Mended

CHAPTER 18 I’m Alive

My eyes blink against the silvery glow of moonlight as I open the door. Her earrings glimmer and her shy smile makes it hard to breathe. I’d fallen asleep on the couch and the sound of the doorbell jolted me awake. I’m surprised to see her—why, I’m not sure. Maybe because I acted like an asshole, maybe because I feel like I should have taken her away from him. I haven’t had time to figure out where exactly my guilt is coming from, but as I stand before her I know it doesn’t matter.

We look at each other for the longest time until I notice her eyes tilt to my chest and I realize my shirt is unbuttoned. She’s staring at my skin, at my side, where the ROSES ARE SO CLICHÉ tattoo is inked—the tattoo I got for her because I knew I’d always love her. I know that not even what has happened the last few days can change that. She stands in the doorway before me, quiet and utterly gorgeous. She’s in a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. She’s not wearing any makeup, not even her trademark red lipstick, and her hair is pulled back by some kind of band. My heart races at the sight of her and I let out a long breath.

“Ivy,” I manage as the love I feel for her whirls around and cocoons us.

Her cheeks flush at the sound of her own name.

“Xander, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks in an impassioned voice.

I nod. But I don’t want to discuss Nick or Dylan any more today. After a beat, I ask, “Is everything all right? What are you doing here so late?”

She crosses her arms tightly over her stomach and grips her elbows. “I needed to see you. Make sure you were all right. Can we talk?”

My breath catches on the smallness of her voice—the uncertainty in it tears a hole through me. She holds my gaze, and my gut twists in a funny way. She inhales deeply and blurts out, “It’s my turn to say I’m sorry. I left Damon. I never loved him. I only married him to protect you.”

“I know,” I whisper and close my eyes, standing silent for the longest time. It’s like my body turns to stone at the mere mention of his name. When I open my eyes and look at her, I let everything go and just pull her to me and hold her.

“I love you, Xander,” she cries.

“I know,” I whisper again, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s married to him. I swallow, trying to catch my breath and then pull away. I move aside and motion for her to come in. She reaches for me again, but I retreat and instead place my hand on the small of her back and guide her into the living room. This slight, seemingly intimate touch makes me come alive. I want to feel her skin all over mine, touch her, taste her, sink into her. I want to forget about the day and just get lost in her. But she’s married. We take the step down into the living room. My stuff is thrown on the coffee table and the pillows from the sofa are tossed on the floor. Normally I’d have an urge to pick up, but I really don’t give a shit right now. When my eyes shift from the floor to her, I see it—the innocence she possesses—and my guilt is back.

“I want to explain everything, Xander,” she says softly.

“I understand why you did what you did. You don’t have to explain.” I pause, then add, “Fuck, I just wish you hadn’t . . . After everything, I can’t believe you didn’t . . .” I stop as the words keep catching in my throat.

“Didn’t what?” she asks.

“You should have called me the minute he showed up. To be honest with you, I can’t even think about you with him without wanting to kill him.”

“I did call you, Xander. I did,” she cries. “But Amy answered and I hung up. Did you run to her the minute you got home?”

I whirl around to face her. “Fuck, no! Of course not. I didn’t even know you called.” I try to figure out how Amy would have answered and then I remember being over at River and Dahlia’s and leaving my phone on the counter. “I headed over to my brother’s to pick up some things and left my phone on the counter. She was there helping my mother get some food ready. That’s all.”

Alarm flashes across her face. “I believe you. I do. But I needed to talk to you then. Damon was threatening you and the band. I tried to reach you and she answered your phone and I had no idea what that meant. Before I knew it, he was whisking me off to get married. He told me if I didn’t do it he was going to tear you apart with lies—your life, your band, your family. He was on the phone with TMZ. He gave me five seconds to make my decision. I knew I’d regret not stopping him for the rest of my life—so I agreed to his terms—I had to appear happily married to him for six months. Once I said yes, we were married before I could even think twice about it. In hindsight that may not have been the best decision to make, but it seemed right at the time. Xander, I’m so sorry, but I hope you understand and forgive me.”

