Page 194 of Sweet Venom
“He did that?”
“Yeah, annoying, I know. He’s also the one who found you the therapist, because she’s a big shot and doesn’t take on just anyone, and he procured the apartment we ‘accidentally’ found in Stantonville for a bargain price. Apparently, he didn’t like us—or, more accurately, you—living in thatcreepy guy’s attic, so he had to make up the whole business about an old person dying. He actually offered the guy a price that was higher than the market price just so he’d move out immediately. Kane was onboard with the plan, obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “Also, Jude is the biggest buyer from your online shop. The one who tips a lot?”
“UnderTheUmbrella?”
“Yeah, that one. Kane said he did that because you have too much pride and wouldn’t have accepted his money outright.”
“What an idiot,” I whisper through a scoff.
Bastard.
He did all of that while he was ignoring me after the coma—when I thought he was finally done tormenting me.
In reality, Jude saw how I lived, hated it, and decided to give me a new life.
A new start.
A way to accept myself, even if the methods were sketchy as hell.
And now, I don’t know what to do with all of this information.
After Dahlia leaves,I’m still snuggled on the couch, going through all of Jude’s purchases in my online shop, particularly the custom pieces he paid a lot of money for.
A blue umbrella patch, another one embroidered on a shirt, and a third on a pillowcase.
I read through our conversation after he sent me a thank-you tip upon receiving the pillowcase.
Me
Thank you so much for all your generosity. I don’t know if my embroidery deserves this much.
UnderTheUmbrella
It does. Don’t underestimate your work and your passion.
I needed that, truly. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need any other custom pieces.
What else can a blue umbrella embroidery be put on?
Tablecloths, napkins, jackets, tote bags, etc. The options are endless.
We’ll do those, then, and anything else you can think of.
Oh, absolutely, and thank you! The umbrella must mean so much to you.
It does.
A knock comes at the door, and I startle, letting my phone fall to the couch. Then I go to open it. “Did you forget something, Dahl?—”
My words get stuck in my throat when I lay eyes on a tall man blocking my entrance who’s definitely not Dahlia.
Jude.
I almost don’t recognize him at first.
His broad frame casts a shadow over the dim porch light. He looks different—rougher, more worn down—but the same dangerous gleam lurks in his demeanor.
There’s a tension in the way he holds himself, shoulders bunched, muscles tight beneath his black leather jacket, as if he’s carrying something heavy and refusing to let it show.
