Page 11 of The Don's Proposal

She left her phone and heels behind in her attempt to run. If it weren’t for the glint of the screen against the carpet, I would’ve missed it entirely.

Now I’m staring at a flower wallpaper. While I continue to wait, my knee bouncing, I can’t help but wonder if she took the photo herself. Is there much point in thinking too deeply about this?

The timer finishes, and I’m given seven more attempts. My fingers move in a blur, and I slam it down against the desk when it returns back to another count down. How many attempts do I get before it locks me out completely and this device becomes useless?

I could save myself time and throw it against the wall. They don’t make these things like bricks anymore. They’re flimsy and easy to break.

If only I weren’t hoping for a suddendingfrom a message or possibly even a single phone call. Rocco hasn’t tried contacting his sister once, not by her phone or by mine. Surely, he has my number; he has more information at his fingertips than I like. He can call me if he wants to.

There’s the chance that he thinks Camellia is already dead. There’s no point in coming all this way for a dead body. Except she’s not dead. Hell, she’s not even chained to a wall or tied up in a chair. I left her on a bed and gave her a room like she’s staying at a fucking hotel!

Seething with anger, the phone made a loud cracking sound as it hit the wall as my anger fuels myself to release this pent up energy growing bigger and bigger. Standing up, my chest heaves. I reach for something else to throw, something I can squeeze to help ease this tightness wrapped around my chest. Everything I do just makes ittighter.

For the first time in years, I feel like things aren’t going the way they should be. I have a process, a method of getting what I want and disposing of the leftovers once I’ve wrung them dry. It’s as simple as can be.

Yet, here I am, sitting in my office, twiddling my thumbs while waiting for something to shift to happen. I don’twait.I do.

There’s a knock at my door, and the grip on my lungs squeezes.

“What?” I grab my pen cup, my thumb digs into the crack running down the side of it.

Urzo appears, much to my dismay, and he doesn’t look happy to see me either. Then again, the bastard rarely ever smiles with that scar ruining his upper lip. He looks at the phone on the ground, unimpressed, before meeting my frown with a blank stare.

“Are you here to give me good news or tell me something that’s just going to piss me off?”

“Our mother is being a nuisance again.” He doesn’t wait for me to react because of the insult. “She’s running one of mine all over the estate and causing issues.”

Releasing my cup, I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. With a long list of issues building, now I’m meant to worry about our mother? “If it’s a problem, then tell him to leave, and put him on patrol at the front gate. She’ll be fine if she can’t talk off someone’s ear for one night. She’ll tucker herself out soon enough, anyway. It’s past her bedtime.”

Despite giving him the answer to his problem, he doesn’t move. Hell, I’m pretty sure his frown grows.

I sigh through my nose and pinch my eyes shut. I can feel my pulse throbbing against my temple. “What?”

“You gave a direct order. Last time I checked, your word has more weight than mine.” Lifting his hand, he scratches at the small hairs on his throat. “Unless you want me to let your mother steal that woman away.”

My eyes snap open and I straighten up. Rather than wasting time asking questions, I’m moving without any thought. When I reach the doorway, I pause. “Where?”

Urzo sighs. “They were in the courtyard the last time I checked. She is really pushing–”

I don’t linger long enough to hear him finish that sentence. Like a raging storm crashing in without any warning, I barrel down the hallway with fire burning hot at my lungs. Anyone who lingers quickly bolts out of the way.

The fucking courtyard.

I tell her to stay in the room, to wait until I can make up my mind what to do with her. What does Camellia do? She takes the first chance she gets to get some fresh air. Unless she was forcibly dragged by a woman triple her age, she should know better than to agree. If she were smart, she would’ve politely declined despite my mother’s known demanding nature.

Turning a corner, I spot the large glass doors blackened with night. As the distance between me and the door grows less, I can see the outline of bodies against the lights planted in the ground.

Shoving the doors open, the fresh air does nothing to cool me down. My feet feel heavier with every step; my fingers clench tight enough to lose circulation.

My mother is the first to notice my arrival. She looks at me with a familiar set of black eyes, and she’s smiling. Not with one of those tight forced curves, but a soft one that shows more genuine happiness. If she’s done this to spite me, I’m struggling to believe it’s the case.

Camellia picks up on my arrival soon after and she turns to see me. Her eyes widened and I’m sure her heart has stopped.

Hell, I think mine has too.

It’s not the sandwich clutched in her grip, or the fact she’s wearingmyclothes that makes the rage burning inside of me cool down. No, it’s her face. It’s not the same one I burned to memory as she came against my fingers.

This woman has striking blue eyes, ones that leave a cold, unsettling feeling. Her once flawless skin is now scattered with what looks like freckles. Too many to count. Her once straight hair is now a mess of waves that look soft to the touch.

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