Dirty Filthy Rich Love by Laurelin Paige

  But which one?

  I spun back toward Raymond. "Who decided?” I was desperate for the answer. Desperate for the answer to be different than the one I knew it was. "Who decided to deny my appeal? Did you even read over my case or was the decision all in Donovan's hands?" My elbows were tight at my sides, my hands in fists, and I was shaking. Shaking from rage that made my breathing shudder.

  Raymond lifted one brow and turned his stare toward his son, understanding lighting his gaze. "You already tried to give her up," he said pointing a finger in Donovan's direction. "That's why you didn't want her back at Harvard." It was clear he was just putting pieces together himself.

  He hadn't been part of this.

  It had all been Donovan.

  And I’d been such a fool.

  I needed some space to breathe. Needed to be away from the two pairs of eyes staring me down, watching my every reaction. I wanted off their chessboard. I brushed past Donovan, running from the room, no destination in mind except to get away.

  He was right behind me, on my heels, as he always was.

  "Don't listen to my father. Let's talk about this. Let me explain. It was better if you weren't there, Sabrina."

  We were in the middle of the house when I whirled around to face him. "Better for who? For you?"

  "For you. Always for you." His voice was thick with agony.

  But his misery couldn't dare to compare with mine. His was a lie. A boldfaced lie.

  "Better for me because I wouldn't ever have to face your family? Because you’d never have to bring home a scholarship girl to meet your folks? Because you thought I'd be ashamed to stand in the presence of the almighty Raymond Kincaid?" I'd believed him when he’d said he wanted me away from him because he was afraid he would love me too much.

  Stupid, stupid me.

  He wasn't afraid of loving me too much. He was afraid his parents would hate me too much.

  "No, it's not true. What he said is not true. He's guessing. He thinks I give a shit about their opinion, and I don't. I never cared about that."

  I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet. I wanted to believe him. It could be so easy to let him take care of this—of me—like always.

  Down the hall, Raymond stepped out of his study to watch us, and I knew I had to ignore “easy.” He was a visual reminder that he'd had Donovan first. I couldn't dispute that he was at Donovan's roots any more than I could dispute that my parents, and Audrey, were at mine.

  I shook my head. "I'm finding it hard to believe you right now."

  Before he could argue again, I turned away and ran upstairs to the room we'd been sharing and slammed the doors behind me.

  He followed. I knew he would.

  "What about trust?" he said, bursting through the doors. "You said we should trust each other."

  I bent to pull the cord of my charger from the wall by the bed, then dropped it into my purse along with my cell phone. "Well, that was stupid. I was stupid to believe that someone like you could ever learn anything about trust."

  "Don't say that. I've shown you parts of me that no one else has ever seen." He stood at the foot of the bed, his fist anchored on his hip as if that was the only way to keep it from reaching out to me.

  "You mean I saw you vulnerable?" I spat. "So fucking sad. I'm sure it doesn't even compare to the parts that you saw of me."

  "I was only ever trying to protect you."

  "Bullshit. I am tired of the fucking bullshit. Just tell me the goddamn truth!"

  "This is the truth," he yelled.

  I tilted my chin up defiantly. "Okay. If it's all true, why didn't you tell me that day in the office? Why didn't you tell me when I asked you if there was ‘anything else?’ Why didn't you confess this when we decided no more secrets? What about that?"

  His lids shut halfway, as though the things I said were too heavy and hard to bear. When he opened them again fully, they were glossy and deep green.

  "Because I knew this would hurt you,” he said softly. “And I was done hurting you. I didn't want to hurt you anymore."

  "You didn't want to hurt me. Of course.” My tone was thick with sarcasm. "Let me guess—you ‘didn't want to hurt me’ is the reason you snapped away my scholarship too. Just like the reason you didn't want a relationship with me. You didn't want to hurt me. It's the reason you always run. The reason you always fucking end up hurting me."

  "It's not that simple." His body was tense with how complicated it was.