I sit a safe distance from her. “There’s nothing to forgive. You did what you felt was right. I may not agree with it, but I understand. I get it, but that doesn’t change anything right now. You’re still tied to him—not me—and I can’t stand it. I have to figure this out. You need to give me some time. I need to get a handle on how to proceed.” Looking at her, I want nothing more than to thread my fingers through her hair and pull her mouth to mine. But I can’t. I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t want to ask the question because there can be only one answer that will make us all right. Bending down, I cradle my head in my hands.

“Xander, talk to me,” she begs.

“I just need to know one thing right now.”

Her eyes search mine and she never lifts her gaze. “What do you want to know?”

I shift uncomfortably before I even ask the question. But I’m tired, beat, shot for the day, so I just ask, “Did you let him touch you while you were together on the bus?”

“No. No. No. No, Xander. I would never. Not after you and me. Not after what we finally had again. I don’t want anyone else. Just you.”

Suddenly she seems so far away. I stand up and close the distance between us. She smiles at me and I wrap her in my arms. We hold each other for a long time. I kiss her head over and over. “Come here,” I whisper in her ear, and I sit down, pulling her onto my lap. I slump back against the couch. Relief floods me, and now that that burden has been lifted off my shoulders exhaustion overtakes me. “Ivy, I know we have a lot of talking to do, but I just can’t right now. I’m just wiped out.”

“It’s okay. I understand. We can talk tomorrow.”

I nod with a small smile and claim her mouth as mine. “Ivy,” I breathe against her lips.

“Xander, take me to bed. Please.”

“No, Ivy. Not while you’re someone else’s. I want you, but we need to figure all of this out.” I stare into her perfect face and know I’ll do anything to make her mine.

She pleads, “Please let me stay here.”

I don’t have to contemplate what to do—I lift her off my lap and stand up. “Come with me,” I tell her and lead her to my room. She changes into one of my T-shirts and I get her settled in bed and kiss her on the forehead. “Good night, baby.”

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

She clasps my hand. “No, stay with me. I just want to be near you. I need you.”

“Ivy, don’t make this more difficult. You’re still married to him.”

“We were married for three days.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re still married and until we can take care of that I think we should keep our distance.”

“Please, just stay with me. Just lie down with me until I fall asleep.”

Tired, worn, and so in love with her, I give in, against my better judgment. Seeing her lying on the bed, I feel like my willpower has already crumpled and being this close to her is crushing it. I bite down on my lip to keep from stripping her clothes off and fucking her right now. She pats the bed next to her and I give in and crawl in beside her. She rests her head on my chest and I wrap my arm around her. I squeeze her against me and she’s right where she should be. I close my eyes and finally find peace.

The bathroom light illuminates the room a bit when I wake up to her fingers trailing down my stomach. I take a deep breath. “No, Ivy, I told you. Not while you’re married to him. Don’t make this any harder.” Her touch is breaking me down. I have to find whatever strength I have left to deny the need to bury myself in her. I want to slide inside her and just let time slip away. But I’ll hate myself if I do.

“Even if we can’t be together, we can be close in a different way,” she whispers.

Her fingers brush the side of my cheek. “Xander . . .” She shifts her body so she’s lying on her back.

My pulse races as her hands drift down her own body.

“I’m going to touch myself and I want you to do the same,” she says in a soft, quiet voice, and even in the barely lit room I can see her cheeks flush violently. I’m shocked by her words, but it’s her actions that floor me. I sit up, but don’t say a word. I’m mesmerized by the look on her face. She stands up and I watch her every move. My breathing is so accelerated I’m not sure if I can ever catch my breath. She lifts my T-shirt over her head and runs her fingers over her pink bra. She reaches behind her to undo it and she slowly lets the straps fall down her shoulders. I lick my lips at the sight. The bra falls from her body and her perfect breasts are all I see. I want so much to touch them, squeeze them, suck her nipples into small peaks, but I can’t—I won’t.

Instead I continue to watch her, captivated not only by her actions, by her beauty, but by her body language as well—by the way I can tell she wants me to know she loves me. She moves her hands to her panties and I hold my breath. Exhaling, barely able to speak, I ask in a hoarse, low voice, “Fuck, what are you doing?”

She reaches inside the lace and her back arches as her hand disappears. A low, slow groan slips from my lips. “I told you. I’m going to touch myself. I’m going to make my hands yours the way we talked about so many years ago,” she says. “You can stay or you can go take a cold shower and come back after, but I need you, even if I have to imagine you’re the one getting me off.”

“Fuck, Ivy,” is all I can say.

