The Villain: A Billionaire Romance (Boston Belles Book 2)

“Good session, Mr. Fitzpatrick. You’re one of the most talented equestrians I’ve ever seen. Mad skills, sir.” One of the pimply stable boys under my payroll staggered behind me, his tongue lapping about like an eager puppy.

I made my way from the barn back to my car, shoving my bridle into his chest along with a fat tip.

If nothing else, being filthy, immortally, disgustingly rich meant people were eager to tell me how I was the best at anything, be it horse riding, fencing, golfing, and synchronized swimming.

Not that I synchronize swam, but I was sure I’d be given a medal for it if I asked for one.

“Thanks for the tip, Mr. Fitzpatrick! You’re the best boss I’ve ever—”

“If I wanted my ass kissed, I’d go for someone curvier, blonder, and with an entirely different reproductive system,” I said cuttingly.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” He blushed, opening the door to my Aston Martin Vanquish for me, bowing. I slid into the car, revving up the engine.

The Ring app on my phone advised me there was a visitor at my front door.

Tugging at my gloves, I tossed them on the passenger seat before swiping the phone screen.

I didn’t have to check my wrist to know I wasn’t at my usual fifty beats per minute. I was a highly conditioned equestrian, a born athlete. But right now, it was at least at sixty-two.

I was a certified moron to develop a preference toward one potential bride over the other, considering none of the candidates on my list were going to walk down the aisle happily or willingly.

They all had reasons to say I do, and none of them had to do with my winning personality, wit, or flawless manners.

Persephone Penrose was the first I’d approached. She needed financial relief like I needed a good PR stunt and a couple of kids.

She was, however much I hated to admit it, also my favored contender. Good-natured, of sound mind more or less, with the face of an angel and a body that could tempt the devil.

She was perfect. Too perfect, in fact. So perfect I sometimes had to look away whenever we were in the same room. I averted my gaze from her more times than I could count, always opting to observe her mouthy sister. Watching the train wreck that was Emmabelle reminded me I didn’t want the Penrose DNA pool anywhere near mine.

Emmabelle was loud, lewd, and opinionated. She could argue with a goddamn wall for days and still lose. Focusing on her was less dangerous than watching Persephone.

And watching Persephone was something I did discreetly, but often, when no one was looking.

Which was why the fact she hadn’t returned to me with an answer was a good thing. Terrific, really.

I didn’t need this mess.

Didn’t need my heart rate hiking over sixty.

Case in point—as the video of my black, brass hardware double doors came into view, my pulse began strumming over my eyelid. It was the cleaning ladies and my chef, marching into my house to prepare it ahead of the kickback I was hosting tonight.

I threw the phone to the passenger seat, glancing at my Rolex.

It had been exactly forty-nine hours and eleven minutes since I’d presented Persephone with my offer. Her time was up. Timekeeping and reliability were two of the few things I’d admired about people.

She lacked both.

Clicking open my glove compartment, I produced the sticky note Devon had given me with names of potential brides. Next on my list was Minka Gomes. An ex-model who was now a child psychologist. Legs for miles, a good family, and a perfect smile (although Devon had warned me she had veneers).

She was thirty-seven, desperate for children, and traditional enough to want a Catholic wedding. She’d already signed an NDA prior to my approaching her, something I’d made Devon do with all of my potential brides, save for Persephone, who was:

1. My first candidate, and therefore my sloppiest attempt. And—

2. Too good to tell a soul.

I punched her address into the navigation app, rolling out of my private ranch’s driveway, where I had spent the past few hours riding my horses, ignoring my responsibilities, and not seething over the fact Persephone Penrose needed to think about marrying me when the other option available was grisly death in the hands of street mobsters.

I deliberately wasn’t home because I knew Persephone wasn’t going to take the bait.

She had too much integrity, morals, not to mention—another flipping husband somewhere in the globe.

“Let’s hope for your sake you’re not dumb enough to turn down my offer, too,” I muttered to an invisible Minka as I took the highway toward Boston.

Bride number two it was.

As if it made any difference.

Sam Brennan threw his cards onto the table later that evening, tilting his head back, a ribbon of smoke curling past his lips.

He always folded.

He didn’t come here to play cards.

Didn’t believe in luck, didn’t play for it, and didn’t count on it.

