Page 214 of Wicked Proposal
I walk into the garden. It’s a bare, aseptic thing, curated by some landscaper who probably got to fund their retirement with it. The Baldwin family never spared expenses. Brad used to make fun of them for it—millions of dollars burned in vanity projects to look good in the eyes of their Hamptons’s neighbours. He used to bedifferent.
Now, he’s worse than they ever were.
I get to the door. I lift my hand, gathering courage through long, steady breaths.In, hold, out.I can practically hear Yulian’s voice chanting those words, low and gravelly, the scrape of nails and the warmth of touch.
I chase the memory away and knock.
“It’s open.”
Of course. Why bother getting up?
When I close my fingers around the handle, I hesitate. Every instinct is screaming,Don’t go in.The scars on my forearm are tingling. Even if I’ve shut off my mind, my body remembers.
But I’m not the girl I was. There’s nothing he can do to me today that will hurt as much as it did then.
Because now, I know who he is.
I twist the handle.
I open the door.
And there he is.
Blond curls. Dark eyes, darker than sin. He’s lounging in an armchair by a crackling fireplace, a drink in hand, clad in a perfectly pressed white suit. The flames lick at the shadows, painting him red in the low light. Like the devil himself waiting to strike a bargain.
“You’re late,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “My friend got shot.”
“Really? The brown one?”
“Her name’s Kallie, asshole.”
“Right. Candy. Hope it was quick.” He waves his hand and forgets her. “Sit.”
“I think I’ll stand.”
“Don’t make me mad now, sweet thing.”
“I have a name, Bradley.” I cross my arms and stand my ground. “You might want to learn to use it.”
“Right.” He rises, whiskey swirling in his glass. There’s no ice—it must have melted while he waited. There’s a lot of things you can accuse Brad of, but lacking a flair for the dramatic ain’t one of them. “More than one, now.”
“Mia’s just fine.”
“See, I don’t think it is, Euphie.”
That nickname shoots through me like ice. I clench my fists, steel myself.Don’t let him rattle you.
“I want to see my son.”
“Your son?” He laughs, grating and unpleasant. “Don’t you meanourson?”
“He isn’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His tone drops low, dangerous. I can see his fingers grip the glass tight, angry veins bulging on the back of his hand. “I had a paternity test done. He’s mine.”
Cold dread grips me. This is it—the nightmare I’ve been desperately trying to avoid.
