved. Privacy, no nosy neighbors, no ex-clients showing up. A beautiful home by the fucking ocean. And still she made new problems. I’d given her the world on a silver platter, and she’d decided to shit on it. She’d been living in this cave, marinating in whatever narrative she’d built about me abandoning her.

Pathetic.

I found her in the master bedroom.

She was curled on the chaise by the window, wearing one of my blue button ups that had seen better days and nothing else. She’d lost weight, too much. Her collarbones stood out sharply, cheeks hollowed. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair hung limp and unwashed, blonde strands plastered to her forehead. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the floor beside her, and the ashtray beside it held fresh ashes and cigarette butts. She looked up when I entered, eyes widening for a split second before the walls came back up.

I could have asked if she was okay. Clearly, she wasn’t, and I didn’t care.

“Well, looks like you’ve let yourself go.”

The words landed like a slap. I watched her flinch, watched the color drain from her already pale face. Good. Maybe it would wake her up.

“Richie…” Her voice cracked. She sat up slowly, pulling the shirt down over her thighs like she suddenly cared about modesty. “Why the fuck did you disappear? Two months. No calls. Nothing.”

I shrugged, loosening my tie. “Samantha had the baby. I’ve been home with my wife and son.”

It was the complete explanation as far as I was concerned. But I saw it hit her, the confirmation of every fear she’d been nursing in this stinking house. Her blue eyes filled, but she didn’t cry yet. Instead she started listing it all, voice rising with each item like she was building a case in court.

“I waited for you. I cooked your favorite meals and let them go cold. I changed everything for you. Gave up stripping. Moved out here into this… isolated hell hole. I thought this house meant something. That we were building a future.”

I looked at her for a long moment. The dead flowers. The bottles. The woman who used to light up a room, now reduced to this.

“Would you rather be back in your shitty old apartment?”