He was here to observe, learn, and keep tabs on Hunter and me, two of his most profitable clients. Made sure we kept out of trouble.

“Sally” by Gogol Bordello rose from the surround system.

We were in my drawing room for our weekly poker night. A tasteful, albeit boring space, with upholstered leather incliners and heavy burgundy curtains.

“Don’t worry, sons. It’ll all be over soon,” Hunter tsked, attempting his best John Malkovich impression in Rounders. “Poker is not for the faint of heart.”

“This, from someone who is a Nordstrom membership away from being a chick.” Sam slid his cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other, his forearms nearly ripping the black dress shirt he wore.

“You bet your ass I have a Nordstrom membership.” Hunter laughed, unfazed. “I don’t have time to shop with my stylist, and the ladies at the store know my measurements.”

“I see your thirty-five k and raise eight thousand.” Devon tossed eight black chips to the center of the table, drumming his fingers over his cards.

Devon was the opposite of Sam. A hedonist lord with a taste for fine, forbidden things, open manners, and zero scruples. Watching money burn was his favorite pastime. Ironically, Devon Whitehall needed a job like Hunter needed more distasteful sexual innuendos in his repertoire. He chose to go to university in America, passed the bar, and stayed far away from Britain.

I was pretty sure he had his own can of worms waiting to be cracked open back in his homeland but didn’t care enough to ask.

“All in,” I announced.

Hunter smacked his lip, pushing his entire stack of chips forward.

“You’re taking the piss.” Devon narrowed his eyes at my brother. Hunter flashed an innocent smile, batting his lashes theatrically.

“It’s a zero-sum game, Monsieur Whitehall. Don’t step into the kitchen if you don’t like the burn.”

“You’re mixing two phrases,” I said around the Cuban cigar in my mouth, pushing my chips to the center of the table. “It’s don’t step into the kitchen if you can’t take the heat. Burn is what you get between your legs for sleeping with enough women to fill up Madison Square Garden.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you inviting me to your sainthood ceremony, big bro.” Hunter took a pull of his Guinness, dragging his tongue over his foam mustache. “Oh, that’s right, it never happened because you bonked half of Europe. ’Sides, this was all in the past. I’m a married man now. There’s only one woman for me.”

“And that woman is my sister, so you better think carefully about what you say next if you want to get out of here with all your organs intact,” Sam reminded him.

Sam had brown hair, gray eyes, and tan skin. He was tall, broad, and had that ragged, hunky look that made women lose their pants and senses.

“Dude, my wife is knocked up. Too late for you to second-guess what we’re doing in our spare time. By the way, the abdomen pain she had this week turned out to be gas, thanks for asking,” Hunter tutted.

Was I seriously listening to a fart report from Sailor now?

“Not every single conversation must circle back to the fact your wife is pregnant,” I reminded him.

“Prove it.”

Sam jerked his thumb toward Hunter.

“You realize I will kill your brother at some point, right?” he asked me.

“Won’t hold it against you.” I spat the cigar out to an ashtray. “But wait until after he reveals his cards.”

“Speaking of marital bliss,” Devon swirled his Johnnie Walker Blue Label in its tumbler, “I believe our host has some marvelous news to share.”

“Aww, you finally opened an account on OkCupid?” Hunter clasped his hands together, cooing. “Our parents have been riding his ass for being lonelier than a satanist in a Youth for Jesus convention for a while now.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when Cillian Fitzpatrick says I do,” Sam drawled.

“Better bring a warm coat, mate.” Devon smirked.

“Hell’s not ready for me yet. And Cillian likes variety too much to settle for one pussy.” Sam speared Devon with a deadly glare.

“Women are like pancakes. They all taste the same,” I agreed.

Sam flashed his teeth. “I fucking love pancakes.”

The man had bedded everyone in town.

Everyone other than my sister.

It didn’t take an astrophysicist to figure out Aisling was stupidly in love with Brennan. Whenever she was in the room with her sister-in-law’s brother, she all but drooled on his lap. The minute I’d realized her lapse in judgment, I’d hired Brennan on retainer. I didn’t have too much work for him back when we started our professional relationship, but having him on my payroll ensured he wasn’t going to touch Ash.

Brennan was an honorable man in his own backward, lethal way.

