Samuel and Marisol Ashford are the most daunting couple I’ve ever laid eyes on.
But not for the same reason as the first time I saw them in person.
He’s broad and imposing, those hands he uses to abuse his child drumming a steady beat against the mahogany table in the middle of the
room.
His eyes bear down on me, like he can see the deepest, darkest parts within and is contemplating how best to use them to annihilate me.
She’s still gorgeous, perfect. A stunning statue with a smile that belongs in a brochure–shiny, hollow, and completely detached.
And with context from Nathan, I know whatever’s in that glass she’s twirling in her hand is not sparkling water.
The one–on–one meeting is taking place in a private meeting room I didn’t even know existed in the mansion. The sun streams in from between the large curtains, falling on the table between us like a drawn line, a shield.
I try my best not to fidget in my seat, pressing my hands tightly against my thighs. I’ve been in this seat for five minutes, and not a word has been uttered.
I have half a mind to blurt out a silly joke to break the tension, but without a doubt, that would not work.
Unable to stop myself any longer, I shift in my seat, adjusting the collar of the ruffled shirt I’m wearing today.
As if that’s what he was waiting for, Samuel leans forward, steepling his hands before him. “So, Miss Farrah,” he starts, “tell me about
yourself.”
He’s using the same voice he used in the ballroom–bored, aloof, but edged with something…dangerous.
I swallow tightly. “Uhm, well, 1…”
You would think he asked me to break down the economic structure of China, the way I blank out.
For some unfathomable reason, my brain can’t remember a single thing about myself.
He cocks his head, waiting.
“I…” God, my mouth is so dry.
“Are you retarded, dear?” Marisol asks, looking genuinely curious.
My eyes widen, and I don’t know whether to feel offended or shocked that she would say such a thing to another human being.
“Oh, no, honey,” Samuel says, leaning back in his seat. “She’s definitely not retarded. She’s on scholarship at UChicago,“–yeah, for now –“single–handedly cares for her juvenile sister, and has somehow managed to make both our sons lose their composure over her.”
I exhale. “If you knew so much, why’d you bother to ask?”
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3 ore my Np, kring myself not to react to the casually thrown jak
Pest Excus has a good bent on his shoulders and would never go for…” He gives me a scathing once–over “Someone like you,” he finishes.
“Somecheke me,” 1 repeat.
He shrugs. “Take your pick–orphaned, impoverished, uncouth.”
is this what Nathan deals with?
Samuel hasn’t even directed the full force of his contempt at me, and already, I want to shrivel in my skin.
“And yet,” I say through clenched teeth, “I’ve managed to get this far in the competition.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Cinderella, Tiana, Aladdin–the public loves a sob story. They get high on watching a wretched nothing rise to power.”
He cocks his head. “Is that what you’re doing, April? Using my sons to write your own rags–to–riches story?”
I push past the absurdity of this man using Disney characters as symbolism, focusing instead on the oily unease churning in my stomach.
“No.” My voice comes out weak, lacking conviction altogether.
“No?” He echoes. “So you don’t intend to continue using our generosity to treat your invalid sister or-”
“Don’t you fucking talk about June that way,” I snap before I can stop myself.
Samuel pauses, his gaze darkening a fraction.
“Did you just raise your voice at me, Miss Farrah.” It isn’t a question and the deadly tone suggests I shut the fuck up.
But it’s one thing to belittle me–dragging my sister into it is where I draw the fucking line.
“Don’t talk about my sister that way,” I repeat, softer.
A small, sardonic smile cracks his lips. “Funny you would defend your sister so fiercely, but you wouldn’t leave the competition for her. I guess you’re not willing to sacrifice your chance at affluence to save little June’s life.”
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Chapter 146
“That has nothing-
Oh. My. God.
The puzzle pieces click together with alarming clarity, and I would drop to my knees if I weren’t seated.
The allergy reaction–Nathan’s look of guilt when I asked how the investigation was going. The head injury–he left my room, declaring he was going to fix it, and returned with a bruised, broken body.
Because he confronted his father. His father, who is capable of physical abuse–and attempted murder.
Fear lodges in my throat, nausea roils in my belly, anger burns in my chest.
“You bastard!”
Marisol has her cup halfway to her lips when it slips from her hands, her head snapping toward me in shock. The cup bounces off the table and falls onto the cashmere carpet with a thud. The scent of vodka fills the air.
Samuel… Well, this must be the look Nathan sees before the first blow comes.
I should stop. I should fucking backtrack, get on my knees and beg.
But the image of June–unconscious and bleeding–that haunts me every night flashes in my mind, and I rise shakily to my feet.
“How could you?” I seethe. “She’s a child.”
A muscle ticks in Samuel’s jaw, and his fingers flex. Fear sits in my stomach like a lead weight.
“I would watch the way you speak to me, Miss Farrah.”
“Or what?” I whisper, my whole body trembling. “You’ll try to kill me like June? You’ll hit me like Nathan?”
Marisol gasps, and the room goes pin–drop silent.
Samuel’s face turns into something out of a children’s horror story–cold, ugly, terrifying.
I take a shaky step back, bumping my hip on the arm of the chair.
“I don’t know who–what–you think you are to speak to me that way.” His voice is the stuff of nightmares.
He starts to rise, his fists clenched, and my eyes widen in fear. Holy shit, is he-
“Get out,” Marisol hisses. Her voice is sharp, urgent, ringed with something that sounds like…fear.
“Get out. Now.”
My feet are moving before I can fully process the movement, and I practically run to the end of the room, open the large door, and slam it
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Chapter 146
behind me.
I don’t stop moving, letting my feet carry me of their own accord.
Only when I shut the door behind me and press my back against it do I realize where I am.
Nathan’s room.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
