Nausea shoots up my throat. “You’re…” I trail off. Ugh. No insult in the world can do this woman justice.
“I’m what?” she mocks. “A tramp? A gold-digger? Any more slut-shaming you want to do? I don’t understand why we girls can’t stick together, but honestly, honey, your opinion of me doesn’t matter. This will be my home soon and I’ll be the one calling the shots. You should try to get on my good side.” She arches one brow.
I remind myself that I’ve run into Brooke’s kind a hundred times before. She’s a backroom bully. Sweet to all the people with money, snotty to the girls who can’t help her up the ladder, and downright evil to anyone who threatens her.
So I take courage in the fact that she finds me threatening, and direct an arched eyebrow right back. “Callum will never let you kick me out. And even if he did, I wouldn’t care. I already tried to run away from here, remember?”
“But you came back, didn’t you, darling?”
“Because he forced me to,” I mumble.
“No, because you wanted to. You can claim to hate the Royals all you want, sweetie, but the truth is, you want to be part of this family. Any family, really. Poor orphan Ella needs someone to love her.”
She’s wrong. I don’t need that. I was on my own for two years after Mom died. I can do it again. I’m fine being alone.
Right?
“A few gentle nudges and I guarantee Callum will come around to my way of thinking,” Brooke says. “It’s up to you which direction I nudge him in. Do you want to continue living the Royal lifestyle, or do you want to be shaking your ass for dollar bills again? You’re in charge of your own destiny.” She points a lacquered nail to an empty space next to her. “There’s still room for you over here.”
We both spin around at the sound of a car engine. Gideon’s SUV comes to an abrupt stop behind Easton’s truck. The eldest Royal brother hops out of the driver’s seat, takes one look at us, and asks, “What’s going on here?”
“Just welcoming Ella back into the fold,” Brooke answers, winking at me. “Come here and give me a kiss, darling.”
Gideon looks like he’d rather kiss a cactus, but he still trudges over and plants a cool peck on Brooke’s cheek. “What’s this all about?” he mutters. “I skipped my afternoon classes and drove three hours to get here, so it better be important.”
“Oh, it’s important.” Brooke gives us a cryptic smile. “Let’s go inside and your father and I will tell you all about it.”
Five minutes later, a grim-faced Callum ushers us into a room at the front of the house. His hand hovers protectively at the small of Brooke’s back. And Brooke? She looks smugger than a cat at a fish market.
The room is impeccably decorated in what I’ve termed as Southern Plantation chic. The walls are covered in heavy cream wallpaper. There are several inches of molding that adorn the ceiling. The room is big enough that there are two seating areas, one near the floor-to-ceiling windows that are draped in peach silk fabric, and one closer to the doors. Brooke takes a seat in one of the light green and peach chairs by the fireplace.
Above the mantle is a gorgeous painting of Maria Royal. There’s something horribly wrong about Brooke sitting in this room, in front of that painting. Something sacrilegious.
After pouring a glass of whisky, Callum positions himself behind Brooke, one hand on the top of her chair and one hand clutched around a tumbler nearly overflowing with liquor.
Gideon wanders to stand near the windows, hands in his pockets as he stares out at the front lawn. Easton and I start walking toward him, but Callum’s voice stops us.
“Sit down. You, too, Gideon.”
Gideon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even acknowledge that Callum has spoken. Reed takes one look at his dad and one look at Gideon and makes up his mind in an instant. He walks over to his brother and stands beside him.
The lines are clearly drawn.
I watch as Callum’s fingers curl into the back of the chair. His body sways toward his eldest sons, but he stays rooted in place at Brooke’s side. What hold does she have on him?
She can’t be that good in bed.
“Brooke—I mean, we—have an announcement.”
Easton and I exchange a wary look. The twins are on my other side, wearing identical frowns of suspicion.
“Brooke is having a baby.”
A collective whoosh greets that statement as we all inhale in shock.
When the last word leaves his mouth, Callum lifts the glass of liquor and drinks. And drinks. And drinks until the entire glass is empty.
Brooke looks happy, and her pleasure is awful.
Is it wrong to hit a pregnant woman? I fist my hands at my side in case someone, anyone, gives me the green light to vault over two sofas and a side table and whale on her until she cries for mercy. She’s killing this family, and I hate her for that as much as anything.