“What do you want, Baron?” There was no mistaking the impatience in his tone.

Help’s mouth opened slightly.

I popped my minty gum in boredom, sighing. “Just so we’re all on the same page, since you guys are barely at the house anymore, am I correct to assume the staff is under my supervision? Meaning I can hire and fire if someone isn’t meeting my needs?”

I heard the splashes of the waves against my father’s yacht—Marie, after my mom—and ice clink in a glass. Scotch was my guess.

“Yes,” he said. “You assume correctly. Why? What’s wrong? Somebody giving you trouble?”

I nodded with a triumphant smile even though he couldn’t see me. She could, though.

Help’s face whitened beneath her golden tan. Upset. Horrified. I was sending her packing at eighteen, with no prospects and no place to go, and I’d threatened to fire her family if she wouldn’t leave.

“No, everything’s good,” I said, still watching her. “Speak soon, Dad.” I hung up on the fucker—he and Jo and Daryl were going to pay, but they were a problem for a different day. I snapped my gaze to meet hers.

She tilted her chin up. The contempt she held for me was rolling off her rigid posture in waves.

The silence was suffocating and so was the idea that I was essentially ruining her life. I was choosing myself over Emilia, my feelings over hers, and it wasn’t noble or honorable, but it was who I was.

“Can I finish out the school year, at least?” she asked so quietly it took me a few seconds to decipher her request. She was perfectly composed. Proud.

Fuck, she was beautiful when she was strong. I was doing the right thing getting rid of her.

I nodded.

“Leave the week after school ends,” I instructed, getting up from her bed. I already missed it. “And it goes without fucking saying that you and Dean are done. This is the second and last time I’m telling—not asking—you to stop this shit. Tell him you’re leaving because you’ve met someone else online. Insist that he never contact you again. One glitch, Emilia, and I promise you, your family won’t just lose this job. I’ll make sure they don’t find another one.”

She didn’t answer, but I knew she got the message. She wasn’t the kind of girl to puss out when it came to her loved ones. Her family was her everything.

When I walked out of the servants’ apartment for the very last time, I asked myself if there was a chance Emilia would ever forgive me.

I wondered how much groveling I’d need to do if I ever wanted to get back in her life.

No. The price was too high. We were done.

But so were she and Dean.

The Present

I WASN’T GONNA DO IT.

At this point, I didn’t even care about the money. I’d never cared too much for it anyway. Sure, I wanted to survive, maybe take a breather from chasing overdrafts, but at what cost?

Nope, I wasn’t going to ruin anyone else’s life with a lie. Ever. I wasn’t Vicious.

I spent my night lying in bed, thinking and analyzing the last few hours. There was a lot to take in. Vicious wanted me to lie and tell Jo straight to her face that if it came down to it, I would testify against her, telling the court he’d told me things he never had.

I was a horrible liar. But a little voice inside me kept asking—and what if it is the truth? The answer was always the same—even if it was the truth, it wasn’t my truth. There were other ways Vicious could get what he wanted without dragging me into his war.

At four in the morning, I finally kicked off my blanket and slipped into my flip-flops. I knew there was no chance I was going to fall asleep after deciding I wouldn’t help him, so I might as well just read. I remembered the library I’d always wanted to visit over the years.

This was probably my last chance to see it before Vicious kicked my family and me out. And it’s the place I’ve been avoiding for ten years straight, always wondering, aching, and peeking through these doors. But no more. I wanted to see what’s behind them.

I was done with his blackmail. Done with being bought.

This time, his money would lose.

I entered the mansion through the kitchen, using Mama’s security code. It was still the same ten years later.

I tiptoed to the hall, clad in the XL Libertines shirt I called my pajamas, and headed down the ironwood floor, following the same route I had that first time I’d gone to knock on the library door. Vicious would be fast asleep upstairs. I’d read a little, inhale the scent of the old books, calm my nerves, and go back to my parents’ place.

