And as much as I hate to admit it, I need the best care money can buy. That means Ryder is my best chance. But god…I hate it that I’m being forced into making a decision I’m not sure about due to circumstances beyond my control.
“If you don’t want to make up your mind right now, tell me tomorrow,” he says. “Or you can just simply move back in.”
“Move back in?”
“All your stuff is at my place, and you’re better off there anyway. Better security and privacy. If you want, you can take the guest house.”
Like that’s going to make any real difference. I exhale with frustration. “Do you really want to do this?”
“I do.”
Without thinking, I rest a hand on my belly. “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
* * *
Ryder
I let out a heavy sigh when the door closes behind Paige. If Mira knew how unprepared I was, she would’ve yelled at me. When you go into a negotiation, you have to know exactly what you want to get out of it…and when you’re going to walk away from the deal. How many times has she told me that?
The only thing I knew was that I wanted Paige back somehow and that I wasn’t going to walk away. No matter what.
Does this mean I can actually pretend that the sex tape and all that shit never happened? No. But I’m willing to deal with the fallout. I have an entire team for that. What I can’t handle is how cavernous and empty my house felt after Paige left.
I get up and leave. When I get to the lobby, not only do the receptionist’s eyes soften, her entire face melts into the usual “you’re so dreamy” look. More or less on auto-pilot, I shoot her an empty grin I’ve perfected over the years…but I keep on walking. If we’d met before Paige and I decided to get married, I might’ve considered banging her. But now not even a whiff of interest stirs inside me.
The elevator bank is empty. Guess Paige already went down to the lobby. I’m confident she’ll say yes. After all, a baby is kind of the ultimate leverage. I should probably feel bad about that, but I don’t. I’m willing to fight that dirty.
I’m parked in the garage on the next block. I step out of the building and immediately stop. There’s some kind of commotion going on, and the security guards have left their station to gawk.
“What’s going on?” I ask an older guy in a suit who’s walking past.
He glances back. “Fight. Some girl and a bunch of other people.”
I shake my head and think about going a different way to my car. I like rubbernecking as much as the next person, but I can’t afford to get involved in a street fight. Then I see a familiar figure in the throng.
Tall, with dark hair and a slim but lean frame, Anthony is in the middle. There’s something white smeared on his face, and my jaw loosens. I’ve never seen him in a brawl, ever.
Unable to stop myself, I start walking toward the scene. The crowd vibrates with righteous anger or something close to it.
“Slut!”
“You fat bitch! You aren’t that special!”
The epithets continue. Most of them are pretty pedestrian, but the tone makes them unusually vicious. I recognize a bouncer from the club with Anthony. Based on the cuss words, the people aren’t trying to attack him. So why is he in the middle of it?
Then I see. The golden hair pulled back in a ponytail and the back of a cream shirt and brown skirt.
My brain takes no time at all. It’s obvious what’s going on. The sleeve of Paige’s tunic is torn, and there’s some kind of red sauce on her face.
I run down and put myself between Paige and the screeching sociopaths. The crowd isn’t all women. A fair number of them are men, and they throw out words to egg on the women. Some of them have their phones out to record the incident.
Not a single one tries to help Paige. Well. Except for Anthony and his bouncer.
I feel something cold land on the back of my neck. I drag Paige back to the lobby. “Close the fucking doors and do your job!” I shout at the idiotic security guards.
As if my order snaps them out of a dream, they jump and block the people from following us in. Anthony and the bouncer guy are allowed inside, probably because the guards saw them helping Paige before.
Her eyes are a little glassy, and she’s shaking. I wrap my arms around her, not caring about the sauce and other crap. Her heart beats against mine like a frightened bird’s, and helplessness and fury twist into an ugly knot.
“What the hell happened?” I snarl at nobody in particular. It’s that or go out and start beating the shit out of people. I’m not the kind of guy who likes to beat people up for just kicks—that honor goes to one of my cousins—but this is different.