Page 43 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

Being an object, however, has given me an ability. Invisibility mixed with perception.

I stride along the rows of empty seats at the upper half of the stadium, watching the field with half an eye as well as watching the box. I spot none other than Nicholas Carter sitting at the front. I’ve never met the man myself, but I know Thomas hates him, so despite my desire to not fixate on anything Thomas Kincaid gave a singular shit about, even I was curious enough to look up the billionaire CEO a time or two. Guess Avalon’s man came through on that front because right alongside him, my own target sits.

While Nicholas’ attention is purely on the field below, watching his son play football—Andrew Bennington’s is directed at him. He chatters away, his mouth moving with speed as he smiles and laughs and talks. If Nicholas is annoyed, he’s damn good at hiding it. His expression never even changes. He could be a statue for all of the emotion he reveals. It’s only when Dean Carter hits the next touchdown that I watch him change ever so slightly. His lips curve up and he leans forward.

Pride. It’s something I’m so very well-versed in. Pride for his son. Andrew is irritated at not being the center of attention. His own pride is selfish and greedy. I grin. Pride is, after all, the downfall of man and he is no different.

Andrew turns away, finally taking his turn to glance out over the field. I know when his eyes land on Dash. His expression turns, too, not the same as Nicholas’ though. His lips curl down at the edges into a scowl and his brows draw together. He crosses his arms. Still, there’s a glint in his eyes, and after a moment, his scowl softens and the corner of his mouth tips upward.

A secret they both hold. Andrew Bennington still feels like he’s got power over his son. Especially since I know Dash invited him here tonight. He likely thinks that Dash wants his presence because of some self-inflated sense of ego. He thinks Dash wants to please him, wants his attention. I know the truth.

If Dash was a far crueler man with fewer principles, he’d slit his own father’s throat.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to corrupt his own morals. He has me, and I have no morals left.

I continue to make my way through the stands, pausing and lifting my gaze from the box to the field. I scan the team, searching, until I find a man standing with his back to me, giving me a clear view of the printed nameKincaidacross his upper back. His dark golden hair is hidden by the helmet, but I know Luc’s body when I see it. Despite knowing that I’m here, he’s focused on the game. I watch him for several moments, slowing to a stop at a set of stairs.

A burning sensation etches into the side of my face and my attention returns to my mission. My lips curve up and I wait a beat before turning my gaze upward once more. Andrew’s shocked expression is like a victory flag waving in front of me. I smile at him, tilting my head back and arching a brow for a split second.

The shock shifts from one of pure confusion to something that I recognize all too well. Curiosity and interest.Why am I here?He wants to know.

I withdraw my attention from him and slowly make my way down the stairs. Now that he’s seen me, I know he’ll come. His need to know won’t let him be. The last he’d likely heard, I’d been sold away from Thomas Kincaid. Therefore, I should never have the ability to show back up in Eastpoint of all places. The product of Thomas Kincaid’s rotten business. A victim. An object with no will of her own.

Every platform I hit as I make my way to the exit is a chance to glance up from the corner of my eyes and see the progression of his indecision. At first, he sits back, trying to pull his gaze from me. But then he sits forward, watching my progress with a puckered brow. Then finally, he turns to Nicholas—likely to give some excuse. Once he’s disappeared from my view of the box, I know I’ve succeeded.

My feet move faster as I head down the stairs. I have to force myself to slow so I don’t slip and fall. Carefully, I head towards the exits and into the outer hallways. I pause for several beats once I’m away from the crowds and cheers of the stadium, waiting for Andrew Bennington to catch up. God knows I’m not going to be the one to turn and approach him first. I can’t make it too obvious. He’s already going to be put off by my presence. It can’t look like I’m actually here for him.

The harsh thumping of footsteps reaches my ears and I turn away from them, walking towards the glass doors that lead out into the parking lot. I lift my head as I reach out, my hand landing against the door handle, but pause, not opening it just yet. Andrew Bennington’s face appears in the reflection of the glass behind me as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pause, letting Andrew catch up as I pull my phone free and check the message. Everything is in place. The message is one from the men I hired, letting me know that they’re in place and waiting to move in. They’ve already been given a picture of Andrew Bennington and they know what to do.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as Andrew’s footsteps pick up the pace behind me. The second I send my own message, I slip the phone back into my pocket and step outside. Cool autumn air hits me in the face, vastly different from that of the warmth of the stadium packed with people. I start walking. The door behind me flies open.

“MiKayla!”

The smile that graces my lips is evil. Even kings can fall, and this one has taken my bait.

I pause and look back over my shoulder, dropping my brows and smiling in a practiced fashion. “Mr. Bennington?” I blink innocently as I turn to fully face him. “What are you doing here?”

Andrew pauses and adjusts his suit jacket—who the fuck wears a suit to a football game? Answer: Andrew fucking Bennington. He wipes a hand over his sweaty forehead and, far more slowly, approaches me.

His hand comes out and he grabs onto my upper arm before crowding me against the door. “What are you doing here?” he demands. “I heard you were sold to Osman.”

He doesn’t even flinch at the word ‘sold’ as if it’s normal—the idea of buying and selling a person. Slavery might have ended over a hundred years ago, but it’s still very much alive. Through sex, through economics, slavery will remain and people like Andrew Bennington will always be on top. I have to withhold the disgusted scowl that threatens to break free. Instead, I lower my eyes to the ground.

“Mr. O-Osman passed away, Mr. Bennington.”

Andrew’s grip tightens and he shakes me, causing me to look up at him. I widen my eyes, mimicking a drop of fear and surprise. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” he growls.

I tremble slightly and look away once. “I-I don’t have anyone else to take care of me,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know where else to go. I came back to Eastpoint because it’s all I know. The house in Plexton wasn’t mine, so I…”

His grip gentles slightly. “You don’t have an owner?” Andrew’s free hand comes up and he tips my chin so I can meet his gaze. His eyes rove over my face and then down. The t-shirt I wore tonight is modest compared to what he’s seen me wear, but there’s still a nice little v-cut that dips down, revealing the top swells of my breasts. Of course, his eyes linger on that small stretch of skin for several long seconds before he jerks his head up and looks around.

Andrew’s eyes dart across the mostly empty space of the stadium parking lot and then back where the windows across the stadium lobby is illuminated by the lights inside. Though the area isn’t completely abandoned—a few game attendees file in and out of a nearby set of double doors and the workers still mill about inside behind the food stalls—his expression clouds with guilt, with caution.

“Let’s talk somewhere else,” he says and without giving me a chance to speak, he pushes past me and drags me down the steps and further into the parking lot. He doesn’t stop until we’re far from the entrance. My lips curve up again because we’re also far from the cameras too.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I don’t have to look to know that the men I hired are in place. Now, I just need to follow through on the distraction.

---