“No.” She huffs, her face red with anger. “That is not going to happen.”
“Really? You’re going to go against me.” I smirk. “Do you know who I am?”
“A pretty rich boy who had everything handed to him on a silver—Nope, make that a gold platter.”
I stand from my chair and step forward until I’m standing beside her, looking down.
“No, princess. That’s not who I am. I’m a man you should fear.”
“What are you going to do? Have you ever gotten your hands dirty? Have you ever been desperate, wanted for anything . . . ?” She levels me with her stare. One that says she won’t back down, not without a fight.
If I didn’t hate her, I would probably respect the fuck out of her. Then want to literally fuck her. But this is the hand we were dealt. One where she will be on the permanent end of pain, just like she’d done to my family.
Dad’s hack of a lawyer clears his throat.
“May I have a minute with Payton?” he asks.
“No,” I respond, making his mouth drop.
“But—”
“I don’t have time for this shit. Whatever you have to say, say in here.”
He nods at me before gesturing for her to move over to the other side of the room. They think that will give them privacy, but whatever he has to say, I’ll hear anyway.
They migrate to the corner of the small office, and I watch with a smile on my face as a very angry Payton places her hands on her waist.
“What?” She scoffs.
“You need to be careful,” he tries to whisper. Not well, I might add.
“I don’t need to do anything. I’m not scared of a rich trust-fund kid.”
“Ms. Hart, please keep it down.”
“Why bother? We all know he can hear, so spit it out already. Tell me what’s so damn important about this man that I have to listen to this shit.”
“It’s not about him . . .”
“Stop with the damn riddles.”
“His clients, Payton. Do you know who his clients are? If he wanted to, he could have Lorenzo Amanté take you out. Or Cyrus Reed. Do those names ring a bell? Cyrus basically runs the underworld. Should I keep going? Mafia, drugs, arms dealers . . . you do not want to get on this man’s bad side. If he wants to just take the money and set you up for murder, he could. The money would be the least of your problems.”
That makes Payton shut up.
From where I’m standing, I can clearly see how wide her eyes are. Couple that with her mouth hanging open, and I think she has finally grasped her precarious situation.
I move forward. “Are you done? Because I’m ready to tell her the other stipulations when we get home.”
“I—”
“Stop.”
With that, I make my way toward the door.
“Wait. Wait. Just . . . I need to speak to Mr. Baker for a minute. Alone,” Payton asserts as if I would try to stop her. She can talk all she wants. It won’t change anything.
I shrug. I’m done with this anyway. “Go ahead, but know that he can’t do anything to change what’s about to happen.”
12
Payton
* * *
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Just. Happened.
I’m supposed to just follow Trent and move in so he can “monitor” me?
I pinch myself, double-checking this isn’t a dream. Or to be completely accurate, a nightmare.
Mr. Baker has the spine of a wilted flower. On its last legs before a snowstorm. He’s so useless it truly makes me mad.
“I’m just supposed to go along with all this?” I ask him.
No matter what Trent just said, he must be able to do something to help me. He’s a lawyer. The one who probably drafted the will. Do I even believe him about the mafia ties? That excuse sounds completely ridiculous. None of this popped up on Google; wait, would that show up on a basic search? No. It wouldn’t.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Mr. Baker mumbles before walking to the door and opening it.
He’s done with me. I’m not surprised. The man is a weasel.
When I step out of the office, I look at Trent, who has a smug look on his face. He’s been enjoying every last second of this whole exchange.
Basically, I have no choice.
He stripped away my autonomy.
There’s nothing pretty about it. I won’t take it lying down, but for now, I’ll move in, recuperate, and map out my options. One thing’s for sure—he is about to get a roommate from fucking hell, and he better believe I’m not going to do any goddamn dishes.
If you told me this would happen two months ago, I would’ve offered to buy you a coffee to sober up. Now, not only do I not have the money to buy you a cup of coffee, but it’s also my new reality.
“I’m late,” Trent informs me, checking his expensive watch.