  "It never is," I laughed sardonically, spotting a stray earring I’d left on the nightstand. I grabbed it and stuck it in my purse.

  Donovan took two steps towards me but didn’t go farther when I put my hand up in protest.

  "If you had been with me, I would have destroyed you,” he said emphatically. More emphatically than he would have if he were closer. "Look how close I came to destroying you while you were at school. Look what I did to you with my jealousy over Weston. With your grades. I couldn't have you at Harvard. You were better off away from me."

  And there it was, spelled out. Finally. His reasoning. His confession. His truth. No better than the excuses Raymond gave.

  "Do you have any idea how nearly you destroyed me by taking that away from me?" My voice was as unsteady as my hands. School had been the only thing I thought I had left to live for after my father's death, besides Audrey. "Harvard was supposed to have been our way out. It was going to be the future for my sister and me. And you took it away because you couldn't handle yourself around me?"

  His shoulders sagged with the weight of this truth. "I took care of you. I tried to make it up."

  I blinked back tears, but it was useless. They were coming anyway. Angry and hot. "Did you ever even really love me? Or was the decade that followed just a way to assuage your guilt?"

  "How can you even ask that?" Deep in his throat, his voice broke. "I love you, Sabrina. All this time, I have loved you."

  I bit my lip and tugged my purse up on my shoulder, hugging my arms around myself. "I don't think you know what love is."

  With tears streaming down my face, I strolled past him out the doors. His mother had come out of her room at the other end of the hall, but she didn't try to talk to me. Just watched. A family of watchers and stalkers—none of them knew how to connect with people. None of them knew how to love.

  I’d feel sad for them all if I wasn’t so busy feeling sad for myself.

  I trotted back down the stairs. My luggage was already by the door, waiting for our trip back home. I waited in the foyer for Donovan to arrive, because of course he would.

  And he did.

  "You're wrong," he said, as he walked toward me. "I might not love you in the pretty traditional way that you're looking for, like some hero, like Weston might. But I do love you. Everything I did—everything I do—is because I love you."

  I ached for him.

  Every limb, every joint, every cell ached with the pain of his words. Because I loved the way he loved me. I preferred the way he loved me a million times to the way a man like Weston could—or any other man could even dare to try.

  But I couldn't heal his hurt.

  Because I hurt too much right then too. I hurt with my own pain, pain that he had inflicted with his lies and deceit and betrayal. Maybe he wasn't lying about why he sent me away, why he took away my scholarship. But at the very least he had lied by keeping the secret since we decided to be together.

  He should have told me.

  I couldn't say whether I would've forgiven him or not.

  But he should have fucking told me.

  "I’m going to call a cab," I said, not looking at him directly. "I can't be in a car with you."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  I spoke right on top of him. "I'm not being ridiculous. I don’t want to be in a car with you for two hours. I can't stand to look at you. I can't stand to hear you breathe. I can’t be near you."

  His nostrils flared. He opened his mouth, his expression saying he
was about to argue more.

  But then I added, "I'm too hurt." And if he couldn’t see how wounded I was, how absolutely heartbroken, then he was blind.

  He looked at me a moment, and his shoulders sagged. "Fine. John can take you. I'll take one of my father's cars.”

  Good. It was what I had wanted.

  And not what I wanted too. Part of me wished he'd have put his foot down and said he was coming with me. Wished he would prove to me the truth he wanted me to know. Everything hurt and I wanted it to stop. I wanted to bury my face in his sweater and sob. I wanted him to make it better like he always did in his crazy Donovan ways.

  How ironic that I still wanted that? That the cause of my pain and the source of my balm could be one and the same?

  But we were done talking. No more words were exchanged, none with meaning anyway. There could be no comfort. There could be no balm. He didn’t try very hard, and I couldn’t let him give it to me.

  I refused his help in putting on my coat. I turned away from him as I waited for the car to pull up. But while John put my bag in the trunk, I snuck a peek in Donovan's direction and caught his eye accidentally.

