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“Now who’s going all kumbaya on whom?”
“Fuck off.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
He laughs, but then he turns serious pretty quickly. “Hang in there with the Chloe situation, okay? I was online a little while ago—the media’s already beginning to turn in her favor. I assume you had something to do with that?”
“I had everything to do with it.”
“I figured.” He clears his throat. “Well, if you need anything, let me know. I’ll be happy to help out any way I can.”
“I know, man. Thanks.”
“Tell Chloe that Aria and I are pulling for her.”
“I’ll do that.”
We hang up and the phone rings again seconds later, before I’ve had so much as a chance to glance through the first of the texts I got from Stu and my attorneys while I was in the meeting with James. It’s not Chloe—which is all that matters—so I start to let it go to voicemail. Until I see the name that pops up on my screen.
Miles Girard.
Fuck. Chloe’s older brother is calling me. Seeing as how we’re not in the habit of friendly little chats—the first and only time we’ve ever met ended in a fistfight—I know he’s got a reason to be calling. And it doesn’t take a genius to know what that reason is.
Talking to him is pretty much the last thing I want to do right now—I hold him and her parents as culpable in Chloe’s pain as I hold myself and my own family—and a million different curses run through my mind as I accept the call.
“This is Ethan Frost,” I say the moment the phone stops ringing.
“Ethan. This is Miles, Chloe’s brother.”
“I know who it is.”
“Yeah.” I don’t say anything else and neither does he, so it doesn’t take long for the silence to stretch out awkwardly between us. Maybe I should make it easier for
him by getting the ball rolling, but the fact of the matter is, he sold my wife out. For a million dollars and a shot at turning his precious inventions into a business, he sold out his baby sister. He let her rescind her statement, let her bear the brunt of psychological terror and vicious ridicule all on her own. None of which makes me inclined to help him out with so much as a conversation starter.
“Look, I know you hate me, but I need to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
“I’ve seen the news. I mean, not that that’s exactly a surprise. Most of the English-speaking world has seen at least a little bit of today’s coverage on my sister. They’re tearing her apart.”
“Yeah, they are.”
“Why aren’t you stopping it? She’s your wife, man. It’s your job—”
“Don’t tell me what my job is. When it comes to Chloe, I know exactly what my responsibilities are and the last thing I want is to hear her weak, sell-out, throw-her-to-the-wolves-for-his-own-gain older brother telling me that I’m falling down on the job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s exactly what you meant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting starting in fifteen minutes to discuss the best moves to make in this situation.” It’s a lie—I’ve already had that meeting, three times today alone—but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Jesus. You don’t make this easy, do you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize making things better for you was in my job description.” I sound like an asshole, but the truth is I don’t even care. If he was here, I’d beat the shit out of him. Tear him limb from limb as payback for what Chloe is going through. But he’s three thousand miles away right now and all I’ve got to make my point perfectly clear is my asshole behavior.
“I want to help.”
“What?” If there were any four words in the English language that I wasn’t expecting to come out of this dickhead’s mouth, it was definitely those four. And definitely in that order.
