Page 109 of Knotted

“From the window surveillance, they’re just talking. She’s not upset. If anything, they’re chummy.”

“Chummy? What the fuck doeschummymean?”

“It means we’re handling it,” Harrison says, way too calm for my liking. Then he adds, “Chopper and car are waiting. If you can get your ass out of JFK, we’ll have you there ASAP.”

I mutter a curse under my breath and say, “Thanks.”

The ride is long, the drive even longer.

Harrison’s getting me up to speed, firing off news articles and photos—each one a punch to the gut.

Jules was left all alone to fend for herself while I’ve been stuck wrestling with the living nightmare Angi becomes when her coke high crashes.

Goddamnit.

I’ve got enough anger simmering under the surface to burn the whole damn city down, and not just at the press. At me.

I left her.

Abandoned her without a word for days.

Fuck.

I should’ve been there to protect her. Or at the very least, stop hiding the truth and come clean.

But I gave her father my word. I swore on my parents’ memories that I’d keep quiet—about the drugs, her fragile, spiraling mental state, the attempts to end her own life. Repeated ones.

How the hell do I go back on that now?

And how do I not tell my wife?

Jules, who had only just stepped out of her no-social-media bubble, is now a PR agent’s worst nightmare. She’s wearing a target a mile wide, and I’m the reason she’s in the crosshairs.

By the time I pull up to her place, the frustration has built to a boiling point. I’m ready to bulldoze through that door like the Hulk.

But then it hits me—Trent Mercer, the guy who owns the largest global media empire on the planet, is on the other side of that door. Smashing in like a wrecking ball?

Bad idea. Averybad idea.

I suck in a slow, meditative breath.

Must. Calm. Down.

Just as I get close, the door swings open, and there he is—Trent Mercer. Expensive suit, power tie, stepping into the hall like he owns the damn place.

I pause, listening, because fuck, I don’t know, old habits die hard.

Jules is still inside, and I have to strain to hear her. “I was thinking of blowing off some steam. Arcade World. Vintage games, junk food, zero booze. And spanking you at Pac-Man.”

I freeze, my jaw locking. Mywife—askinghimon a date? Of all people, a sleazeball like Trent Mercer?

The second that smug smile spreads across his face, my fists clench, itching to wipe it off.

“I’d love to,” he says, voice as smooth as cream.

I duck out of sight, behind a—what the hell? Ficus. My pulse is hammering in my ears, and I’m way too wired to face either of them right now. I can’t lose my temper with Jules. Ever. She’s not the kind of woman you win back by roaring like a caveman.

And Trent? Let’s just say first-degree murder is a bad look. Not exactly the best move when I’m trying to fly under the radar at the Centurion Group.

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