Page 215 of Wicked Proposal
He knows. Beyond a doubt, he knows.
Calm trades places with panic in my heart. “You had no right?—!”
“I had every right!” he snarls. “He’s my blood, Euphemia. He’smine.”
“He’s not yours,” I growl. “He’s his own person. He’s?—”
“He’s my heir. He belongs to me, Mia.” An icy, sickening smirk spreads across his face. “And now, so do you.”
I take long, steadying breaths. I can’t let him get the better of me like this—not now. Not when Eli’s life is on the line.
“Show him to me, or I’ll call the police.”
“Sure.” He smiles at my words, amused. No doubt, he’s had every Hamptons cop in his pocket since the day he became the new head of the family. “Right this way.”
He puts down his drink and struts off, further into the house. For a split second, I hesitate and glance back to the front door.
Get out. Get help. Don’t do what he wants.
But the thought of leaving my son is more than I can bear.
I follow Brad into the hallway. I remember the ins and outs of this place like it was yesterday—sneaking in at night, sneaking out in the morning. A Montauk girl playing hooky with the local playboy billionaire.
He always talked of changing up the decor in the house once he took over. Warming it up a little, making it more personal.
And yet, everything is the same as it was back then: white, rich, impersonal.
So is the room he shows me.
There’s a glass wall separating it from the hallway. A studio, hurriedly converted into a guest room, a single bed shoved in between a bookshelf and a desk.
And in that bed?—
“Eli!”
I press myself up against the glass. My hands are shaking, my own eyes staring back at me, wide with horror.
He’s sleeping. In that empty bed, without a single plushie, not a splash of color anywhere. It’s not a room fit for a child. For Eli, who loves mess and chaos and star stickers on the ceiling.
“Nice digs, hm?” Brad says, standing closer than I’d like. “Definitely an upgrade from that shit hole you call an apartment.”
“He doesn’t have a nightlight.” That, more than anything, puts me on high alert. “He always sleeps with a nightlight.”
“Ah, yes. He did say that.”
“Then why’s it so goddamn dark in there?”
“He’s almost five. He’s got to grow up at some point.”
I stare at his frame, motionless under the covers. “You gave him something,” I realize. “You—youdruggedhim.”
Brad clicks his tongue in distaste. “‘Drugged’ is such an ugly word. I just tweaked his milk to help him get over that whole nightlight business. Couple of drops of Valium, three at most.”
“He needs an ambulance if you gave him any more than that.” Cold sweat breaks at my back. “Let me in. I need to check his pulse.”
“He’s fine.” Brad’s tone is annoyed now, bordering on pissed. “For fuck’s sake, give me some credit. I’m hisfather. I?—”
“You haven’t been his father a single day of his life.”
