Page 139 of Tangled Kisses
“I’ve never paid him a dime.”
“But you planned to, didn’t you? Giving him money to help him out of this life?” He inches closer, the gleam in his eyes sharper than the pressed crease in his trousers. “Trust me, you’re not the first woman to make such an offer. Hell, his date tonight has already proposed. And she’s got far more than your pathetic little one-fifty in retirement funds.”
Something inside me shatters.
How does he know all these details? How can he possibly know?
“Ah,” he murmurs. “The pieces are falling into place.” He buttons his jacket, every movement precise, practiced. “I wouldn’t be much of a financier if I didn’t pay attention to my investments. And you, Reese, were a five-year investment.”
“An investment you cheated on constantly.”
“And one I planned to give my last name.” He shrugs. “Until you ghosted me and shacked up at a brothel, screwing a prostitute.”
I inhale sharply. “You want to talk about screwing outside the relationship? I lost count of the women you fucked.”
“It’s the way it is. I always came home to you.”
No apology. No remorse. Not a speck. Just the expectation that if I wanted him, I had to accept infidelity as my lot in life.
“Reeking of another woman’s perfume.” I spit the words, and if he comes any closer, I swear I’ll spit at him.
His smirk widens, wicked and knowing, like he can taste the fury rolling off me.
He leans in, lips just a breath from my ear. “And what does your boy toy reek of when he returns to you? The sweat of an hour-long pounding, buried deep inside someone else?”
My hands curl tight, nails biting into my palms. “You shut your mouth.”
The more rattled I become, the more he revels in it. Vander loves talking down to people, loves reminding them they’re nothing. And right now, I’m his favorite target.
The man also knows how to push my buttons—how to weaponize every insecurity and turn it against me.
It’s as if he crawled into my head, saw my deep-seated fears about Griffin and his sordid sexual history, and yanked them into the open, waving them about like a flag.
“I don’t think so,” he says coolly. “You forget who you’re dealing with.”
He paces the carpet—those long, even strides that always meant trouble for the person standing opposite him. Each step deliberate, like a predator closing the gap.
Everything about Vander is measured. Precise. An eternal businessman. If you’re not the best option, he replaces you. It’s not personal. It’s transactional.
And God, how I loathe it.
How I loathe him.
What did I ever see in this man?
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“I told you. Pack your things. We’re leaving.”
“I have a fundraiser tonight. I have to be there for work. If you want to drag me back to New York and humiliate me publicly, you’ll have to wait a few hours.”
His eyes harden. “You’re hardly in a position to negotiate.” He looks down at himself, smoothing his jacket. “But if it’s a fundraiser you want to attend, I suppose this ten-thousand-dollar suit will suffice. Let’s get you dressed, shall we? Right now, you look like a scullery maid in that getup.”
He motions toward the door.
I just stare at him, incredulous. “You are not coming to my room.”
Vander steps closer, the air between us chilling. His hand clamps around my upper arm—not hard enough to bruise, but tight enough to spike my pulse.
