But he hadn’t arrived.
I sat in front of the table and waited like an idiot because I was too anxious to watch TV, but also too proud to go check on him. Then I remembered that last time I saw him, he was completely out of it, sleeping on the floor, and guilt washed through me. I should’ve stayed with him. I should’ve made sure he was all right.
On my way to his penthouse, in the elevator, I cleared my throat several times because I didn’t want my voice to break when I spoke to him. Somehow, I still didn’t want him to see how affected I was by him. I knocked on his door three times and rang the doorbell twice, but nothing happened. I turned around, about to walk away, when one of the building’s receptionists walked out of the elevator with a wrapped gift and flowers. She headed straight to his apartment door. A set of keys jingled between her fingers.
She greeted me with a polite smile. “Happy Holidays.”
“Thank the Lord you’re here.” I almost threw myself at her. “I think something’s wrong with him. Can you open the door? We need to see if he’s okay.”
“Who, Mr. Cole?” Her brow furrowed.
What?
“No.” My voice chilled significantly. “Vic…Mr. Spencer.”
“Oh. Him.” Her lips pinched as she pushed the key into the hole. “I saw Mr. Spencer leave very early this morning with a suitcase. He’s probably flying back to LA. He’s already stayed in Dean’s apartment for much longer than usual.”
“Dean?”
She blushed. “I mean Mr. Cole. I deliver his packages for him when he’s not around. He gave me a key.”
My mouth dried and I blinked. “This is Dean Cole’s apartment?” I confirmed, feeling dumb. Not only about the question. About everything.
The girl nodded, her smile still wide. “Sure is.” She sauntered past me and just before the door closed in my face, she said, “Again, Happy Holidays, Miss LeBlanc. Hope you have a good one.”
But it was too late. It was already a horrible Christmas. The worst I’d ever had.
I was about to take the stairs back down to the apartment. There was no way I was waiting around for the elevator, and I didn’t want to get in with the receptionist because I feared I’d cry in front of her. I felt pathetic enough without adding the cry-in-front-of-a-stranger humiliation into this mess.
My steps toward the door leading to the stairway stopped when I heard my phone singing in my back pocket. I fished it out, my heart slamming against my chest, wanting out, out, out.
I begged for it to be him. Begged for him to have an explanation. Begged for all of this to be a mistake. He couldn’t have been so vicious. There was no way.
Staring at the screen for a second, disappointment gripped every ounce of me when I saw Rosie’s name, before the feeling was replaced with shame.
Vicious was a no one. Rosie was my family.
“Merry Christmas!” Rosie, Mama, and Daddy greeted in unison when I pressed the phone to my ear. I smiled despite the pressure in my nose. I was crying, but I didn’t want them to hear.
“Hey y’all! I miss you so much! Merry Christmas!”
“Millie!” Mama shouted in the background. “Please tell me your sister is not dating a biker named Rat!”
I did my best to sound like I was laughing, even though the emptiness spreading in my gut was numbing every emotion in me, even the pain.
“Rosie,” I scolded. “Stop messing with Mama’s feelings.”
We talked for about ten minutes, me still standing on the edge of the stairway, before Rosie took the phone to her room and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Millie,” she said, “I thought you should know something about Vicious.”
It seemed like my heart stopped beating when she said his name. Hope and dread filled me in equal measure.
“Yeah?”
“Baron Senior died.”
I dropped my phone to the floor, my mouth falling open.
Jo.
The will.
His father.
Everything clicked like a gun hammer, and the invisible weapon was pointed at my temple. It was show time for Vicious.
But was I about to become his prop?
“FUCKING FINALLY,” I SAID, FLINGING the door to Trent’s red Range Rover open before climbing in. It was a nice rental, considering he was only here for the holidays from Chicago. I tossed my Ray Ban Wayfarers aside and shot him a look.
“Fucking finally? I got here twenty minutes before you landed.” Trent threw his vehicle into drive.
He looked like crap. Well, by Trent standards anyway. The fucker was easy on the eyes. With mocha skin, a rugby-player build, and other shitty qualities that made women cream their panties, he was probably the best-looking guy among the four partners of FHH. Only now he had red-rimmed eyes, a three-day stubble, and he needed a haircut. Yesterday.