I cracked my knuckles, my eyes firmly on my cards. I had two pairs. I would bet both my nuts Hunter’s cards had alphabet letters and drawings of animals at best. For an Irishman, luck wasn’t on his side.

“I’m engaged.” I dropped the bomb.

Sam choked on his cigarette, the inch-long ash dangling from it falling onto the table. Hunter cackled. Devon gave me a curt nod of approval.

Me? I felt nothing.

Numbness was a notion I was familiar with, knew how to manage, and did not stir me off course.

Hunter slapped his thigh, his cards raining down on the floor as he laughed his ass off. He fell from his chair, holding his stomach.

“Engaged!” he bellowed, dragging himself up back to his seat. “Who’s the unlucky woman? Your blowup doll?”

“Her name is Minka Gomes.”

“You named your blowup doll Minka?” My brother wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, downing a bottle of water. “I thought you’d go for something more stripper-y. Like Lola or Candy.”

“I don’t recall running a background check on her.” Sam pinned me with a glare. These days, I had him dig up dirt on everyone I met, from business partners to shoeshiners.

“Just because you haven’t heard of her doesn’t mean she’s not in existence,” I bit out. Admittedly, it was hard to explain how I’d ended up engaged to a complete stranger.

Minka was pleasant enough when I stopped by her house with a marriage offer earlier today. Devon prepped her for our meeting. She said she was happy to sign all the necessary paperwork and asked for two clauses to be added during our negotiations. She wanted a cabin in Aspen, and an annual trip to Fashion Week in a European city of her choice, along with a healthy shopping budget. I was content to grant both her wishes.

She was beautiful, polite, and obnoxiously eager to please.

She also stirred absolutely nothing in me.

“Please explain to me how you went from corrupting Europe’s finest princesses to getting engaged to some random local chick.” Hunter scrubbed his chin.

My brother, like the rest of my family, thought I’d spent my time romancing EU’s finest royals. That was a story I spoon-fed my family to protect them from the truth. I did brush shoulders with duchesses and daughters of earls, socially climbing my way from another rich American man to the kind of person who knew everyone worth knowing on the continent.

But I’d never touched them.

I’d never touched a woman I hadn’t paid for, if I was being honest.

Which I wasn’t, with anyone.

Anyone but Persephone.

Even two days later, I still wasn’t sure what made me tell her about my preference to pay for sex. I deliberately left out the part where the women I’d seen weren’t prostitutes, per se. Waited to see the revulsion on her innocent face. But she was too occupied with mentally beating me with her purse for ridiculing her feelings to let the small details register.

Paying for sex was my way to give conventional relationships the middle finger. I’d taken care of the women I’d seen, both in bed and out of it, but I’d never offered them more than a good time. Dates, presents, phone calls, feelings—those were off the table.

My partners came with a detailed list of dos and don’ts, and the only thing they expected from our encounters was a large tip, a complimentary orgasm from yours truly.

My first time with a working girl was at age fourteen.

My father had visited me at Evon, not long after Andrew Arrowsmith unearthed my secret.

We held a private dinner at London’s Savoy. I wore a long-sleeved shirt even though it was summer to hide the cigarette burns and bite marks. Athair asked me how many girls I’d slept with, spooning Royal Beluga on a small toast. I curled my index finger to my thumb, making a zero sign. I didn’t think much of it. Not only did I attend an all-boy school but I also had bigger fish to fry than getting my dick wet.

Gerald Fitzpatrick choked on his caviar. The next day, he decided to rectify my dire situation by hurling my skinny ass onto a plane and taking me on a trip to Norway, where he was scheduled to visit one of Royal Pipelines’ oil drilling rigs.

Maja, the Norwegian woman who relieved me of my celibate status, was in her early thirties, about a head taller than teenage me, and comically confused when I nearly threw up in her lap. I didn’t want to lose my virginity. Not at age fourteen, not to a stranger, and definitely not in a high-end brothel on a side street in Oslo. But doing things to appease my father wasn’t a strange concept for me.

It was just another Tuesday in the Fitzpatrick household where Athair dangled the kingdom’s keys in front of me to get what he wanted.

Don’t slouch.

Don’t curse.

Do not misspell a word, fall off a horse, display less than pristine table manners, or look your father in the eye.

And so, I’d put on a condom and paid my dues.

