Page 35 of Hate the One You're With
Bentley, now curled up on a velvet cushion inside the kennel, gives a lazy blink as if to agree, and I realize just how outplayed I’ve been. The Bentley isn’t a car—it’s a pampered furball with an attitude. And somehow, that’s the most fitting thing ever in this twisted little game we’re playing.
Emmersyn, still chuckling, leans back in her chair. “So, Caleb,” she says, her eyes dancing with mischief, “you got your keys, the codes to the building and of course the Bentley. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
I glare at her. Somehow she won this round and I don’t even know how it happened, but I’ll make her pay. “Don’t think for a second that this is over. You may have won this round, but I’m not done yet.”
“Good,” she replies, her smile widening. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Caleb
I sinkinto the back seat of the Uber, the leather creaking under me. I could’ve taken the subway—would’ve been faster and less of a headache—but the thought of lugging Bentley the damn cat is too much. So here I am, stuck in traffic, staring out the window as the city inches by.
And seething. Oh, I’m definitely seething.
I fell for it.
I really fell for it.
I can’t believe I’m in this situation, with a cat named Bentley tucked inside a ridiculously fancy kennel on the seat beside me. How did I not see this coming? Emmersyn played me like a damn fiddle, and now I’m the idiot taking an Uber with a furball instead of cruising in a luxury car.
Every time I glance at the kennel, I can feel the heat rising in my face. The cat’s probably lounging in there like royalty, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s causing. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s been pampered all his life, living the high life while I’m . . . I’m still dealing with Gertrude Langley’s manipulations.
I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair.
How did I let this happen?
It’s so basic.
I knew Emmersyn was hiding something, but I never thought she’d pull something like this. I was too focused on her pussy to think about the real trap she was setting. I really need to be more cautious about this whole situation. Should I call the SWAT team to sweep the penthouse, just in case she’s buried mines or set up booby traps?
Honestly, nothing feels off-limits with her. She’s exasperating, downright evil at times, and yet . . . frustratingly irresistible. She’s sharp, beautiful, and way too smart for her own good. And that body—don’t even get me started. It’s infuriating how those sharp eyes and that maddening smirk can mess with my head.
She’s got this way of twisting me up inside, making me lose focus just when I need it the most. I can’t decide if I wantto strangle her or kiss her senseless. Maybe both. Probably both.
But I can’t let her get the upper hand, not when I know she’s playing a dangerous game. I need to be smarter, keep my head clear, and stop letting her distract me with those perfect curves and that maddeningly confident attitude.
I’ll stick to the two-foot distance rule, no PDA . . . no touching her pretty cunt, even when I want to devour her until she’s trembling beneath me. Even when I’m dying to bury my face between her thighs and taste every inch of her. No matter how much I crave the sweetness of her surrender, the way her body arches when I push her to the limit.
Being distracted by her is what has me in this position and if she did this with a fucking cat, what else could she be planning? But, damn it, it’s my own fault. I should’ve known better. Now I’m stuck in this ridiculous situation, and I can’t help but wonder how much worse it’s going to get.
The Uber finally pulls up in front of one of those big old luxury buildings across from Central Park. The kind of place that’s all imposing stone and wrought iron, oozing old money from every corner.
I’d forgotten just how impressive this building is—old, but solid, like it’s been here forever and isn’t going anywhere. Kind of like Gertrude Langley herself. Stubborn, intimidating, and impossible to ignore.
The driver opens the door for me, and I step out, Bentley’s kennel in hand. The doorman gives me a polite nod. “Mr. Cunningham.”
I frown because how does he know who I am? I feel like my picture was shown to everyone I’ll be coming in contactwith or . . . who knows. When I entered Langley Media I got the same kind of reception. What happened to anonymity? I need it and yet this woman is flaunting my identity to anyone she knows.
We have to have a talk in regard to security—my security.
“Thanks,” I mutter, wondering if instead of a divorce Emmersyn is trying to become a widow—and the sucker fell into her trap again. Me being the sucker, by the way.
As I walk inside, I can’t help but take in the grandeur of the place—high ceilings, marble floors, everything polished to a gleam. It’s like stepping into another world, one that smells faintly of expensive leather and old books.
The elevator ride is smooth, the kind that makes you feel like you’re gliding. When the doors open directly into the foyer of the penthouse, I’m momentarily struck by the sheer luxury of it all. The butler appears as if summoned by some invisible force. I can’t believe Duncan still works here. He looks like he’s been here since the building was first constructed, with that pale, almost unalive appearance—like the butler from the Addams Family, minus the charm.
“Mr. Cunningham,” he says in a voice that sounds like it hasn’t been used in years. He hands me a letter, the envelope crisp and elegant. The name Emmersyn is scrawled across the front in a very elegant, yet illegible, handwriting.
