Page 44 of Hate the One You're With
“You heard her. Leave,” Caleb says, his voice firm. Then, instead of just standing there, he slips an arm around my waist, pulling me close. The warmth of his touch surprises me, sending a shiver through my resolve. For a moment, I lean into him, letting his strength support me. It’s a fleeting reaction, but it stirs something in me—a confusing mix of comfort andlonging. His fingers press gently into my side, grounding me in the moment.
“And you are?” Charles challenges, his eyes narrowing.
“Her husband,” Caleb replies, his tone calm but edged with a warning. “And if you ever try to hurt her again, you’ll be dealing with me.”
Charles’s shoulders slump, his posture suddenly defeated. “I see,” he murmurs, stepping back. “If that’s how you want it.”
A part of me wants to remind him that this is exactly what he asked for so long ago, but I simply say, “It is.”
At the same time, Caleb adds, “Out.”
With a final, lingering look, Charles turns and walks toward the elevator, leaving behind the faint scent of his old, stuffy cologne and a tension in the air that’s hard to shake.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Caleb
She’s not my problem,I remind myself from the moment Charles walks out until we step onto the plane to leave.
I still don’t understand why I hugged her, why I felt that pull to protect her when I sensed something breaking inside her—her heart, her soul . . . something shattered when that man offered his so-called help. Of course, as soon as he left, I let go of her and we started working ondemolishing the doors.
Surprisingly, she stayed to help. We’re making the place more spacious and modern, and despite Percival Harrington III’s attitude, we made things happen for us. I even managed to secure us at least two weeks away from his grasp and the ever-watching cameras—cameras that, apparently, can’t be turned off or redirected to a loop of cheesy porn, like Ethan had done before we got chided for it.
As the plane takes off, I steal a glance at her, wondering if she’s as indifferent as she’s pretending to be. Charles’s presence rattled her. She was cold—frigid, really—and completely shut down in a way that was almost brutal. Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that she acted out of fear and panic, even though she wears that icy exterior like armor. I remind myself again:She’s not my problem.
But when I notice her clutching that raggedy old blanket she sometimes carries around, a knot forms in my stomach. Something bad must’ve happened with that guy, and even though I want to mind my own business, I find myself heading to the back of the plane. I use the plane’s phone to call my sister.
“Wow, you’re calling me again? Twice in one week.” Clarissa’s voice grates on my nerves. Can she tone the sarcasm down just a little?
“Listen, I need to know who Charles Worthington IV is to Emmersyn,” I try to keep my tone low, but it comes out more demanding than I intended.
“Where did you hear that name?” she asks, concern lacing her voice.
“He showed up at the penthouse, and let’s just sayEmmersyn didn’t take his presence well,” I reply, the memory of her reaction still fresh, still unsettling.
“Keep him away from her,” is all she says.
“That’s not enough, Clarissa. If he hurt her, he needs to pay,” I insist, the anger from seeing him casually walk into the penthouse still simmering beneath the surface. “He mentioned he’s her dad, and she denied it.” There was more to the conversation, but I don’t think she needs any of it.
Was he her father? How is it possible that she’s no longer his child and . . . why can’t anything related to Em be normal?
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “He was . . . Well, I’m not sure what exactly went down between him and her mother. She was only six or seven when her parents separated, and he blatantly told her he wasn’t her father, that she meant nothing to him. If you ask me, he’s probably just trying to get some money.”
“She was pretty cold toward him,” I say, more to myself than her.
“That’s her way of coping with people who hurt her. If you took five minutes to get to know her, you’d see the side I love about my bestie,” she says, her tone softening.
“Clarissa, she used you and made you?—”
“Asshole, I don’t care if you’re trying to find the flavor of the night,” Max calls out from his seat. “We’re about to land. Need you to buckle your seat belt.”
“Gotta go, Sis,” I say, cutting off whatever argument she was about to make.
“Be nicer to her. She doesn’t deserve the way you’re treating her,” she insists, and for a moment, I wonder if mysister has any common sense at all. Instead of responding, I mutter a quick goodbye and hang up the phone.
When we arriveat Max’s, it’s almost eight. Zoe is in the living room feeding Emma, the soft glow of the lamp highlighting the tenderness in the scene. We make the introductions, keeping it simple. Emmersyn is with me. Everyone’s used to me showing up with what they call the flavor of the night—or the weekend. Which means that Zoe and her sister Lily were cordial but short with her.
I wonder if I should tell them that Emmersyn isn’t a flavor. Emmersyn Langley is a series of mistakes and regrets—too many to count.
