Page 120 of Bitter Rival

“And the opposite of hate?” she prompts.

“Are we playing the antonyms game?” She rolls onto her side and props her head on her hand. Dirt clings to her dress and hair and there’s even some dirt smeared across her cheekbone. She’s such a beautiful mess. So fucking lovely and good that I don’t know what to do with myself. “What’s the opposite of hate, Daisy?”

The answer: Daisy is the opposite of hate.

“Unconditional love and respect.” She traces a finger over my eyebrow. Down the bridge of my nose. Over my lips. “If you don’t get it from others, you have to give it to yourself. We all do. In fact, it’s compulsory. It’s the only way to battle your demons. The only way to find peace.”

“Is that what the girl in the mirror taught you?”

She smiles. “Yes, it’s what I learned from the girl in the mirror. Revenge is a waste of energy. It won’t give you the satisfaction you think it will. It will only leave you feeling hollow and empty. If something isn’t serving you, let it go.”

She’s said it often enough that I guess she’s hoping the words will sink in and I’ll start to believe them. But I am, after all, a Heyward, so it’s going to take more than a few words to convince me.

I’ve devoted the better part of my thirty years to the pursuit of vengeance. I’ve been plotting and scheming for half a lifetime and I don’t regret a single minute of it.

After I made my first million, I went after the assholes who bullied me as a teen. Was I supposed to just let that go? Let them walk away free and clear? Fuck that.

I patiently waited until they had something to lose. Namely, wives and significant others. And then I made sure those women knew exactly what kind of men they were with.

If you ask me, I did those women a favor.

But I doubt that Daisy would see it that way. She doesn’t have a vengeful bone in her body. She’s not bitter or jaded. She is everything I’m not.

Once I take care of Astrid, I’ll be done.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Beckett

On Saturday afternoon, I’m on my way out the door when a florist van pulls into the driveway.

“I have a delivery for Daisy Larsson.”

“I’ll take it.” After I scrawl my signature on the device, the delivery guy hands me a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. Two dozen by my count.

I carry them into the kitchen and set them on the counter. After a brief internal debate, so brief it can hardly qualify as a debate, I pluck out the card nestled in the blooms as if I have any right to read it.

Daisy isn’t home. She’s doing a portrait session with Callie and her boyfriend today.

Apparently, it’s a big deal that they’ve declared themselves an official couple and they want to commemorate the occasion.

You would think they were exchanging vows by how excited Daisy was for her friend. “It’s their second chance,” she said as if I didn’t understand the enormity of this momentous event.

To which I responded, “If it didn’t work out the first time, there was obviously a good reason. It’s only a matter of time before the reason for their first breakup rears its ugly head and everything falls apart again.” That earned me a shake of the head and an exasperated sigh from Daisy before she strode out the door.

She hates it when I try to instill logic, and completely refused to accept that I made a very good point.

There are no do-overs in life. One strike, you’re out.

Anyway, the flowers…

My gut is telling me the douchebag sent the roses, and would you look at that? I was right.

Daisy—

You’re still my ride or die, and I don’t want to live without you.

Just give me one more chance. I know we can get it right this time.

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