Page 47 of Twisted Debt (The Debt Tales 1)

The first of what I’m guessing are all of the things he bought for me.

For his doll.

“Where do you want this?” One of the movers questions along their awkward walking with the bulky object.

Not being quite sure of what to say leads me to a half-hearted shrug.

“You know better, Miss Pierson,” Dietrich instantly reprimands. “Such an uncouth behavior is not permitted.”

His choice of words revive the hope I swear had a DNR.

“Perhaps ask Mrs. Pierson on the best location for the item for the time being,” he instructs to the men who are slowly approaching where Mom is still gawking in her wheelchair.

My head turns to briefly watch the exchange, which provides the butler with just the amount of time he needed to personally retrieve something. The instant he has my stare again, he politely holds up my backpack that I have no doubt contains my computer.

I transfer the article from his hands to mine. “So you don’t hate me?”

“It is not my place to like or dislike, Miss Pierson.”

Would it kill him to just say yes or no?

“However,” he unexpectedly continues, “I will say in comparison to other company Mr. Whittington has kept, you were among those I wished would have endured a longer duration.”

It takes everything in me to bat away my smile. “How is Elias?”

“I am not permitted to speak on behalf of Mr. Whittington.”

“Thank you…” As I chuckle softly, a few more tears squeeze down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with trembling fingers. “Thank you.” I propel myself into Dietrich’s arms, hugging him tightly much to his obvious dismay. “Thank you!”

He groans in displeasure while gently pulling himself out of my clutches, “For what, Miss Pierson?” There’s an unnecessary adjustment to his lapel. “Ensuring the movers are not careless,” his gaze narrows to them as they walk by, “with your most valued belongings?”

“For telling me he’s okay.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did. See, only a fully alert, ridiculously angry Elias would forbid you to speak of him. He’s back to his stubborn self, I guess.”

He remains tightlipped, but I swear I see the tiniest tick to say something.

“If you can’t talk about him-”

“I cannot speak on his behalf.”

“Can you speak on mine? Can you tell him I love him? Can you tell him that I hate that we’re apart? That I want us to be together? That I…I…I feel dead inside without him?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

Tears begin to fill the brim of my lower lids.

He waits until the grumpy movers have made their way by us with boxes to announce, “Your amended contract regarding your arrangement with Mr. Whittington is in your backpack. Both parties are required to sign it to signify the end, just as both parties were required to sign it to indicate its beginning.” His perfect posture slips for the briefest moment to allow him to lean closer. “Remember to wear something appropriate for your audience with Mr. Whittington tomorrow at three o’clock.”

An earthshaking gasp escapes me.

“Your refusal to sign the document today has left me with no choice but to put you on his schedule to settle the matter.”

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