Page 22 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

Meaning Leighton is helping him?

"That fucker wouldn’t help me.”

“If that was true, you would have been rid off this earth a long time ago,” the masked man declares. “Honestly, he must have some sort of patience for your stupidity and immense pride for if I was plagued with such a useless imbecile as a potential heir, I’d be at the church, praying for a miracle that will end your life faster than I could with my own hands.”

Ouch.

That means this man is older. Wiser. It’s not Joaquin. He wouldn’t betray Mother or Leighton like this. Who can it be?

I need to do research. Who was in Leighton, Iva, and Prescott’s circle way back when they were Ruthless Kings and Queen?

Is it someone who was just as close to getting what they yearned for when attending Leighton University?

We must figure this out…for he’s an enemy.

A trickster hiding in the shadows.

And part of me is thinking Domino is but another pawn in this masked man’s ultimate plan…

A plan that can ruin us all.

“Your time is up, but understand this,” he announces. “When I come to collect my due, there will be no negotiation. No mercy. Are you prepared for that level of commitment?"

As if Domino cares about that shit.

He doesn’t think with his brain.

He thinks with his emotions, which includes his cock at times.

"Yes, fuck, anything!" Domino's desperation is palpable. "Just make it all go away."

"As you wish." A dark chuckle. “I’ll get to work.”

“Thank the fuck!” Domino huffs loudly, and I can hear he’s pacing again.

"Oh, and Domino?” the mast voice calls out to him. “Try not to kill your bargaining chip before I arrive. Even unconscious, she's worth far more alive than dead."

“Fine!” Domino snarls through grit teeth, just as I hear the jingle of metal. I feel the leather straps from my wrist seemingly drop, but I remain as still as a statue.

Keep playing ‘dead’.

Breathe slow.

Steady.

"Fucking bitch... ruining everything... make you pay..."

His words dissolve into incoherent rambling as he resumes his pacing. I dare to peek through my lashes, catching glimpses of his disheveled appearance. His perfectly styled hair is wild from running his hands through it. The proud hockey jersey is torn and stained.

How the mighty have fallen.

I don’t think he realizes he hasn’t hung up on the phone yet. Something he seems to do a lot as if the conversation has ended.

I doubt that.

"Fuck... fuck... FUCK!" Each word is punctuated by his fist hitting something solid. "Twenty-six million views... they're all watching... all laughing..."

I almost feel pity.

---