  Immediately, I turned my head away, but he’d already seen me.

  He took that look as an invitation, and rushed to get my door.

  "This isn't over, Sabrina," he said holding it open for me. "You can take whatever time you need to be angry with me. We can fight. We can be silent. But you and I are not over. I think we can agree that I've already proven myself a patient man."

  I pursed my lips together, unwilling to give him anything—not a scowl, not a pout. Definitely not hope. I climbed into the back seat and refused to watch out the window as he became a tiny figure in the distance.

  Donovan's driver was a professional. He was trained not to react to what happened in the backseat of the car, whether it was sex or a woman crying her eyes out all the way from Washington, Connecticut to Hell’s Kitchen.

  I was thankful for that. It gave me the quiet I needed to think. To mourn.

  Maybe mourn was dramatic. But was it?

  I wasn't a teenager involved in my first real relationship. I didn't assume that the first fight equaled the end. I was mature enough to understand that even the most aggrieved wrongdoings could be forgiven. That even the most horrendous betrayals could be overcome.

  But this thing with Donovan was so complicated and multifaceted. It wasn't just about whether or not I could forgive him. It was also about whether or not we could move on from this. Whether there was a decent enough foundation.

  And one thing I did know about relationships was that people never changed. How could I ask him to be a different person? Someone who understood how to really love someone else. Someone who could truly put my needs and wants before his own self-defeating behavior. Was it even possible?

  I couldn't think about any of it right now. I couldn't even think about talking to him. I was in too much pain. Too heartbroken. And too angry.

  I got to my apartment building around eight thirty that night, exhausted and worn down. John offered to help with my bag, but I insisted I’d take it myself. It wasn’t heavy and I didn’t want to deal with a hassle.

  I was alone on the elevator, and when I got off, the hall was quiet except for a deliveryman standing at my neighbor’s closed door. His ski hat was pulled low, his head bent and hidden by the white paper sack filled with something that smelled like curry. I trudged past him to my door with my suitcase and fished in my purse for my keys.

  I must've been too distracted by my thoughts, by the avalanche of emotions that had buried me, because I didn't notice the deliveryman slip up behind me as I slid the key into the lock.

  I didn't notice him until his hand was on my hip and the knife was at my throat and his mouth was at my ear.

  "Hello again, Sabrina," Theo Sheridan said. "Did you miss me?"

  Twenty

  I didn't scream. Because of the knife at my throat. But I made a shuddering noise as I inhaled, as close to a wail as I dared without risking my life, and the blade trembled against my skin, my heart pounding underneath it.

  I might've thought this was a dream, that I'd fallen asleep on the ride home and this was yet another one of the frequent nightmares I'd had over the years about Theodore Sheridan coming after me. I’d had so many.

  As real as those had felt in the moment, when I woke with sweat pouring from my skin, my heart pounding against my rib cage, the hair raised on the back of my neck, I could see now how very different reality was from the nightmare. I could see how it really felt to have a predator at your back, threatening, in control. I remembered now. Remembered how much more terrible the real thing was.

  "Careful," Theo warned, pressing the metal against my jugular. "You won't make another sound now, will you." It wasn't a question. It was a command. It was a directive.

  "No." But that was a sound, so I shook my head carefully, quickly, both erasing the word uttered and acknowledging that I would do as he said. The feel of the blade against my neck as I made the movement was nearly paralyzing. But I couldn’t let it be. I had to do what he said.

  Because if I didn’t…

  I couldn’t think about what would happen if I didn’t do what he wanted. I couldn’t think about what would happen period.

  "Good girl." Those familiar words, a phrase I loved to hear from Donovan, now made my stomach turn, and I had to fight not to throw up. He eased the knife away. "Now put the key back in the lock and let us in."

