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He was bred to be Benedict Fox the Second, after all.
He was born to be his successor and his heir and nothing less than the ruthless perfection his father embodied.
Perfection was a ruse. Perfection would be allowing me access to the money I was entitled to, but that would never happen. Perfection would be accepting that his wife—my mother—fucked up twenty-something years ago, but that would be too easy. Or hard, whatever.
Perfection would be accepting that I was a Fox, if only because Benedict loved my mom enough to make it happen. No matter how he felt about the little black sheep with blond hair who was a million miles away from his other children.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes and I pushed the thoughts away. It’d been years since I’d really thought about it all. I’d buried all that shit when I’d moved on, but Dahlia Lloyd’s appearance in my life had dredged it all back up.
Not to mention that the fact I was seeing prostitutes from another angle now. I was seeing them for the desperate neediness they were. For the hatred and hurt and desperation that seeped from all their pores.
That had seeped from mine.
That had been my lifeblood only weeks ago.
I slammed my hand down onto the sink. The heel of it hit the ceramic, and I hissed out in pain. Frustration ebbed away at the dull throb that took up, and the ache that lingered even as I left the room helped dampen the emotion that swirled inside me and made my heart hurt with its intensity.
I wanted a normal life.
I wanted to smile.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to fall in love.
I wanted to live and breathe the way others did, without fear or judgement, without the risk of being caught and shamed.
I just wanted a life. One I loved. One I could be proud of.
One I believed in.
***
Half an hour later, still sitting on the end of my bed wearing nothing more than my towel and a dainty, satin thong that was surprisingly comfortable, knocks echoed off my front door.
Tucking my now dry hair behind my ear, I froze.
“Fuck.”
The word was no more than a mutter, because the only person who would be knocking on my door at this time of the night was Detective Adrian Potter.
And I was not dressed for his company. Or any kind of company, actually. I hadn’t expected him to be back so soon. Unless I’d spent longer in the shower than I was willing to acknowledge, it hadn’t been the two hours he insisted he needed to get all the paperwork done and prepare for the next night’s work.
“Perrie?” The door opened downstairs.
“Shit! Wait!” I half-called, torn between shouting so he’d hear me and being quiet enough that the kids wouldn’t.
“You there?”
I snatched up my towel and wrapped it around my body, then darted to the top stair. “Quiet. They’re sleeping. Hold on.”
He stepped to the bottom stair before I could turn away. His dark eyebrows shot up, and something that looked an awful lot like desire flickered in his gaze.
“I showered,” I said lamely. “And I’m not dressed yet, so…”
“Give you a minute,” he said in a strained voice. “Right.”
“Thank you.” I backed away slower than I probably should have before common sense kicked in and I ran into my room.
Rifling through my drawers for clothes was harder than I’d thought. All my bras appeared to be downstairs in the laundry pile or dirty, and I couldn’t even put a finger on a bikini top. All I could find that seemed appealing to put on at one in the morning was some comfortable shorts and a tank top.
At least this time, it was black.
Biting my lip, I pulled the shirt over my head. As long as I kept my arms folded, he’d never see my nipples and know I wasn’t wearing a bra.
Right?
Right.
I’d keep telling myself that.
Unless…
“Adrian?” I hissed at the top of the stairs.
“What?” He was still standing there.
“Um, could you bring me my laundry basket? It’s the pink one in the kitchen.”
“Your laundry basket? You’re dressed.”
“Uh…I need a bra.” My cheeks flamed.
He looked at me for a minute—and then right at my boobs. “I don’t think you need one, but whatever.” He disappeared through the door.
My mouth dropped open, and even when he reappeared carrying the basket, I didn’t move or say anything.
He handed me the basket at the top of the stairs. “There. For your unnecessary bra.”
I swallowed and took hold of the handles. “Thank you.” Turning back into my room, I mentally slapped myself.
“It’s amazing,” his low voice rumbled from behind me. “You used to screw for money, yet here you are, blushing because you need a bra.”
“Well. You know. Bras are blush-worthy.”
“I still maintain that you don’t need a bra.”
I looked over my shoulder. “My boobs were the sole sustenance for a tiny human for six months of her life and a treat for even longer. Trust me. Breastfeeding means bras are a necessity.”
