“No,” he finally says, and I’m grateful that he didn’t play in my face by pretending he didn’t know what I was talking about. “No, I never did.”
“Why not? You were Marcus’s friend; you had to be aware he wasn’t faithful. And you were around them as a couple enough to also know that they weren’t happy. At least Mom wasn’t. Even as a kid, I could tell that, so I can’t imagine how you’d miss it. Why didn’t you tell her and give her the happiness she deserved? Even if it was the last couple of years of her life?”
There’s a long pause, and once more I’m left wondering if he’s going to reply. Finally, he sighs, and the exhale is weighty with… something. Everything.
“For one reason—your mother loved Marcus. Until her last breath, she loved him. But if she’d given me one clue, one iota of a sign that her love had lessened, I would’ve confessed it all and taken my chance. Kim”—he shakes his head, and I catch the small quirk at the corner of his mouth—“she was unique, special. And not just because of her beauty. She was kind, sincere, honest, generous, loyal to a fault. Once she loved someone, it would take an act of God for her to abandon them. And though Marcus wasn’t God, he did give you to her. And for that, she would always remain indebted to him. Would always love him.”
“And he took advantage of that love.”
“At times he did, yes.” Sam stares straight ahead out the windshield. His jaw clenches even as he easily handles the car. “But, in his own way, he loved her, too. He fucked around on her, and there’s a part of me that didn’t forgive him for that all the way up to his death. I couldn’t forgive him for squandering the most perfect, precious gift. Couldn’t trust him, to a degree, after that. But still… he loved her right up to the end. He wouldn’t never have left her, no matter how many other women he had on the side.”
“That doesn’t make him some hero.”
“No, it doesn’t. It makes him complicated, imperfect, an idiot,and my best friend. Which is another reason I didn’t confess the truth to Kim. It would’ve destroyed my friendship with Marcus.”
I nod, even though I don’t agree with everything he’s said. It doesn’t make a man complicated when he cheats on his sick wife or ignores his only daughter. It just makes him selfish and faithless. And unable—or unwilling—to control his dick.
“Why’re you asking me all of this? Does it have anything to do with why I’m escorting you to your engagement party instead of your fiancé?”
“I didn’t ask you to do it,” I point out rather harshly.
Bitterness coats my tongue, and I try to temper my reaction, but the anger resides too close to the surface. Pain still bubbles beneath my skin. Resentment at even the wordfiancéclaws at my stomach like a wild thing. Fiancés don’t throw each other to the wolves.
Fiancés protect each other. Trust each other.
Love… each other.
None of that applies here.
“Don’t get defensive, Em.” He reaches out and pats my thigh. “I’m just asking. Did something happen with Prince?”
“We’re fine.” I could tell him the truth, but Sam works for Asad now. And while I believe he would say “fuck Asad” if he had to choose between us, I don’t want to put him in that position.
“He’s not your father, Em,” he quietly says after several moments. “This whole engagement took me by surprise, and at first, he is not who I would’ve chosen for you, but after some thought, he’s a good choice. A good man. He’ll protect you, go toe to toe against Michelle for you. He’d burn all this down for you. I’ve seen how he watches you. Hold on in there, Em. I think it’ll be worth it in the end.”
I nod and look out the window, not replying. I love Sam and respect his opinion—I love him—but his best friend was my father. He’s blinded in some respects when it comes to questionable people. Neither he nor I can be lauded for having great taste in people. His best friend was a trash-ass daddy who valued wealth and power over his own flesh and blood.
My husband-to-be blackmailed me into an engagement by threatening my friends’ lives, and then when I finally, finally lowered my guard and allowed him into a place no one had ever claimed access to, he tortured me in front of his buddies.
No, we’re all good on opinions other than my own over here.
A half hour later, we pull up to the Ebell on Wilshire Boulevard. LA traffic whizzes by us in a cacophony of loud engines, music, and laughter. Do I find it ironic and humorous that House of Cross, a company founded and owned by a patriarchal crime family, is hosting its extravagant ball at an iconic building that’s basically a monument to women empowerment? Why yes, yes, I do.
Sam exits the Valkyrie Spider, and I can’t contain my chuckle at the valet’s wide eyes and slacked mouth. Whatever Sam says to him has his mouth snapping shut. If I had to guess, I’d assume a threat to his life to not get even a thumbprint on the paint. The valet vigorously nods as Sam hands him the keys, then rounds the front of the vehicle and opens the passenger door. He holds his hand out to me and helps me out.
The nerves in my belly twist and writhe. This is it. This is happening.
Sam and I make our way to the Lounge, which is a misnomer. It’s not a small, shadowed room. Instead, we enter a cavernous yet packed space with soaring, beamed ceilings, floor-to-ceiling arched windows, gleaming hardwood floors, gorgeous chandeliers with lit candles. We stand at the top of an elegant, luxurious staircase at the mezzanine level where more partygoers gather on balconies to watch the festivities below. It’s a blur of color, light, and people. Oh so many people.
“Ready, sweetheart?” Sam whispers.
I nod, and as we begin to descend, the noise level in the area lowers. Heads from the mezzanine turn our way and faces below tip back, their attention focused on us.
And almost out of thin air, Asad appears at the bottom of the staircase. We halt; even if I wanted to move, I’m unable to. Mymuscles refuse to cooperate as I stare at my fiancé for the first time in a week.
And God, I’m not ready. I’m not ready for the sight of him.
He steps out of my darkest, weakest, dirtiest dream—or nightmare—with all that black hair smoothed up into a neat knot at the top of his head. His thick beard is shaped up, the edges razor-sharp. It surrounds the mouth that has wrecked me, introduced me to a pleasure that surely God never intended his people to know this side of heaven. Those beautiful, all-too-perceptive silver eyes sweep over me, from my straightened, dark blond strands to my glass-encased toes. When his gaze lifts to mine, his is guarded… but I still glimpse the flare of heat there. And an answering flame sparks deep and low in my stomach. This is what he does to me. This is who and what I am to him. A reaction to his action. The effect to his cause.