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I felt my legs start getting weak. I was emotionally spent—I simply sank to the floor and started to cry. Wanting to save my mother’s journals had given me a second wind, but it was fading fast. Everything Georgia said kept replaying in my head. Devlin set our father up. He put him in prison to make me sign a contract. The devil wasn’t even loyal to the one he owned. I knew I was his toy, and I accepted the things he made me do because I had a higher purpose. Coming to the realization that it was all a lie made me sick to my stomach.
I fell forward, across the bag that held the journals, and vomited on the floor. It felt like my body was just trying to purge any part of Devlin that was still inside me.
I’ve disgraced my family name.
I signed the devil’s contract in exchange for a lie.
And if I don’t get out of here, he’ll sell my contract to someone else.
Will they be even worse than him?TwelveDevlin2 years ago“Devlin Windsor?”
I turned in the direction of the voice, my smile widening when my eyes locked with the other man’s.
“The one and only,” I replied, shaking his hand.
His grip wasn’t firm, and it felt like I was holding a slimy fish. I fought the disgusted expression off my face and offered him a courteous smile instead.
“I’ve attempted to get a table,” he said. “We’ll just have to wait a couple of minutes.”
He motioned to the packed restaurant, staring at me apologetically.
“I made a reservation, but apparently, you have to call months in advance to get a table at this goddamned place. An oversight on my part. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” I replied with a winning smile. “Fortunately, I know the owner.”
I strode past him to the hostess stand and grinned at the woman standing there. What was her name again? Maria or something. I’d fucked her the first time I’d been there, got her promoted to her current position. She was starry-eyed as she looked at me from behind the stand. Had I bothered to call her after our little liaison? I couldn’t remember.
“Hello,” I said, flashing her a smile. “Can we get a table for two?”
“Of course, Mr. Windsor,” she was quick to reply.
She grabbed a couple of menus and motioned for me to follow her. The man followed suit, his expression sour. He didn’t say anything about the fact I’d managed to get a table straight away, but I could tell he was resentful of my dominant position, especially since I was so much younger than him. In my experience, older businessmen hated being shown up by their younger counterparts.
“We’ll start with your best whiskey,” I told Maria or whatever the hell her name was. “What do you have?”
“I’ll actually have a screwdriver,” he said, giving me a pointed look. “Not much for whiskey, have to say.”
“No problem,” I replied with a relaxed smile. “Bring me the Macallan, and the gentleman whatever he wants. We’ll look over the menus. You speak French, I assume?”
The man let out a cough as I stared him down, obviously embarrassed.
“I don’t,” he said, adding under his breath, “And they should goddamn add an English translation in the menu, this is America, for fuck’s sake.”
Charming, I thought to myself, but not saying a word.
“I assumed you did, since you picked the restaurant,” I replied with a chilling smile. “Thank you for your help.”
The last sentence was addressed at the hostess, and she smiled before leaving us in peace. I took a second to appreciate our table – the best one in the whole room. It was always waiting for me, ready at any time I deemed to visit the restaurant. I could tell the other man didn’t like it one bit, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with him.
“What did you want to meet me about?” I asked, placing the cloth napkin on my lap.
“Straight to business, huh?” He laughed heartily. “You don’t leave much room for pleasantries, do you, Windsor?”
“I don’t see why we should waste each other’s time,” I replied, shrugging. “You’re a busy man, as am I. So let’s cut straight to the chase. I’m assuming this concerns the Cabots?”
“Indeed,” he replied with a devilish smile.
Instead of delving into the specifics, he shut up when our drinks arrived and started skimming the menu, muttering something under his breath about the French. I ignored it, thanking the hostess for our drinks and ordering my food.
He followed suit, pronouncing the French dishes with an excruciatingly painful accent that made my fingers twitch with horror. Not that I was much of a Francophile, but I’d learned enough in school to at least not butcher the names of the dishes.
As the hostess left us, I stared at him, unblinking and waiting for him to finally break his silence. But he seemed reluctant to do so, focusing instead on picking his cuticles, waiting for me to say something. What a fucking coward.