“Join me or don’t,” she whispers so sweetly and so full of seduction. I can feel the sound echoing in my cock.

When she hooks her thumbs into her matching pink lacey underwear, I chew my bottom lip. Fuck, do I look like a pervert if I do this? When I was eighteen it sounded hot—now I’m not so sure. But I want to do it in the worst way. No, what I want in the worst way is for her hands to be my hands, but I’m not giving in. I’m not fucking her when she’s married to him—I won’t be the other guy.

Her eyes close and she strokes and tweaks her nipples. I can see them harden and my cock grows harder with each passing second. The room is so quiet, I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. “Use your thumbs,” I tell her, and her eyes open but remain hooded. She smiles and does as I tell her. I’m almost panting at the sight. “Lie down,” I direct her. But she doesn’t do it right away. Instead she slides her panties off and her whole body flushes everywhere. Once she’s naked, then she lies on the bed. Her head rests on a stack of pillows and my body molds into the mattress. When she spreads her legs and lifts her hips, I want so badly to be the one to fill her that I have to close my eyes.

“Xander.” She calls my name, and my eyes fly open just in time to see her hand cup her pussy. She runs her fingers through her folds and all my muscles clench with need. It’s an urgency unlike I’ve ever felt before—it’s a need for her.

Her hands continue to move. Fuck, she’s really going to do this. I have two choices: enjoy it or leave and endure the torture of wishing I’d stayed. It’s an easy choice. I unhook the button on my jeans and shove them down just enough to free my cock. I kick them the rest of the way off, then whisper, “Are you wet?” and she lets out a small whimper while nodding her head.

She presses the heel of her palm against her clit and then I watch as her fingers circle it over and over. I start stroking myself; concentrating on the fact that it’s her hands, not mine, bringing me closer to exploding. I bite down on my lip and let my head tip back as I feel the intensity of her stare on me and the sounds of her rapid breathing. Once I start and I know she’s watching I don’t stop. I’m doing this for her, for me, for us. Stroking myself, I push my hips forward and thrust my cock into my closed fist.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“More than okay.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what you like me to do to you and then do it.”

“I want your fingers inside me,” she says shakily.

“Inside you where?” I ask, stroking myself faster. Pumping in and out, wishing it was her I was thrusting into.

“I can’t say it,” she says.

I grunt at the sound of her voice. The innocence in it and the thought that she’s doing this with me almost sends me over the edge.

“Add another finger,” I tell her. “Then with your other hand rub circles around your clit, massage it. Find the spot and when you do, pretend my tongue is on it.”

“Oh, Xander,” she moans and lifts her hips, pressing her heels into the mattress. Watching her fall apart makes me come hard with a shuddering release. After a few seconds, she collapses to the bed, and I do the same.

“I need to jump in the shower, alone,” I tell her and she nods at me.

Just as I hit the threshold, she purrs, “Thank you.”

I turn around. “You never have to thank me for that.” I grin.

When I get out of the shower I throw a pair of sweatpants on and head back into the bedroom. She’s back in my T-shirt, under the covers and half asleep. I climb in beside her and find her hand, lacing my fingers in hers and pulling her against me, my front to her back.

I hear her give a sigh of contentment.

I squeeze her tight.

“Good night, Xander. I love you,” she says.

Leaning over, I whisper into her ear. “Good night, baby. I love you.”

I allow myself a soft, sweet kiss to her cheek and slide my mouth to her lips before throwing my body back on the mattress. I close my eyes knowing she knows I’m right—us being together before her ties with him are severed will just muddy up the relationship that we’ve worked really hard at. But knowing this doesn’t make any of it any easier.

Fingers creep across the pillow and push my hair away. I open my eyes to peer into her beautiful ones. “Good morning.” I grin.

“Good morning.” She smiles, inching closer to me.

I glance at the digits on the old clock radio on my nightstand and hop out of bed.

“Where are you going?” she calls softly, her sleepy eyes gleaming.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, don’t go yet. Come back to bed,” she says, rolling over onto her stomach and rising on her elbows.

“I can’t. When I lie next to you like that, all I can think about is being inside you. I need to take care of the Damon situation.”

She rolls back over and tosses the pillows off the bed. “I’m going to have to touch myself again. Aren’t I?”

