“This is my so-called life.” Trent gestured with his ripped arms, stealing another glance at Luna, who was still opening and closing the same double door with a devotion better saved for finding the cure to cancer. “It’s a Mess with a capital M, and my daughter is in the middle of the shitshow, dragged through the mud and filth, the consequences of her parents’ bad decisions ruining her life. This stops here. She needs stability.”
“What are you proposing, exactly?” I cracked my neck, looking him dead in the eye. Fiscal Heights Holdings’ headquarters was in New York, and I ran it. Smoothly, if I may say so myself. I was the dedicated bachelor, and I put down the hours. Vicious was working in L.A. and commuting from Todos Santos every day. He wouldn’t leave California for the world. This was where he was born, and this was where he would die. Jaime was in London, handling our European accounts, and Trent was in Chicago, our newest and smallest branch. But it was expanding, fast. There was money to be made, and money talked. It fucking screamed, especially to people like us.
“Vicious should take Chicago.” Trent stared at me with a death glare.
I smiled. “Vicious should do a lot of things. That gap between what he should do and what he actually does? That’s where he thrives.” I wasn’t joking.
“You need to back me up when I bring this up at our next meeting.” He held my gaze firmly, his jaw ticking. I tugged at my lower lip.
“You need more than my vote to make it happen.”
“Jaime’s in, too.”
“Jaime is going against Vicious?” My eyebrows jumped up. Jaime always took his side, even when it was time to call Vic on his bullshit.
Looking at Trent, I saw someone I was willing to fight for. Hard. The guy to always do the right thing. If someone deserved to catch a break out of the four of us, it was him. I nodded, placing a hand on top of Luna’s little head.
Protect the strays. Atone your past. Break the fucking cycle.
“When?” I asked.
“November sounds good. Thanksgiving and all. We’re all going to be here anyway.”
I nodded. “Let’s get you back in Cali.”
We bumped shoulders and clapped backs. “Fuck yeah.”
What makes you feel alive?
Dean. Dean Cole makes me feel alive.
THE REST OF OUR VEGAS escapade dragged, despite my best efforts. I took the girls to the Mob Museum, a barbeque restaurant (my first choice was sushi, but as much as I was mad at my sister, taunting her was not high on my to-do list), and to a spa. Millie and I exchanged a total of twenty words the whole trip and shared nervous silence whenever we were alone. I was curt, polite, and distant. She was miserable, worried, and troubled.
Then there was the guilt. It ate at my insides like a growing tumor. I wasn’t even sure which part was worse. The part where I slept with her ex-boyfriend—there was no denying at this point that Dean and I were more than sleeping together, and that was an issue, too—or the part where I didn’t partake in the cooing-fest Gladys, Sydney, and Elle threw when it came to my sister.
On Thursday, we boarded a plane back home, and even though I dreaded meeting my parents, relief washed over me. The minute we got back to the mansion, I entered my room, collapsing onto the four-poster bed. Exhausted didn’t begin to cover what I was feeling. My lungs screamed in agony from all the dancing, walking around, and…well, let’s just say that having sex on cold tiles wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had. I practically felt the mucus covering my airways. And while I needed to book an appointment to see Dr. Hasting as soon as possible, I couldn’t leave here before the wedding.
As I rolled to the side of the bed to text Elle and ask how her flight to New York went (she had to skip the wedding for a family event), my older sister threw my door open and dashed in like a storm.
“We need to talk.”
I turned around, sprawled on a throne of puffy, colorful pillows, and the hurricane in her eyes calmed once she saw my wet cheeks and red eyes. Her face twisted in worry. That was Millie for you. Even when I acted like a brat at her bachelorette party, she still melted under my cold flesh.
I patted the empty side of the bed in silent invitation. To the place where we sat, where we laughed, where we cried, and stared at glow-in-the-dark stars and made crazy plans. I waved the white flag. In return, she stepped from her position—not outside the room but not inside, exactly, either, then closed the door behind her.
Cough-laughing, I bowed my head down.
“Then let’s talk, sister.”
“I never meant for you to find out this way. Ever,” Millie said, her arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
My face was buried between her chin and armpit, and from that angle, I could see the blue vein that popped inside her cleavage, running through her left breast, as her body prepared for breastfeeding.
“But I couldn’t exactly mention it to you in passing, either, and we both know why. Daddy is on your case, Mama is crazy-scared now that she knows that you’re alone in New York, and the last thing I wanted was to put more pressure on you. Bad call, I know, but only because people found out way sooner than they should have thanks to my morning sicknesses and tendency to go green every time I smell coffee.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her cheek against mine.
“Gladys and Sydney found out a week ago. I was going to tell you before the bachelorette party, but then you outdid yourself with the Vegas trip and we never got the one-on-one time.”
“I work with babies,” I pouted, hugging a pillow to my chest and pulling at a loose thread. “You could have told me this in passing. I still would have been nothing but ecstatic for you. Why would you assume differently?”
She gulped, looking down to the space between us.
“Because, Rosie, love and passion are the two forces that can drive a person into madness, despite their best intentions.” She turned around to face me, tucking a hand under her ear. “And you are passionate about motherhood. I didn’t want to throw it in your face along with this wedding, and the lavish ceremony, and whatnot. This is weird for me, too, okay? I’m not used to having it easy in life.”
I pulled her into a hug, sniffing her neck, the scent of the cherry blossom perfume she always used. She smelled like home.
“I’ve never been so happy about someone else’s fortune,” I said, each word light and easy, because it was the truth. “And get used to all this goodness, because you’ve definitely earned it fair and square. Now, tell me everything. How far along are you?”
“Nine weeks.” She bit the corner of her lip, sliding a hand over her flat stomach. “The smell of coffee makes me throw up, and the thought of bacon sends uncomfortable shivers down my spine. Oh, Rosie, and my boobs. They hurt so bad. All tender and huge. Which only makes Vicious even more fascinated with them.” She rolled her eyes and snorted out a laugh. “They say the first trimester is the hardest, and it’s a breeze from there on.”