Page 51 of Sixty Days Of Summer

My pulse spikes, anger bubbling up, ready to explode. He’s feeding them the exact bullshit they want—painting me as the fucking villain.

I hurl the remote at the wall above the TV, the plastic cracking against the drywall before bouncing off and clattering to the floor. But the impact doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the rage boiling inside me; it only fuels it, making me want to lash out even more.

Goldman leans in closer, his eyes narrowing as he ramps up the tension. “So you’ve witnessed Ace Roberts snap? Can you share what that moment was like and what led up to it?”

“Well, Jerry, it was just before I threw him out of the house for his violent outburst. Lola and I were hanging out in the house one day, and he came in wanting something—”

“What did he want?” Goldman presses, eager for more dirt.

“Well, you know what, Jerry, I can’t really remember,” the asshole replies, casting a glance at my mother.

“You can’t remember, you lying piece of shit, because it never fucking happened!” I scream at the TV.

“Go on, tell us what he did,” Goldman presses. He’s practically salivating, ready to feast on the drama.

“I caught him stealing money from my wallet,” the asshole says, leaning in like he’s about to drop a bombshell. “When Lola confronted him about it, he just lost it. He grabbed her by the throat and threw her to the floor. That’s when I knew I had to get him out of the house, because if he stayed, I shudder to think of what could’ve happened next.” He glances at my mother, his smirk widening. “I knew I had to do what was right. No man should ever lay a hand on a woman, especially not a son against his mother.”

“So, Lola, your son Ace actually physically assaulted you. He grabbed you by the throat and threw you to the ground,” Goldman says, pausing to emphasize the moment, as if he’s savoring the drama.

“No, I fucking didn’t!” I scream at the screen, desperate for my voice to break through the barrier between us and set the record straight.

Something inside me snaps. My vision goes red, and before I can think twice, my hand is reaching for the lamp beside the bed. The anger surges through me like a wild current, and I feel like I might explode.

My mother’s face flashes onto the screen, eyes brimming with fake tears. At this moment, I know that anyone watching—especially with Jerry Goldman, the ratings king, leading the charge—will probably believe every word this bitch spews, painting me as the villain in her bullshit story.

“Yes, that’s true, Jerry,” my mother sniffs, delicately dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Ace Roberts is a violent man.”

The rage detonates inside me like a fucking bomb. I snatch the lamp off the bedside table, the cord yanking out of the wall with a violent tug as I hurl it straight at the TV. The lamp crashes into the screen with a sickening crack, glass splintering everywhere as the image distorts and fades to black. But even that destruction fails to calm the storm raging within me—it’s not enough. Not even close to the release I need.

I jump off the bed, fists clenched, and grab whatever I can find to unleash my fury. The chair goes flying across the room, crashing against the wall. The coffee table gets flipped over and slammed into the drywall until it splinters into pieces. Next, I target the mirror above the dresser, my fist smashing into the glass, shattering it into a million shards. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my hands raw, but none of that matters. Nothing fucking matters because all I can hear is her voice echoing in my head, branding me as a monster. And maybe that’s exactly what I am.

Chapter 18

Scarlet

The elevator dings, and I step out into the hotel corridor, cool air sweeping over my skin as I head back from the pool. My damp hair sticks to my shoulders, and I pull the towel tighter around me. It’s been a long day, and all I want now is to collapse into bed and sleep.

As I pass Ace’s room, a loud crash stops me in my tracks—something heavy slamming against the wall. I freeze, my heart racing as I strain to listen. Another crash follows, accompanied by a string of furious curses. What the hell is going on?

I move closer, every nerve on high alert. The sounds intensify—glass shattering, objects being smashed. My chest tightens, as a sense of worry creeps in.

Taking a deep breath, I press my ear against the door, straining to make sense of the chaos inside. My mind races—Ace isn’t usually the type to lose his temper like this. But whatever’s happening in there, it’s definitely not good.

I hesitate for a moment, then quickly knock three times. The second I do; the room goes dead silent.

“Ace?” I call out. My stomach twists with unease as I wait, the silence hanging heavy in the air.

I knock again, a little harder this time. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, and then I hear heavy footsteps approaching the door.

My heart pounds as the door swings open, revealing Ace standing there, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. The ink covering his chest draws my gaze for a second, but it’s the wild, desperate look in his eyes that makes my breath hitch—like he’s barely keeping himself from falling apart.

I glance past him, and my stomach drops. The room is a complete mess—furniture flipped over, shards of glass scattered everywhere, and the TV screen smashed to bits. It’s like a hurricane ripped through, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Whatever happened, it’s bad—really bad.

His jaw clenches, and I can see it—he doesn’t want me here. His eyes, dark and intense, are a storm of emotions: anger, but something else too, something raw and vulnerable. He’s spiraling, and every instinct screams at me to turn around and leave him to it, but I can’t. I love this man, even though he has no idea. Maybe he’ll never know, but that doesn’t change a damn thing about how I feel. It hurts like hell to see him like this—so fucking angry, so lost.

“Scarlet, just go—” he begins, his voice strained, but I push past him into the room. His hand grazes my arm, like he’s trying to stop me, but I don’t let it.

“Ace,” I whisper, turning to face him. My voice is shaky, barely holding steady. “I’m not walking away while you’re like this.”

---