I was silent. Which was why my shriek almost rattled the walls when I pushed the door to the library open and found Vicious in one corner, sitting at an ornately carved wooden table with four upholstered wing-back chairs. It looked like a study table you’d see in public library, only much fancier.

He lifted his eyes from the screen of his laptop at my yelp and stared at me long and hard for a few beats, until my racing heart calmed a little. Then, wordlessly, he pushed the chair opposite him with his foot in a silent invitation for me to join him. I didn’t move.

“What are you doing up so late?” My voice trembled.

“What are you doing trespassing in the middle of the fucking night?” he retorted, his voice calm and tired.

He’d changed into a white designer V-neck and a pair of dark denim pants or jeans. I didn’t need to see them to know they hung low on his body.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d read a little. Never mind.” I spun around, heading back toward the hallway.

He stopped me. “Help.” His voice was firm. I halted, but didn’t turn around. “Grab a book. I promise not to make conversation.”

I rubbed my thighs and mentally scoffed at the idea of joining him. Especially after how he’d acted in the car.

“I’m resigning,” I said, my back still to him. It was easier that way. I always caved when his eyes held mine. “I can’t do what you’re asking me to do. Please don’t try and threaten me with my parents or Rosie or with starting a third World War. I’ve made up my mind. I can’t lie for you.”

I heard the squeak of his chair as he got up, and I closed my eyes. I knew my resolve was going to crack with every step he took in my direction. Because stupidly, I still felt things for Vicious. Things I had no business feeling.

He stopped when he was standing in front of me. I felt his heat rolling toward my body. I felt my body accepting the warmth, drinking it in, enjoying it, despite what he’d done to me.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered.

I did. We stared at each other for a few seconds. His eyes were still on mine when he slowly peeled his shirt off of his ripped body. I kept my glare on his black pupils, too afraid to drop my gaze. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen a male torso at such close proximity.

But it definitely would be the first time I’d seen Vicious’s.

His white tee landed on the floor with barely a sound. I was hyper-aware the fabric near my bare feet in my flip-flops.

“Look down,” he instructed softly.

My eyes drifted south, my gaze slow and wary, taking in the perfect porcelain skin of his neck and shoulders, until I landed on his chest. He was hard-muscled and pumped…and covered with scars. Some pink. Some white. All of them old and faded. Long scars. Short scars. Deep scars. Shallow scars. There were many, too many, like a subway window that had been abused over the years. He looked like someone had doodled on his stomach and chest with a Swiss-made knife.

Bile rose up my throat, and I clamped my lips together, feeling my chin quivering.

“Remember when I used to arrange the fights at my tennis court?” he asked, his voice unruffled. “I’m not gonna lie. Part of it was for fun, to unwind. But the other part, Help, was because I didn’t want people to ask questions about my scars.” He lifted both his arms, showing me the front of his wrists and forearms.

Covered with more scars.

I’d noticed them before, of course, but I’d bought the lie. I’d thought the fights were to blame.

I tried to swallow but couldn’t. His scars somehow felt like they were on me. My skin burned for him. “Jo did this to you?”

“No.” He ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Her brother, Daryl Ryler, the guy you saw in this library that first day. Jo didn’t cut me. After she first married my dad, she just smacked me around. A lot. And then Ryler moved here when I was twelve…” He hesitated, but it didn’t look like he was having too much trouble getting the words out. His face was still as emotionless as ever, his speech low and firm. “She’d lock the door from the outside and leave him to ‘punish me.’”

I sucked in a ragged breath. I wanted to kill that woman. Even after everything he’d done to me, I wanted his stepmother to die. Then something else occurred to me.

“Did your dad know?”

“I told him, but he was never around much. His business was always his focus. Then, after I got expelled from boarding school and was back here, Jo convinced him I was hurting myself. Cutting. All the rage with ‘troubled’ kids like me. She even hired a psychiatrist to assess me. One chosen by her, of course. There was talk of sending me off somewhere for treatment. So I learned to keep my mouth shut until eventually I was big and strong enough to fight back. I was sixteen.”