Chapter One
Elliot
If I could have anything I wanted, I’d like the power to stab myself in the face repeatedly…without killing myself. That would certainly hurt less than what I’m feeling now as I drag myself out of bed at my half-brother Ryder’s Beverly Hills mansion.
A hot shower does nothing to lessen my dark mood. At least his guest suite has a spare change of underwear. The dress shirt and slacks from last night hang limply over the back of a chair, and I put them on with a sigh of distaste.
I should’ve gone back home. Leaving my wife alone after that disastrous dinner—or what should have been our first social event together—is a dick move even if she did drop what amounted to a nuclear missile on my head. Drinking until I pass out rarely solves anything, but I don’t have the ability to go back in time and fix the situation either.
Goddamn it. This is why I hate secrets. They have the power to fuck with your head and good judgment.
Leaving my hair damp, I go to the kitchen for coffee. My half-sister Elizabeth is at the counter, sipping her own brew out of a pink mug that reads Nobody Does It Better.
In a modest cream-colored dress, Elizabeth looks as pristine as the first snow of the year. Her golden hair curls around her sweet, angelic face, her brown eyes focused on something on her phone. She’s several months older than me, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at us. She’s been untouched by cynicism or ugliness the way I have.
I take the stool next to her at the counter with a mug full of coffee. Mine says The Person Drinking out of This Is an Ugly Ogre. An accurate description of how I’m feeling right now.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth says, watching me carefully.
I take a sip of the coffee first, then grunt. “Morning.”
“You feeling all right?”
“I’m still alive.”
Her brows crease. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m not that hung over, if that’s what you’re worried about. Nothing some coffee and aspirin won’t fix.” Two pills magically appear in front of me, next to my mug. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome.”
I chug them down and close my eyes, willing the caffeine and drugs to kick in.
“So. How’s Gigi?” Elizabeth asks.
“Who?” I ask, disoriented for a moment.
“Uh, your wife?”
“Oh.” Damn. That’s right. Gigi is the name I used to introduce my wife. She’s a wreck. But my mouth autocorrects that to, “She’s fine.”
“And Nonny?”
“Sleeping it off when I left.” And missed all the ugly-ass drama, thank god.
“Good.”
The gears in my brain start turning a little faster. I scowl into my coffee mug. “I fucked it up.”
“No. Tiffany did.”
“Bitch.” I have more creative things I could say about my father’s Wife Number Six, but I don’t want to shock Elizabeth.
“Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but you should be with your wife now. Gigi could use your support.”
Except she doesn’t want it. But I don’t correct my half-sister. I can’t tell her what my wife’s told me—about her rape and subsequent miscarriage. I suspect she regrets relating the story, even though I’m her husband and by god it’s my right to know so I can track down the son of a bitch who violated her and punish him.
“Where are the lovebirds?” I change the topic. All I can do, since I can’t really get into anything about my wife.
“Probably sleeping. They’re jet-lagged.”
I nod. A part of me is glad I don’t have to watch them gaze at each other and smile. But another part is disgusted that I feel that petty. What the hell is wrong with me?
Abruptly, I stand up. “I gotta go.”
“Yes, go check up on your wife. And tell her I said hi,” Elizabeth says, apparently unaware of my inner asshole thoughts.
The Maserati is right outside the main entrance, where I left it last night. I climb in and start driving.
I should be thrilled for Ryder. He deserves every bit of his newfound bliss, and Paige is just the right person for him. And just because he stumbled upon the real thing doesn’t mean I should be bitter about my choice. Nobody put a gun to my head.
Bitter probably isn’t the right word. I’m still digesting what my wife said in the back of my mind, trying to decide what I’m going to do. I never imagined…
Fuck!
An irrational part of me wants to sue the hell out of the PI I hired to do a background check on her. But if everything happened the way she said, there’s no way he would’ve found it. Holding Paddington responsible is ridiculous.
Yet I want to hold someone responsible for what happened. Shit like this can’t just happen, or the people who did it will get away scot-free.