When I’d gotten out of the room, Athair clapped my back, and said, “This, mo òrga, is the only thing women are good for. Opening their legs and taking orders. You’d be wise to remember that. Try to upgrade your mistresses often, never get attached to any of them, and when the time to settle down comes, make sure you find someone manageable. Someone who wouldn’t ask for too much.”

Athair did as he preached.

Jane Fitzpatrick was quiet, coy, and lacked anything resembling a backbone. That, of course, didn’t stop her from cheating on her husband. Both my parents committed adultery, often and openly.

I grew up looking at the worst possible example for matrimony, took notes, and was expected to follow in their footsteps.

My baby brother had apparently been absent for the Women are Evil lecture. Hunter married for love. Not only that but he also wedded the most difficult girl he’d ever laid eyes on.

Shockingly, he seemed happy.

Then again, that meant nothing. Hunter possessed the intellect of a Lab puppy. I was pretty sure bone-shaped cookies and licking his own balls would make him content, too.

“Earth to Kill?” Hunter snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I asked why Minka. Why now?”

I opened my mouth to tell him to mind his own business when Petar, my estate manager, stormed into the room. His hair was damp from rain.

“You have a visitor, sir.”

I didn’t look up from my cards even though something weird and unwelcome happened in my chest.

The chances of it being Persephone were slim to none. Even if it was her, she missed her chance, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

“Who is it?” I barked.

“Mrs. Veitch.”

I could feel Hunter’s gaze darting in my direction, burning a hole through my cheek.

“I’m busy.” I motioned to the table.

“Sir, it’s late and raining hard.”

“I can read the time and look through the window. Call her a cab if you feel so inclined to be a gentleman.”

“There’s a storm. Lines are down. Taxi apps aren’t working,” Petar countered, hands behind his back, each word pronounced slowly and measuredly. He knew I did not appreciate being slighted. I was always trigger-happy to get rid of unruly staffers. “She is soaked to the bone and seems pretty upset.”

Hunter opened his mouth, but I raised a hand to stop him.

“She has five minutes. Bring her in.”

“You want her to come here to this room?” Petar glanced around. A rancid cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke hung above our heads, and the sour scent of stale, warm alcohol soaked the walls. The room smelled like a brothel.

She was a damsel in distress, and I was inviting her into the lion’s den.

But Persephone turned down my offer. If my ego took a beating, then hers could use a few spanks, too.

I met Petar’s eyes with a vacant stare.

“It’s my way or the highway, and as far as my knowledge goes, Mrs. Veitch can’t afford a car. Send. Her. In.”

Not a minute later, Persephone was ushered into the drawing room, drenched and tattered. A thin trail of water followed her, her shoes squeaking with every step she took. Her eyes, blue and bottomless as the pit of the ocean, looked feverish. Yellow hair framed her temples and cheeks, and her holed windbreaker was tangled around her willowy body.

She stopped in the middle of the room, graceful as a queen who’d allowed her servants the time of the day. I saw the minute it really hit her. When she took in her surroundings. The soft lighting, refreshments, and charcuteries.

This life could have been yours. You turned it down for love.

She drew herself to her full height—which, granted, wasn’t much—took a breath, and honed her gaze on me.

“I accept.”

The two simple words exploded in the room.

Watch that pulse, Cillian.

“I beg your pardon?” I raised an eyebrow.

She ignored Hunter, Sam, and Devon, exhibiting balls bigger than all three of them. Petar stood beside her, his stance protective.

Persephone tipped her chin higher, refusing to cower and flail. At that moment, soaked as a rat and well on her way to pneumonia, she was mercilessly beautiful, and I knew exactly why I always chose to look at her older sister whenever we were in the same room.

Emmabelle didn’t blind me.

Didn’t consume me.

Didn’t move me.

She was just another woman packed with mannerism and entitlement, existing loudly, unapologetically, desperate to be seen and acknowledged.

Persephone was pure and noble. Bare of pretense.

“Your offer.” Her voice was silky and sweet as pomegranate. “I accept it.”

She accepts.

I was going to punch a wall.

No, not just a wall. All of them. Reducing my Back Bay Jacobean mansion to nothing but dust.

She is accepting an offer that’s no longer on the table.

Her cheeks reddened, but she refused to budge, nailed to my floor, a pool of water forming around her.

Having her felt almost too easy at that moment, yet entirely impossible.

