Page 115 of The Love You Fight For
I make it halfway to the banquet room when someone turns down the hall and heads straight to me. I recognize the shape of his body. I recognize the sound of his gait. As he gets closer, I recognize his smell.
Cigars mixed with the exact same expensive cologne he’s always worn.
My body locks up. I knew he would be here. I knew I would run into him, but my knees still wobble. My heart still races, my throat tightening until my vision blurs on the edges.
“Samantha, honey,” he croons. “It’s been a long time.”
I stand and stare. Clenching my teeth, I breathe through my nose and force a smile. I have to fist my traitorous hands to keep from trembling.
“Hello, Judge.”
He chuckles. It’s a weak, dying sound, and he uses his dry, aged fingers to trace the neckline of my dress. I hold my breath.
“Judge? You should be calling me Andrew now. You’re not a young girl anymore.”
He toys with the compass on my necklace, and I dig my nails into my palms to keep from slapping him away.
“We will be family soon, I hear,” he says.
He steps closer. He’s shorter than Ashton, but they have the same eyes and nose. The same vulturine grin. The same self-important attitude.
“I have missed you, honey.”
When he dips his fingers into my neckline, I take a step back. I shake my head.
“You don’t get to touch me anymore, Judge. I’m not someone my father can sell anymore.”
He arches a gray, perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Is that right? Then how do you explain your future betrothal to my son, honey?”
I shake my head. “It’s never happening.”
He smiles. “You always did think you had more say than you do.” He chuckles. “Good. I like the fight in you. I like to collar it.”
I narrow my eyes and step forward, back into his space. His eyes flare.
“You are a sick, twisted, fucked-up old man, and you deserve to burn for what you did to me. If I could get away with gutting you right now, I would.”
His eyes widen with shock, and I force myself to smile through the overwhelming urge to vomit. I lock my knees to hide the way they want to wobble in his presence. It only makes me angrier. Over a decade, and I’m still terrified of him.
“You deserve to burn, Judge,” I say again, “but I’ll settle for seeing you humiliated and shamed in front of everyone.”
I go to push past him, but he grabs my arm. His skin is cold and clammy and familiar. My stomach lurches. My eyes burn.
“Let go, or I will scream.”
He drops my arm immediately. I shake my head in disgust. So much more worried aboutappearingdecent instead of actuallybeingdecent.
“Fuck you, Judge Cartwright. I’ll see you in hell.”
Quickly, I rush to the end of the hall and turn into the banquet room. I skirt the edges, running my hand along the wall for stability. I gulp oxygen into my lungs. My eyes go blurry. I’m going to cry. I’m going to spiral.
I zero in on the exit, then a body steps in front of me and I collapse into a hard, warm chest. I freeze for seconds before I melt.
Pine trees. Lake water. Laundry detergent.
Clean and fresh and as natural as breathing.
