Page 78 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
"What the—?" I release the switch and the annoying buzz cuts out. "She hung up on me?"
"She saved your life, and that of the rest us. She anchored us lost boys by giving us a home away from home to hang out in. It's thanks to her that we are here and didn't end up as crackheads or criminals—present company excluded."
"Of course." A headache begins to squeeze my temples.
He straightens, "She's entitled to ignore you if she thinks that's the right thing to do."
"You had to bring that up, huh?"
"Someone needs to keep their feet on the ground, and stick to the plan." He ambles toward the exit, "Especially since you seem hellbent on screwing it up."
My stomach churns. I’d hoped talking to Saint would help me come up with a solution. As if.
The twat has a way of flagging my mistakes. He is the devil’s fucking advocate. The only one of the Seven who can stand up to me. Which means, I hate his guts and yeah, also rely on his particular brand of meanness to call me out at my own game. Which he had successfully done. And that leaves me where? Holding my fucking balls in my hand.
"Stop."
He reaches the door, keeps going.
"Fuck you, Saint. What do you want me to do? Beg?"
"Words are overrated." He twists his shoulder, and throws me an amused glance, "We’ve always dealt in a different currency from the rest."
I stiffen, fold my fingers into a fist. Of course, it has to come down to a bargain with this wanker. He is way too similar to me. A fact I loathe. And which is also why we are the ones who can go toe to toe with each other. Hell, I’d call him a worthy opponent if I was feeling charitable. Which I’m not now, not when a sinking feeling pervades my stomach. I square my shoulders.
"Name your price."
