Page 22 of Sweetest Revenge

“Come in, Addi.”

Fuck.

I hesitantly slipped into the room, leaving the door open behind me as an escape route.

The blond-haired one’s smile told me he saw it all.

“Addison Mercer.”

“And you are?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

Warren growled something under his breath. We all ignored it.

He walked a few steps toward me, but never close enough to enter my personal space. He might look cocky, but he was obviously respecting Warren's property.

Regardless of the reason why I sold myself to him, the word still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Remember why you’re doing this.

I forced myself to replay images of my mother in the hospital. Images of my father’s funeral and of the explosive headlines that followed.

It forced my mind to be even clearer. More focused on my mission.

I couldn’t get distracted. No matter how good the orgasms?—

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he said, his smile widening. “I don’t run in your circles. Warren practically took me off the street. A poor, starving puppy dog left out by their cruel own?—”

The brown-haired one clapped him on the back hard enough to stop him mid-sentence. In return, he sent him a look, but it was light-hearted.

At least from the blond’s side. The other one looked like he was about to murder someone.

“No one needs your dramatics.” His voice was harsh, and even though there was a genuine-looking smile on his face, he made me shiver.

He seems even more menacing than Warren.

“I’m Maxwell,” he said, offering me his hand. “I help Warren with the auction sometimes. That’s Ares; he’s annoying and unimportant. You don’t have to worry too much about him anyway.”

The blond snorted, but I ignored him in favor of the man in front of me. When I took his hand, the devil himself spoke up.

“He’s being humble. He’s my cofounder.”

“Sterlings don’t have a humble bone in their bodies,” Ares piped up, shooting him a glare.

Sterling… Wait. Images of one of my father’s birthday parties ran through my mind. I was younger, maybe around seven or eight, and I distinctly remember a man a bit younger than my dad with the last name Sterling.

He was tall, his hair similar to Maxwell’s. I remembered a well-behaved child standing at his side, maybe just a few more years older than me.

That was the man in front of me?

He looked almost nothing like his younger self. The young boy who all bit glued himself to his father’s side at any and all social settings had grown into someone a lot more intimidating.

“We’ve met before! Your dad came to one of my father’s birthday parties!”

Maxwell’s lips turned up into a small smile, and I instantly wondered how I hadn’t remembered him sooner.

“Right,” he said. “You were what, six or seven? You were a scrawny thing.”

My cheeks flamed. I was a scrawny thing for most of my life and was constantly teased for it all the way up until high school.

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