The implication behind the statement cut James. As did the pain and torment flickering over her face.
“Do you want me to tell you what Clinton did, James?” She wiped at the lone tear trickling down her cheek and met his gaze, her eyes flinty. “The night I supposedly cast him aside?”
He drew in a slow breath, his head swimming, his chest tight. When the fuck had he swallowed the brick in his throat?
She didn’t blink. Held his stare. She shook. Trembled. “He asked me to marry him. And then tried to attack me when I said no. He ripped my shirt. And then, when he realized I was never going to say yes, when he realized all he’d ever been to me was a friend, he left. And clearly poured poison into your ear about me.”
She let out a shaky breath, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. “And even after that, I didn’t hate him, although I had every reason to. Even after that, I ached for the hurt he was feeling. I didn’t tell anyone what he’d done to me, what he’d tried to do. No one. Not even Carrie. I kept it to myself because he was my friend, and my heart tore for him. I felt sorry that his family hadn’t supported him. I felt sorry that he was lost in this world, so lost he wanted more than anything to belong to someone. I felt sorry that I’d hurt him by not being what he wanted me to be. And then you came back into my life, and I thought, for a ridiculous moment, that you weren’t who you really are. I thought the arrogance and ruthlessness you’re known for was a persona you wore in business. And I fell…”
She stopped, shaking her head.
“Sienna,” he said, her name little more than a husky rasp.
Fuck, what have I done? What did Clinton do?
Lifting a hand to him, she turned to Thomas. “If you’re still interested in buying the drawing, it’s yours.”
James’s gut clenched. She held herself with such poise, even as her voice cracked.
“I am.” Thomas flicked James an unreadable look. “Definitely. Name your price. I’ll pay it.”
“3,842 dollars.”
The very specific number snagged James’s reeling brain.
The exact total of the broken violin and the Barton National Portrait Prize entry fee.
Thomas held out his hand. “Done.”
She took it. She didn’t look at James. “I’ll have it ready to collect within the—”
The warehouse door banged open.
“You prick!” Zach charged through it, rage etching his face.
“Zach?” Sienna dropped Thomas’s hand as he stormed toward them. “What’s—”
“You fucking prick,” he snarled, smashing his fist into James’s jaw.
White-hot pain detonated in James’s cheek and jaw. The force of the wild punch knocked him sideways.
“You’re a prick, Dyson,” Zach raged, bearing down on him as he regained his balance.
“Zach,” Sienna gasped. “What the hell?”
He ignored her, throwing a newspaper at James instead. “Get the fuck away from my sister.”
The pages fluttered to the ground at James’s feet, but he kept his focus on Zach. On the fury burning in eyes so like his sister’s. “Zachary. Let me—”
Zach slammed his palms to James’s chest and shoved.
“Hey, hey, hey?” Thomas lunged at them both. “I think—”
James held out his hand toward Thomas, his pulse pounding. “It’s okay, mate.”
Black hate twisted Zach’s face. And something else. Betrayal? “It’s not even close to okay, you fucking prick.”
Sienna scooped up the newspaper on the floor. James didn’t need to see the front page to know which newspaper it was. He’d helped design the new logo for it when he was twenty, after all.
The rustle of pages being tidied and organized filled the charged silence. James watched her, the air pushing down on him. Suffocating him.
“Page four, sis,” Zach snarled, staring hard at James.
More pages rustling. James drew a slow breath, preparing himself for what was to come.
He deserved it. Whatever it was, whatever she did or said, whatever hell she flung him into, he deserved it. All of it.
“Criminal’s daughter’s gold-digging plans,” she read, her voice devoid of emotion.