“Fuck, Ivy. Don’t talk like that. The shower can’t get cold enough for me already.”

“You could let your crazy thoughts go and spend the day in bed with me.”

“Ivy, stop. Please.”

“Xander, his father is being buried today. My attorney said he’d take care of it as soon as he could.”

I look at her. “Ivy, I’ll take care of it much sooner. I can promise you that.”

Looking out the car window, squinting against the brightness of the sun, I think I have to get my fucking car back. And what is Bell doing without a car anyway?

Turning the corner to my mother’s house again, I resolve not to be so emotional. I need to know what she knows about Damon and his family.

I step in the back door again. This time Brigitte is in the kitchen. Her shoes clatter against the floor as she runs to greet me. “My Xander. My Xander,” she says, hugging me.

“Brigitte. How are you?” I respond.

“Very well,” she answers. “Your mother will be so pleased to see you.”

I kiss her cheek and make my way through the house. I find my mother sitting in her leopard-print chair at the oversized desk in her office. This room is her domain. The carpet is the lightest of beiges. The walls are a deep red with three large shadow boxes strategically placed behind her desk. They are lit from within. One houses my first basketball jersey, another River’s pint-sized first guitar, and the third one holds Bell’s pink ballet slippers. Our most prized possessions that she just couldn’t part with. Photos plaster the walls. On one wall, photos of the three of us kids are hung, and on another, photos of her parents and sister. There is one large photo of my mother and Jack on her desk.

She looks up at me from over her reading glasses. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve already crossed the room and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her, because I know I don’t let her know this often enough.

She stares at me, squeezing the hand I leave on her shoulder.

“I’m okay, Mom. I am. But I need some help.”

“I know all about Ivy and Damon,” she says.

“Mom, I need to understand him. What makes him tick?”

“Power and money.” She looks at me and then picks up a letter on her desk. Running her finger over the edges, she hands it to me and says, “I think this is what you’re looking for.”

I take a shaky breath. My hand grips the envelope tightly for a few seconds. “What is it?”

“It’s your inheritance.”

My mind is running in circles. “What do you mean, my inheritance?”

“Josh Wolf was a good man. He never knew Dylan was your biological father until Damon blurted it out one night in the heat of anger. He came to see me afterward. You were around seven. I made him promise to leave you alone, and he did as I asked. His only request was that I send a photo of you once a year on your birthday with a few words about you written on the back. He wanted to know you even if he couldn’t really know you.”

She looks at me, studying my reaction before continuing. “This came this morning. It’s a letter from Josh’s attorney telling me it was Josh’s wish for me to use my best judgment in determining if you are ready for this. Ironic that his son couldn’t even let him die in peace. He had to tell the world about you before his father could. I’m really sorry for that.”

“Mom, I told you I’m okay. And I am.” I take the letter and have a seat. I open it and a number of pictures fall out onto the thick carpet. I bend to pick them up—they’re of me, with words written on the back. A picture of me in a Poison T-shirt at eight years old with the words “Loves Ninja Turtles” on the back. Another of me with my new guitar, the words “Loves to jam” scripted on the reverse side. I pile them all together and sit back in my chair.

“I stopped sending them when you turned eighteen. At that point I figured you were a man and I couldn’t stop him from telling you if he wanted. I thought about telling you so many times after Daddy’s death because I was afraid Josh or Damon would, but I couldn’t get the words out. Like I said, Josh was a good man and he respected my wishes.”

I understand why she couldn’t tell me. I don’t have to ask. She knew how much I hated Nick then. And she didn’t want me to hate him. She wanted me to love him like she loved me. She was right not to tell me because I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I shuffle the stuffed envelope between my hands until I decide to pull the letter out. The note itself is a short handwritten one . . .

I’ve watched you grow into a young man. I’ve watched you take control of your life. I wish I could have been a part of your life, but you have a family that loves you more than anything, so it’s only in my death that I’m able to tell you how proud of you I am. By all rights what I’m giving you is yours. Take care and never forget who you are.

Love, Your Grandfather

I unfold the thickly folded pieces of paper and read the bottom line—he’s left me half of Sheep Industries. I stare in disbelief. I stand up with a huge grin on my face.

“Xander, where are you going?” my mother asks.

I look at her. “To take back what’s mine. Do you know where the funeral is taking place?”

