Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways)

Present

I met my mother three days later, at a bookshop, while purchasing a new copy of Atonement. She breezed in, carrying the scent of expensive hair spray from the blow-dry she’d just gotten.

Beatrice Roth air-kissed me twice on each cheek, like we were bridge-club acquaintances, and sniffed around the small bookshop like someone had forgotten an unattended bag of garbage here.

“How quaint. I didn’t even know a place like this existed in this part of town. The rent must be astronomical.”

“You know, you can donate toward their rent online. I’ll send you the link. I have a direct deposit for that.”

“Oh, honey. Your trust fund guilt is adorable.” She dared ruffling my hair, like we were close or something.

Reconnecting with my mother after years of radio silence was definitely not everything Hallmark movies promised me it would be.

I walked around the narrow paths bracketed with shelves, swinging my shopping basket. I might have added three or four more books into the mix. In my defense, I worked hard for my money. On top of that, I was also getting a little restless. I’d been to Christian’s apartment two days before. It was everything I’d expected it to be—modern, gorgeous, and clinically cold—and I’d tried to look for my copy of Atonement but couldn’t find it anywhere. And it wasn’t like there were many hiding places to choose from. The place was pretty much empty. I did spot a safe in his walk-in closet, but Christian, who was still in bed, haphazardly covered with his linen, had let out a low chuckle when he’d seen me caressing the safe’s lock, staring at the numbers.

“It’s not there, Ari. I would never be as predictable.”

“How’s Conrad doing?” I asked my mother, who trailed behind me, trying to convince myself I didn’t particularly care about the answer. I did, though. I cared a lot. It was a source of shame and annoyance to me that I couldn’t hate him all the way. That he was going to lose most of his fortune to legal fees and compensation.

“I don’t know. He keeps to himself, and I stay in my corner of the penthouse. Frankly, I’m starting to get a bit worried about what’s going to happen the day of.” Mom pulled a book out of the shelf, realized it was a little dusty, and then shoved it back in, her face filled with horror and disgust.

“Why? Does he seem mentally unstable to you?” I slanted my head, studying her.

She patted her hands clean, looking at me incredulously. “What? No. I’m talking about the financial state he is going to leave me in.” She shuddered at the thought. “I might have to sell the penthouse.”

“Good.” I slipped another book into my basket. A new one, by a debut author. I just liked the cover. It also looked like the kind of romance that would rip my heart into shreds and put the rest of me in a blender. “The penthouse was far too big for three people. Let alone just the one.”

“But what about Aaron?” my mother asked, scandalized. “I live so close to the cemetery.”

“He’ll stay at his place, naturally.” I headed for the register. I knew I was being sarcastic but couldn’t help myself. The sheer self-obsession this woman was suffering from maddened me. Last time we’d met, she’d told me life was too short. Now, she was whining about the possibility of downgrading from one of the priciest places on the continent.

“Look, can I do anything to help you?” I sighed, choosing not to turn this into an argument while handing the bookshop owner, a nice lady with a gray mane, my basket.

“Yes, actually. I was thinking maybe you could talk to your dad—”

“No,” I said flatly. “Sorry, but I won’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s an abusive, horrible man who doesn’t deserve my help or my attention, and because he lied to me my entire life.” To name a few reasons. The court case was also making old, bitter feelings resurface. Of how I’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Nicky, even though I shouldn’t have.

I paid with a credit card, then rolled a five-dollar bill into the tip jar as the woman handed me back my books in a straw bag. Mom and I exited the shop.

“You know what your father’s like. Horribly unstable.”

“He also abused you emotionally for quite a while. Why would you want to ask him for any favors?” I started for the coffee shop by my house. Mom trailed next to me.

“Why, because I cannot exactly afford my own place, now can I? Even if I divorce him, which I hardly think there’s a point in doing at this point, we’ll have to split everything fifty-fifty. You know, his CPA tells me I am likely to be left with”—she sniffed the air dramatically—“less than two million dollars. Can you believe it?”

“I can, actually.” I pushed the door to the coffee shop open. “He spent the past few decades assaulting innocent women thinking he was bulletproof. Bleeding money seems like a fitting punishment for what he did.”

“I wasn’t the one who assaulted them!” My mother banged her fist on her chest. “Why should I live beneath my prior means?”

“True,” I agreed. “But you married a man who couldn’t be trusted with his money, or his phone camera. Now, you can rent someplace nice after this is all over, or better yet, buy somewhere within your price range, which is still not a number to be laughed at, and find yourself a job.”

“A job?” My mother’s eyes widened. She looked like I’d just suggested she become an escort. I placed an order for both of us. Peppermint tea for her, iced Americano for me. This time, I paid.

