Bee closed her eyes. Liar. She wanted to scream and sob the word out. Liar, liar, liar. But more than anything, she wished she could be stupid enough to still believe in him.
“Just wait for me to come home, and we’ll fix this.” He could feel her hurting, and his inability to do anything about it was driving him batshit. “I promise you, we’ll—”
“I really loved you, you know,” she whispered.
Nicholas whitened.
“I’m just so ashamed that I was so stupid and foolish—”
“Tabitha—”
“That I left you no choice but to pretend you cared—” Bee’s voice broke. “I’m just so sorry.”
The line went dead.
Daniel could feel his own face paling when he saw the way his father’s hand went limp, his phone slipping from his fingers and falling to the carpet with a heavy thud.
“Dad?”
Nicholas’ gaze was bleak as he turned to face his son. “She knows everything.”
Daniel’s blood went cold. “What do you mean—”
“Just fucking that,” Nicholas said tonelessly. “She knows everything—” Memories of Tabitha’s last words lashed his mind, and he bit back an agonized groan.
I really loved you, you know.
I’m just so ashamed.
I’m just so sorry.
“Dad.” Daniel’s voice broke through the torment of Nicholas’ thoughts. “I’m going to call Thomas. I’ll make sure he doesn’t let mitria leave until we talk things out and make things right…”
But when they finally made it back to the ranch, it was to find out that they were too late.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the older man said heavily. “But she was already long gone when you called.”
Chapter 13
A pair of bouncers dragged a drunk and wildly struggling Horace out of the bar, and his back landed on the pavement with a heavy thud as the men let go unceremoniously.
Horace opened his eyes and saw the people waiting in line to get in taking photos of him as they whispered among themselves in between snickers of derision.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Horace yelled as he clumsily pushed himself off the ground just to sway alarmingly on his feet. “You fucking—”
Someone threw a used, greasy wrapper from a fastfood chain at him. “Go home, loser!”
Bitter humiliation turned Horace’s face beet red as the crowd’s jeering laughter made him feel like shrinking and wilting inside.
Stumbling away, Horace began the long, tiring walk of shame to get home, and with every step, his rage just kept burning and burning until he felt like he had literally turned himself into a walking time bomb.
It’s all that bitch’s fault, Horace thought viciously. Goddamn that bitch. His life was hell because of Tabitha Sandler, who no doubt fancied herself now as some rich hoity-toity gal just because she had the devil’s own luck getting married to a billionaire asshole from Texas.
Stupid bitch had probably spouted out all kinds of lies about him just to get revenge. And the bitch certainly knew how to send a man on his knees. Cowboy What’s-His-Face had bought the factory just to have Horace fired in a snap, and all the perks and luxuries he had been used to went away with it. The company car. The paid clubhouse membership. His very fucking name and reputation.
He was a pariah now, and because that bitch also had some lawyers digging out skeletons from everyone’s closets, sexual harassment complaints from decades ago had suddenly resurfaced and allowed the factory to terminate Horace without reference and pension.
Fucking bitch.
He would make her pay one day. Make her pay real bad. Just had to sober up and he would drive all the way to Texas and fucking kidnap and rape her. Cut her legs off so she’d be permanently on her knees and suck his dick all day long.
Just had to sober up—
A taxi cab drove past Horace before slowing down to park in front of the town’s only motel.
Well, would you look at that?
If he was lucky, a stripper could be getting out, and maybe he could get her to service him for an IOU.
The passenger door finally opened, and Horace licked his lips in anticipation.
Come on, come on—
Slim, denim-clad legs swung out, but Horace didn’t let it get him down. Hookers could still wear jeans, too, he told himself. And that was a damn progressive thought, so those fucking feminist old witches from management really had it all wrong about him.
The cab driver gave his passenger a hand with her overnight bag before speeding off. The woman turned, and the sight of her was like getting a bucket of ice-cold water thrown right at his face.
God fucking damn.
Was that really Tabitha Sandler he was seeing?
He watched her head to the front desk, and his own feet lurched into movement. Closer and closer. Until he was near enough to hear her speak—
“Just for one person, yes,” he heard her say to the receptionist, and the voice was unmistakable.
Goddamn bitch was back.