The afternoon sun is warm on my face. I take a left turn and slam right into the congested part of the city. I quickly change lanes, wishing I had my own car because every time I accelerate, this little putt-putt car goes nowhere. Exiting the highway, I see a steady line of cars pulling into Evergreen Cemetery. The media are following right behind, but a police barricade turns them away. I turn on my headlights and slip into the funeral procession without a problem. Once I’m in, I ease off toward the east side of the cemetery with the processional cars heading south. I park and watch as men in suits and women in dresses spill from their automobiles. They’re all engaged in their own conversations as they walk through the cemetery to Josh Wolf’s final resting place. I watch the pallbearers pull the casket from the black hearse and an uneasiness creeps through me. I didn’t know the man lying in the long rectangular box, but he was my grandfather and he left me half of his company.

I sit in the car and watch until everyone assembles for the burial ceremony. Once everyone has gathered, I see him. He stands front and center—smug, black suit, sunglasses, and a rose in his hand. Fuck, a rose. I laugh to myself, thinking Roses are so cliché. Getting out of the car, I lean against the door and just watch. The sound of his muffled voice courses through my body and lures me closer. From a distance I watch as people with tearstained faces throw roses on top of the casket. The ceremony is soon over and everyone seems to disperse quickly. I take the opportunity to blend into the crowd and make my way toward Damon. His bodyguard is a few feet away and I wonder why he has one—I thought he had hired the ninja for Ivy.

Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”

“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.

He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.

My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”

“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.

“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”

He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”

Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”

Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.

Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”

She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”

“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.

My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”

She opens his door and holds it open for me to enter. I walk into his over-the-top office—a huge mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view, four large-screen TVs on a red wall, a sheepskin rug with a large leather sofa on top of it. All very designer chic, all very impersonal. He’s standing at the bar, pouring himself what looks to be a scotch. He raises his glass. “I’d offer you one, but you won’t be here long enough to drink it and I hate to waste hundred-year-old Balvenie.”

Striding across the room in two seconds flat, I decide I’ve had enough of him. I snatch his shirt, but stay in complete control of my actions. I push him roughly, slamming his back up against the wall. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his cold brown eyes and repeat myself. “You disgust me . . .”

He struggles to free himself from my hold. “You’re just like your father,” he hisses.

I flinch and let go of him. “You’re right. I am. Nick was a decent man. Nothing like you.”

He gives a sad laugh. “You’re wrong. He was weak. Easily manipulated. But what I meant is that you’re like Dylan, my brother. He wasn’t so easily fooled, but he was easily feathered. It’s been fun watching you get so riled up. I could do it to my brother with a simple word, and I looked forward to perfecting my technique on you. It’s a shame everything came to an end sooner than I had hoped, but now I can show you what a great uncle I can be. And I’ll start by telling you how well I can take care of my wife.”

He gives me a cocky grin and although I want to knock it off his face, I’m choking, shuddering at his audacity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind his bar and rein my temper in. For Ivy, I keep reminding myself. Keep your cool for your girl.

“But before we discuss my wife, let me start by telling you a little bit about the man that owned this company—the great Josh Wolf, my father, your grandfather. He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, always logic and numbers, never any emotion. So getting Nick Wilde fired was easy. I knew all I had to do was show poor performance—no matter how much my father liked Nick, he was a businessman through and through and nothing but performance mattered in both his personal and professional life. Oh, wait—there was one tiny exception to that rule—Dylan, my brother, your father. The great Josh Wolf loved that boy in a way he loved no one else—Dylan could do no wrong. Ironic, since he was a user, a drug addict who couldn’t keep clean. I always tried to help my brother. I lived with him, I took care of him, I picked him up off the floor numerous times. And how did he repay me—by dating the woman I worked so hard to get. I deserved your mother . . . he didn’t. Do you know that when he overdosed, my father blamed me? Me!” he screams. “And then your mother—she went back to Nick.”

I don’t move. I’m caught in the web of the story he’s spinning.

“My father never forgave me for Dylan’s death and for years I had to prove to him I was worthy to be a part of his business. I had to make my way up the ladder and even after I landed Zeak Perry as a client, that wasn’t enough. Only when he took ill did I earn my rightful place. And then in his death I learn the bastard didn’t leave me the company—he left me half. I’d been under the impression my inheritance had a marriage clause. I never thought it had you in it. Never saw it coming. He didn’t seem to care about you. The night I told him you existed he didn’t even blink an eye. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the anniversary of Dylan’s death and he was putting my brother on a pedestal again. I couldn’t take it, so I just blurted out that at least I didn’t have an illegitimate son out there. You see, he knew about you for years and never did anything, never cared—not until he died anyway. How does that make you feel?”