  Sound rushed in my ears like I was in a wind tunnel. The hallway felt like it was closing in around me. Like soon there wouldn’t even be enough room to take a full breath. I knew if I went into that apartment with him, alone, my chances of walking away unharmed decreased exponentially.

  Yet there wasn't a single alternative action I could think to take. A dozen self-defense classes over a decade and I was stumped. Any move I made, he’d have that knife on me. He’d cut me where it hurt.

  I had no chance. No choice.

  I nodded and lifted my trembling hand back to the lock. Though I intended to keep silent, a long whimpering sound came from my mouth as I tried to align the key. What was he doing here? Why was he out of jail? I sent up a quick furtive prayer to whoever would listen that someone would walk down the hall and discover us. Maybe if I took my time…

  The metal of the blade scraped my skin again and I jolted.

  "Hurry it up, Sabrina," he warned. "I'm telling you right now, I'm not putting up with any games from you."

  I hurried, got the key in the lock, turned it, heard it click. I moved my hand to the knob and opened the door.

  I didn't move until Theo nudged me with his knee. I couldn’t bring myself to enter my dungeon so willingly. That’s what it would be now. A place I couldn’t escape. A place that was no longer safe.

  I choked back a sob as I started across the threshold.

  "Take your suitcase," he said when I'd made to leave it in the hall. "Grab the delivery bag, too."

  He moved away from me so that I could grab the items and I wondered if this was my chance to escape, but I couldn't think fast enough. He was too big. And I was too scared.

  And now he had me at another disadvantage—when I walked into the apartment, my hands were full. My purse was on one shoulder, my hand clasped the suitcase handle, and the other arm held the delivery bag. I stood frozen, unmoving, waiting for his next order.

  Theo shut the door behind me and locked it, not bothering with the deadbolt. The sound the lock made was a simple click, but in my ears, it clanged like the closing of a cell. He flipped on a couple of lights, then scanned the interior of my apartment, looking at my things. At my life. At pieces of me he had no right to look at.

  How had this happened? How had he gotten past my doorman?

  The overwhelming scent of curry coming from the bag I held gave a clue. "Is this how you got in here?" I asked.

  "Yeah." He was visibly proud of himself. "I hung around until som
eone else was walking in. Then slipped in with them. No one shuts the door on food delivery."

  He’d planned this. It wasn't just a whim. He'd carefully planned this.

  Theo took the bag from my arms and laid it on the ground. "Drop the suitcase. Where's your phone?"

  I blinked. The question was easy, thinking was not. "My purse. It's in my purse." My phone was in my purse! I was so close to a way of communication. It felt like I was handcuffed, having it so near and not being able to use it.

  "Hand it over." He held his palm out, waiting.

  Slowly, I dragged the strap from my shoulder and looked inside. I was still shaking, but I made more of the production, going slower than I needed to. If I could find it, if I could call Donovan with a swipe of my thumb…

  "What's taking so long?" He was too smart. He pointed the knife at me like a gun.

  I stayed focused on my goal, peering into my bag, doing my best to ignore the weapon aimed at me. "I have a lot of stuff in here. I'm looking." I already had it in my grasp. Just couldn't get it unlocked.

  "Give it to me." He yanked the purse from me and the phone dropped into the belly of the bag. He found it easily and swiped at the screen. "What's the code?"

  I hung my head, defeated. My defeat was in losing the phone, not in surrendering the code to get into it. I didn’t really have anything in there that I was afraid of Theo finding. What I feared was already standing right in front of me. "1123."

  He punched the numbers in and smiled when he got access. "Sit on the couch," he said without looking at me, distracted by the contents of my cell.

  I shuffled to do his bidding, but was this my chance while he was distracted? I looked around the room for an opportunity, for something that could be used as a weapon against his knife. The lamp next to the couch—was it too heavy? The fire poker—was it too far?

  A rustling of paper caught my attention. Theo had reached into the delivery bag and pulled out a bottle of beer. He snapped off the bottle top and took a swig as he came around the couch.