“Persy, I—” Hunter rose from his seat, about to rush over and help his wife’s friend. I pushed him back down by his shoulder, pinning him on the chair to the wall with force, my eyes still fixated on her.

“You know why I like Greek mythology, Persephone?” I asked.

Her nostrils flared. She didn’t take the bait because she knew I’d tell her, anyway.

“The gods have a history of punishing women for hubris. You see, fifty-five hours ago, I wasn’t good enough to be your husband. It took you longer than we’d agreed to get back to me.”

Her mouth fell open. I’d outed us in front of all our acquaintances without as much as a blink.

“There was a storm.” Her eyes flared. “Trains were down. I had to ride my bike in the rain—”

“I’m bored.” Dropping my head to the headrest, I grabbed a shiny apple from one of the fruit assortments and rolled it in my hand. “And you’re late. That is the essence of the situation.”

“I came here as soon as I could!”

Her shock was replaced with anger now. The two steel marbles of her eyes shimmered. Not with tears, but with something else. Something I hadn’t seen before in them until tonight.

Wrath.

My father’s words echoed in my head—marry someone manageable. Someone who wouldn’t ask for too much.

Minka seemed docile, adaptable, and desperate.

Persephone, on the other hand, asked for the unthinkable—love.

“Already proposed to someone else.” I sank my teeth into the Envy apple, its nectar trickling down my chin as our eyes remained locked in a battle of wills. “She accepted immediately.”

The room filled with silence.

All eyes were directed at me.

This wasn’t a power trip.

This was a full-blown act of humiliation.

I didn’t want Persephone Penrose.

She wasn’t good enough for me.

Even if she were, what good would come out of it? She wanted all the things I didn’t.

A relationship. A partnership. Intimacy.

I wasn’t Hunter. I wasn’t capable of loving or even liking my wife. Tolerating? Possibly, and only if we reduced our communication to once a month. Besides, the day my brother married Sailor Brennan, I’d almost let Persephone die of poisoning just to avoid being in the same room alone with her.

I’d been seconds away from devouring her.

From sinking my teeth into her firm, round ass.

From grinding myself against her tits until I came in my pants from the friction.

And now I was hard in a room full of people. Terrific.

My point was, Persephone was too messy, too complicated, and too much a temptation for me to yield to. Minka was the right choice. My mind would never drift to Minka unprompted.

“You proposed to someone else,” she echoed, stumbling backward.

“Minka Gomes.” Sam stuck his seventh cigarette that hour to the corner of his lips, fully committed to get lung cancer before the night was over. He lit it up, puffing away. “We’re trying to figure out where he found the poor thing. Ring a bell?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said quietly.

“Dodged a bullet. Kill’s too cold, too old, and too set in his ways for a nice girl like you. Not to mention, I have my suspicions about his preferences in the sack. Light a candle for Miss Gomes next time you go to church and thank your lucky stars. They definitely aligned tonight.” Sam puffed a ribbon of smoke directly in her direction, making her cough.

I wanted to kill him.

“Persy.” Hunter stood. “Wait.”

She shook her head, mustering a dignified smile.

“I’m okay, Hunt. Totally fine. Please, get back to your game. Thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

She turned around, her steps brisk and even. Petar shot me a disgusted look, then turned around and chased her.

Hunter was about to run after both of them, but I grabbed the collar of his shirt and nailed him back to his seat again.

“Finish the game first.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” my brother roared. His Guinness tipped over. The black stout hissed as it spread across my Persian carpet. “You went around Boston proposing to women—one of them my wife’s best friend—and you want me to finish the fucking game? Fine. Here. Whatever Kill wants, Kill gets.” He slammed his cards over the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fix this shit.” He pointed at the door. “The last thing my pregnant missus needs is a pissed-off friend. Swear to God, Kill, if you pulled something on this girl…if you somehow got her pregnant to make sure you have an heir…”

I flipped his discarded cards over, ignoring his hysterics.

He had a full house.

Hunter was wrong. I didn’t always get what I wanted.

Persephone

He was marrying someone else.

I was a few hours late, showing up at almost midnight, looking and feeling like a rag doll that had been left in the mud for the past century, and he didn’t even give me a second glance.

What did I expect?

You expected him to treat you as more than just a womb for hire.

But that was my first and hopefully last mistake regarding Cillian Fitzpatrick.