I don’t bother to tell him Josh Wolf sought out my mother—that he knew about me and that he did care. He cared enough to do as my mother wished. His knowing the facts wouldn’t change anything. The man in front of me is vile, evil to the core, and I want to rid my life of him as soon as I can. I reach in my pocket and pull out the documents showing my fifty percent ownership.

“Ahhh . . . so you’re not here to meet your dear old uncle. I was wondering when you’d get to the point. How long it would take. But finally!” Damon says, walking to his desk. “The reason you’re here.” He claps his hands together as if congratulating himself. “You’re here for your half of the company. What do you think? Should we share desk space? Make decisions together? How do you think my dear old dad saw this going? Did he think we’d make an excellent team?”

I stare at him. He is so cold that I freeze. Falter. Words can’t explain how this man makes me feel. Finally I find my voice. “Why did you go see my father the day he killed himself?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for so long, unconcerned as to what position that puts me in in his eyes—because I know without a doubt that when this meeting is over I will be the winner.

A smile slowly spreads across his face. He touches his fingertips to the desk and leans on it. “For you and your brother. Boy bands were popping up everywhere and I had one in my backyard. I wanted to represent you both, but Nick was adamant that he wasn’t going to let me. I may have mentioned telling you about Dylan and then I gave him twenty-four hours to decide. But we both know how he responded to that.”

“You’re not why he killed himself. He wouldn’t have wasted a single breath on you.” I’m seething. I shoot across the office and slam his head down on the desk. I’m shaking so much it’s making me dizzy. I inhale, then exhale and let go.

He stands up straight and removes his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. He levels his gaze at me. “How about we discuss whatever it is you so urgently had to call me away from my father’s funeral for before I call Johnny in to escort you downstairs.” He cocks his head and holds back a smile.

Shaking in my anger, I fist my hands at my sides. “I’m here for a trade.”

“A trade. Really?”

I hold the paper in the air. “Ivy for this.”

His eyes darken as realization dawns on him. “I didn’t play you for the type to put love before business. I have to say I’m surprised. But it’s not going to be that easy. There is so much I want from her before I can let her go.”

Stepping forward, I stand directly in front of him. Eye to eye. I’m buried in hatred, anger, frustration—wanting so much to wrap my hands around his neck and strangle him. But I have what he wants and I’m pretty sure he wants it more than anything else. I casually walk around his desk and take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of it.

“Maybe you’re more like me than my brother. Willing to make a deal,” he says with a grin.

“We are nothing alike. Nothing!”

His eyes gleam and he sits in his desk chair, tenting his fingers. “You start. Tell me what you think you can offer me for that beautiful wife of mine.”

Vibrating with disgust as the words roll off his tongue, I take a deep breath, knowing I have to keep myself under control. I put my poker face on.

He squeezes the arms of his expensive leather chair and with a clenched jaw asks, “Why are you here?”

I cock my head and suppress a bitter smile. “To tell you it’s in your best interest to file annulment papers as soon as your shaky fingers can call your attorney.”

His bottom lip trembles. “Why would I want to do that?”

No longer able to hold my smile back, I tell him, “Because for every minute that passes once I leave your office today that you don’t, you might not like the results.”

“Don’t play games with me, boy.”

“Oh, see, here’s where you’re wrong. I’m not a boy and I’m not playing any kind of game. I’m dead serious. I will sell one share of stock to the public for a dollar for every passing minute you don’t pick up that phone. You figure it out—you’re smart. In about a week, half of Sheep Industries will be worthless. Oh, and when you call your attorney, tell him to terminate your contract with Ivy, effective immediately.” I’m quiet for the next few seconds as he sits there with an incredulous expression on his face. Then I look him straight in the eye and add, “And when our business is settled you can do what you want with the company. I’ll stay silent. But hear this: if you ever threaten my family again I’ll make it my life’s mission to ensure you don’t have a company left to run.” Once I’ve said all I came to say, I get up and walk out the door—never looking back, never wanting to see his face again.