“Yes, Mother. I didn’t know the sheer act of working was quite so outrageous.”

“Of course it’s not,” my mother huffed, convincing exactly no one in the room with her fake sincerity. “But no one is going to hire me. I have no experience to speak of. I married your father at age twenty-two, fresh out of college. The only thing on my résumé would be the summer before college. I worked at a Hooters bar. Think they’ll accept me back thirty-six years later?” She arched an eyebrow.

I handed her the tea, took my coffee, and strolled back to the sunshine. Spring wrestled its way into the city, carrying cherry blossoms, sunrays, and seasonal allergies. The trial was nearing its end with every day that passed, and with it my goodbye to Christian.

“You were the head of the luncheon committee at your local country club, were you not?” I asked, skipping over a French bulldog’s leash.

“Yes, but—”

“And you were the director of my school’s charity board?”

“So what! That doesn’t mean—”

I stopped in front of my door. I wasn’t going to invite her up. Mainly because I had to get ready and meet Christian in a few hours at the pool. Indulging in this sinful affair was quickly taking over bigger chunks of my life.

“Come work for me,” I uttered, without even realizing what I was saying. “You have good organizational skills, you look presentable, and you know how to convince people to put money into things. That’s what you’ve been doing your whole life. Come work as a marketing assistant for me.”

“Arya.” My mother placed a hand over her heart. “You cannot be serious. I can’t work a nine-to-five job at my age.”

“You can’t?” I asked. “That’s a nice use of words. Because I was under the impression that you both can and should, considering the financial situation you are about to get into.”

“I’m not like other people.”

“Isn’t that what we all think?” I wondered aloud. “That we’re different? Special? Born for bigger, brighter things? Maybe, Mother, you are just like me. Just a little less well planned. And a lot more prone to surprises.”

I got into my building and slammed the door in her face.

Christian was waiting for me at the indoor swimming arena of the gym, his body sprawled over the edge of the pool. He was lazily stunning, like the Creation of Adam painting. Each individual ridge of his six-pack was prominent, and his biceps bulged. I noticed his upper body was still dry.

He’d waited for me.

I tossed my towel over one of the benches, swaggering over to him. The pool was normally empty by the time we met. It gave us privacy. Security in the knowledge no one was going to catch us. Even if they did, what could they say? We were just two strangers, swimming in different lanes, directions, and streams of life.

“Beautiful.” He looked up. For a second there, I allowed myself to fantasize that we were a real couple. Everything was normal, familiar, soaked with potential. But then I remembered. Remembered what he’d done today before coming here. Remembered this was only a charade. A distraction. A means to satisfy a very feral need. I slapped my swim cap over my head.

“Miller.” I dived headfirst into the lane next to his. I resurfaced moments later, swimming to the edge of the pool, to him. “How’s the trial moving?”

“Rapidly.” He slid into the pool effortlessly. The water was warm, perfect, the scent of chlorine and bleach heavy around us. “We’ll be making our closing statements sometime next week. You’re not planning to come, are you?”

I shook my head. A part of me pretended my dad had died. In a way, he had. Because the version of him I loved so much was gone, or maybe had never been there.

Christian dipped his head into the water and emerged with waterdrops clinging to his thick eyelashes. “Good.”

“Are we going to compete or what?” I asked. We did a front crawl. Fifty meters. He always won. But I always tried.

Usually, that was when Christian gave me an amused look. But not today. Today, he stared at me with something that resembled guilt. But since the bastard had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t remorseful about nailing my dad’s coffin to the ground, maybe it was just in my head.

“You want to compete again?” he asked. “When are you going to stop?”

“When I win.”

“You may never win.”

“Then I may never stop.”

“I pity the man who marries you.”

“I applaud the many women after me who’ll dump you.”

We ready-steady-goed. I gave it my all, fighting harder, swimming faster, than I ever had before. When I completed the lap and hit the edge of the pool, I looked back and saw that Christian was still trailing a few feet behind me.

For the first time, he’d let me win. On purpose. I didn’t like that.

Don’t let him pity you.

But how could he not, when he knew what was coming for me? For my family?

Suddenly, I felt very foolish. Foolish for sleeping with this man, who had gone after my father, even if he did deserve it. Foolish for giving in after I had bet Christian I wouldn’t be coaxed into his bed.

Foolish because he was still a mystery, carefully wrapped in a cunning smile and a dashing suit.

When he hit the wall, he shook water from his hair. His grin dropped as soon as he saw what must have been a scowl on my face.

“What?” he asked.

“You let me win.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” We sounded like kids.

“And what if I did?” he scoffed.

“Then stop. Remember I’m your equal.”

“That means I can’t be good to you?”

“Good, yes.” I pulled out of the pool, leaving him behind. “Deceitful? Never.”