Page 42 of The Muse
He snatches my arm and spins me back towards him so quickly I falter on my feet. “Don’t you dare walk away. What have you done?”
“Hey, careful.” His fingers are like an iron glove wrapped around my upper arm.
“Why are you so defensive about Scott Foxton? Is it anything to do with him showing up at the offices this morning demanding to see me?”
My body stops struggling in his hold. “He came to see you?”
“He tried to. Even if it weren’t the weekend, I wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction. He was escorted out of the building by security. Now cut the crap and tell me what this is all about?”
“No. You won’t understand.” Panic and emotion begin to swarm in my stomach, making me shiver against the grip still holding me in place. “You wouldn't even try to. You'll just be the arrogant arsehole you always are.” Another rush of steel fires through the panic, and I finally pull free to create some room.
“You're behaving just like a petulant child, Persephone. No consideration for anyone but yourself, no matter what else is going on around you-”
“I love him!” I scream.
The words echo around the room and silence his tirade. I grit my teeth and keep still, owning up to my confession. There’s no way I’ll run off before Landon responds, no matter how bad that response might be. This means something to me. All of it.
“Persephone, you need to be extremely careful with your next words.” His voice is like ice—cold and deadly—but I keep my nerve. “Consider what you just said to me, and then rethink the words.”
“There’s nothing to reconsider. I love him. I do, and it doesn’t matter what you say.”
We’re locked in a stalemate, both of us glaring, but I refuse to back down over my feelings. They're mine. Whether they're against this family or not. I'll keep arguing now, keep making my point about a whole host of topics if that's what he wants. Scott included.
For once, Landon seems to give in first. He storms from the room, the crack of the door slamming behind him, reverberating the chandelier overhead. But if I know Landon, that wasn't giving in at all, and this is far from over.
What have I done?
Chapter Seventeen
SCOTT
At this point in time, I wish it wasn’t spring. At least then it would be dark outside to match my mood rather than this never-ending fucking glare of sun. I stare at it, hoping my aggravated glower might change its bloody mind about shining so brightly. It doesn’t, and I’m left here with nothing and no fucking route forward that I can see.
A Broderick. Persephone Broderick to be precise. It’s only since I’ve been back here that I’ve managed to give her words during our argument any thought. I’ve done nothing but mull them over, letting all the time we’ve been together settle into some reasonable assembly of order. How much has she asked of me? What information could she have gotten out of me? When did we meet? Was it just me chasing her, or did she plan the whole thing to distract me?
More importantly, did Landon?
I can’t find much, other than the conversation about The Herald when I drew her, but that doesn’t mean anything. She could have been in my messenger bag, seen all the documents associated with the deal and my notes associated with them. If she was underhanded enough to go looking around while I was on my run, she could have been all over this place.
Standing at the thought, I rifle through the messenger bag again and pull out my laptop to check that. It boots up quickly, and the time check reveals it hasn’t been opened until the last time I used it. And how she’d even know the password is unknown.
Fuck. I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing to prove anything about what she might have done or what she might have been up to. It should settle my aggravation, make me give her a little leeway and consider the fact that she might have been telling the truth, but where Broderick’s are concerned, specifically a new cutthroat lawyer swinging his weight around, I’ve got zero tolerance.
Slamming the laptop on the table, I pace the room again, purposely avoiding looking at the painting or anything associated with her. One piece of fucking enjoyment in my life. One nice thing to counter the crap I’ve been forced into since I came back here, and she’s a Broderick. I’m wound so tight I don’t know whether to smash something because of the anger or cut a vein because of the desolation.
My feet stop, eyes turning to the painting before I manage to stop them. It was so pure before this. So fucking new and fresh and full of promise. Just like she was. And now it’s nothing but layers of paint imitating a truth that no longer exists. Real, she said. That it was us. It was. It isn’t now.
Pulling the screens together rather than letting my emotions take over, I reach for a bottle of whisky and take long glugs. I’ll drink for a while, maybe lie down and sleep this off for a few days until the resonance of her dissipates. I’ve sent Father the information about Landon screwing us over, given him everything I know. It’s not like I can do anything about that. The contract’s been signed—deal done. Maybe when I’m feeling less depressed about all this crap, then I’ll go find Landon again, use my fist and make sure he gets the message that I will not be fucked with.
Until then—booze.
An hour later and the second bottle of whisky opened, and I’m still glaring at anything that dares get in my way. Nothing is doing. It’s all still and motionless, all empty and cold and lacking fucking decoration, as she said. It’s also lacking her laughter or the sound of her bare feet padding around to make me smile. If there’s anything left to depress me further, it’s the emptiness of that. I don’t even know why. I used to like peace and relative loneliness, revelled in it. Or at least tolerated it.
I knock into the island unit, balance giving in under the pressure of more alcohol flooding through me. Don’t fucking care. What does it matter? It’s all pointless now. Was before her, certainly is after her. And she was a fucking child anyway. A child who I should have pushed away, not used to fulfil some latent memory of actually being a useful artist.
Half laughing in my drunken stupor, and still confused over why I didn’t push her away like I should have originally, I tip the bottle and drink more. None of this would have happened if I’d done that. She would just have been a dancer. A good one. One who inspired me. I should have watched from afar, kept my distance and not succumbed to her lips and her soft sway.
It takes me a few seconds to realise someone is hammering on my door. It’s the same fucking hammering she does. Louder this time, though. I’m partly thinking about opening it just so I can throw her out again. I don’t even know how she’s got the front to come back here again after what she’s done. And if she expects me to change my mind about her, she’s got another thing coming. Brodericks and Foxtons don’t mix. Still, in this mood, maybe I’ve got some things left to say to her face. Clearly, she didn’t get the message when I was trying to keep my cool in check. That time’s long fucking gone now with this drink swimming through me.
