“It’s whoever’s I say it is,” she says coldly.
“Where’s your proof?”
“I don’t need proof. It’s my word against yours, and by the time any paternity tests arrive, I’ll already have a ring on my finger.”
“Good luck with that.”
She grabs my arm when I try to brush past her. “I don’t need luck. I have you.”
“No. You never had me.” I shake her grip off. “I’m leaving to find Ella. You stay here as long as you want, Brooke. I’m done playing your games.”
Her frosty voice stops me before I can reach my bedroom. “If you get Callum to propose to me, I’ll tell everyone the child is his. Don’t help me, and everyone will believe the child is yours.”
I pause in the doorway. “The DNA test will show it’s not mine.”
“Maybe,” she chirps, “but DNA will show it belongs to a Royal. Those tests don’t always differentiate between relatives, particularly fathers and sons. It’ll be enough to put doubt in Ella’s mind. So I’m asking you, Reed, do you want me to tell the world—tell Ella—that you’re going to be a daddy? Because I will. Or you can agree to my terms, and no one will ever know.”
I hesitate.
“Do we have a deal?”
I grit my teeth. “If I do this, if I sell this-this—” I struggle to find the right word, “—idea to my dad on your behalf, you’ll leave Ella alone?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
I turn slowly. “I mean, you bitch, that none of your bullshit ever touches Ella. You don’t speak to her, not even to explain this—” I wave my hand at her now clothed body. “You smile, you say hi, but no heart-to-hearts.”
I don’t trust this woman, but if I can bargain for Ella—and, yes, for me—then I’ll do it. Dad’s made his rotten bed. He can roll around in that filth again.
“Deal. You work on your father, and you and Ella can have your happily ever after.” Brooke laughs as she bends to pick up her shoes. “If you can win her back.”
2
Two hours later, I’m freaking out. It’s past midnight, and Ella isn’t back.
Would she just come home and yell at me already? I need her to tell me that I’m an asshole who isn’t worth her time. I need her in my face, spitting fire at me. I need her to scream at me, kick me, punch me.
I fucking need her.
I check my phone. It’s been hours since she left. I punch in her number, but it rings and rings.
Another call and I’m shuttled to voicemail.
I text, Where RU?
No response.
Dad’s worried.
I type out the lie hoping that it gets a response, but my phone remains silent. Maybe she’s blocked my number? The thought stings, but it’s not totally crazy, so I run inside and go up to my brother’s room. Ella can’t have blocked us all.
Easton’s still sleeping, but his phone is charging on his nightstand. I flick it on and type out another message. She likes Easton. She paid off his debt. She’d answer Easton, wouldn’t she?
Hey. Reed told me something happened. U OK?
Nothing.
Maybe she parked down the road and is walking on the shore? I pocket my brother’s phone in case she decides to contact him and hurry downstairs toward the back patio.
The shoreline is completely empty, so I jog down to the Worthington estate, a property four houses down. She’s not there, either.
I look around, down the rocky shoreline, out into the ocean, and see nothing. No person. No imprints in the sand. Nothing.
Frustration gives way to panic as I race back to the house and climb into my Range Rover. Finger on the start button, I rapidly tap my fist against the dashboard. Think. Think. Think.
Valerie’s. She must be at Valerie’s.
In less than ten minutes, I’m idling outside of Val’s house, but there’s no sign of Ella’s sporty blue convertible on the street. Leaving the Rover’s engine running, I hop out and hurry up the driveway. Ella’s car isn’t back there, either.
I glance at my phone again. No messages. None on Easton’s, either. The display tells me I have football practice in twenty minutes, which means Ella’s expected at the bakery where she works. We usually ride together. Even after she got her car—a gift from my dad—we rode together.
Ella said it was because she didn’t like to drive. I told her it was dangerous to drive in the morning. We told each other lies. We lied to ourselves because neither of us was willing to admit the truth: we couldn’t resist each other. At least that’s the way it was for me. From the moment she walked in the door, all big eyes and guarded hope, I couldn’t keep away.
My instincts had screamed at me that she was trouble. My instincts were wrong. She wasn’t trouble. I was. Still am.
Reed, the destroyer.
It’d be a cool nickname if it wasn’t my life and hers that I’m taking down.
The bakery’s parking lot is empty when I arrive. After five minutes of nonstop pounding on the door, the owner—Lucy, I think—appears with a frown.