Page 98 of The Prodigal

Unlike Remington, I had already written off my birth father years ago.

Albrecht had the chance to be in my life, and he wasn’t. Instead, he let me bounce around from foster home to foster home until I aged out of the system.

I learned quickly that I would never have aPretty Womanmoment in my lifetime. Real-life princes don’t rescue girls like me in a gray Lotus Esprit.

But…maybe girls like me could be rescued in a black Chevy Impala by a dark and twisted prince who threatened villains with his own wicked smile.

Honestly, when I saw Remington, I thought I had found my prince on the clearance rack.

I don’t need a Lotus to drive me away with a clean-cut billionaire.

I need a chain-smoking asshole who threatens to push me out of his Impala.

I’m simple like that.

But my dark prince betrayed me, and for some reason, I still can’t bring myself to hate him.

The man planned to use me—planned being the operative word here. He didn’t film a sex tape or even try to fuck me.Ibangedhim.

He tried to push me away, but I was stubborn.

I knew what I felt, and my gut is never wrong.

Remington isnota villain.

Villains don’t save you. They don’t take care of you or give you space after they break your heart and still order you food.

They certainly don’t buy you yellow suitcases.

Remington has always had my back, but the question is, has it all been part of his plan to befriend me?

I don’t know.

I can’t wrap my head around all the feelings circulating through my head.

I only feel heartbroken.

And confused.

Remington is a walking contradiction. What he says is totally different from what he does. I know the asshole cares about me. I know it!

And for that reason alone, he should be stabbed with the plastic knife in my take-out bag. You do not ensure your leverage is fed before she leaves for the airport in the morning, flying first class back to a shitty motel.

Rage burns beneath my skin as I stare at the door. I bet he’s sitting in his fucking chair, smoking his thoughts away. I’m sure he isn’t antsy or heartbroken. He’s probably quite calm, thanks to fucking nicotine.

Fuck it.

Someone has to stab him.

I snatch the bag of takeout from the table and fling open the door, finding the demon exactly where I expected.

His throne.

“Hold this bag!” I bark. “I need to stab you.”

His eyebrow arches as he blows smoke out of his nose. “As fun as that game sounds, I think it would be considered toxic behavior if we played it.”

I swear, I’m going tokillhim—fuck stabbing him.

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