I made my way from my bike to my apartment building, stomping on puddles deliberately. It was the middle of the night, raining hard, and my windbreaker was torn from the ride to and from Back Bay. My toes and fingers were numb. Maybe they fell off on the way, and I hadn’t even noticed. The rest of my body wasn’t going to miss them when Byrne and Kaminski finally dismembered me and fed me to the crows.

Wherever you are, Pax, I hope you suffer twice as much as I do.

I opened the front door to my building—Belle’s building. I had no home, I reminded myself. It was dark, damp, and moldy. I took the first step toward the stairway when my head flew sideways. My cheek burned so bad my eyes stung with tears.

A whip-like thwack! pierced the air a second later. Before I knew what was happening, I was on my knees, facedown. The sound of gurgling reverberated in the empty hallway. It took me a moment to realize I was its source.

A sharp kick to my stomach followed, coming from the blanket of darkness. I collapsed on my stomach, gagging. Craning my neck to look at my assaulter, I shot my arm forward, patting the floor to find my bag in the dark and reach for the pepper spray in it.

A heavy boot flattened over my fingers. A cracking sound filled the air as my attacker put his full weight on my hand.

“Think again, bitch.”

For the first time in my life, fear had a shape and a taste. My attacker kicked my bag away, sending it spinning across the floor until it hit the wall. I took the opportunity to claw my nails onto his ankle. I felt my nails bending backward as I desperately tried to hurt him. I used his leg for leverage, pulled myself up, and sank my teeth into his shin, clamping on it viciously until I felt my gums bleeding.

“Fuck! You whore!”

A dirty green army boot kicked me off. I only knew one man who wore this type of footwear.

Kaminski.

“Tom,” I croaked, using his first name as if it would help. Warm, metallic blood filled my mouth. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and every cell in my body prickled with panic. “Please, Tom. Get off me. I can’t breathe.”

Another kick found me. This time, he hit my jaw. My face throbbed, and I bit my tongue in the process. More blood filled my mouth.

Kaminski could end me right here, right now, and no one would ever know. The only person who knew about the mobsters after me was Cillian, and between almost letting me poison myself and refusing to help me, it was safe to say bringing me justice wasn’t high on his to-do list.

I started crawling up the stairs, frantically trying to get away, but Kaminski grabbed my foot, pulling me down the three stairs I managed to take. He spun me around, unzipping himself.

“Why don’t we see what you’re worth, huh?” His menacing laughter rattled the air. “Seein’ as you’ll be sucking a lot of cock in a few days to pay back Pax’s debt.”

Rearing my body back, I sent a kick to Tom’s groin, smacking my sneakers against his heavy erection. He tripped backward, screaming in pain as he cupped his groin. I turned around and climbed up the stairs on my hands and knees, like an animal, guttural screams leaving my lungs. I knew Belle wasn’t home, but we had four other neighbors in the building.

A hand wrapped around my hair, pulling my head up with a violent yank. Kaminski’s rancid breath skated over my cheek, the scent of cigarettes and plaque hitting my nostrils.

“Saved by the bell. You killed my hard-on, but that just means I’ll take you up the ass next time. You’ve got a week, Mrs. V. One week before I turn all your nightmares into reality. You better believe it.”

He let go of my hair. My face hit the floor with a thud. The entrance door slammed behind me.

I lay there, allowing myself a rare moment to break. For the first time since Paxton had left, I cried, pressing my swollen, hot, and bruised face to the floor.

Curling into a ball, I bawled like a baby, the agony rocking me back and forth.

I cried for making all the wrong choices in life.

For being deserted by my husband.

For paying for his sins.

For cycling in the storm, wet and cold and desperate, and for being so freaking, unbelievably, pathetically stupid.

For wasting Auntie Tilda’s precious Cloud Wish on Cillian Fitzpatrick, who turned out to be the villain in my story.

For believing her stupid miracles in the first place.

Minutes, or maybe hours had passed before I peeled myself from the floor, slapping the dirt and blood from my scraped knees. I dumped my bag into the trash can outside the building, shoving my wallet into my panties to hide it, then went upstairs to Belle’s apartment.

My sister had to believe I had been violently mugged.

I couldn’t drag her into this mess.

A week. I wanted to scream.

Seven short days.

Before my life would be over.