Page 91 of Wicked Heat

“Caleb, it’s been like a decade since we’ve even spoken. So cut me some slack. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Seriously? We’re going to play that game?”

“Did you talk with Aria? Because I really do appreciate that you offered me the money. But there was a time issue, and we both know you couldn’t have liquidated⁠—”

“I called Aria. I got her voicemail. I figured she was yelling at you. I mean, what the hell, Brianna? I offer to cover you on this, and yet you willingly choose those kinds of strings.”

I freeze, my stomach going queasy even before my head catches up. It’s not until I see Ash standing in the doorway, a folder in his hand, and a murderous expression on his face, that I acknowledge the reality that’s now slapping me in the face.

“I have to go,” I tell Caleb. And then—even though I know he’s going to go griping to Aria—I hang up on my best friend’s cousin.

“What?” I demand, my stomach getting queasier and queasier as I stalk across the room toward Ash. Because even though I hope I’m wrong, I know what he’s going to say.

As it turns out, he says nothing, just passes me the folder. Slowly, I open it. It’s filled with printouts from various web publications. And each and every one of them includes a picture of Ash, a picture of me, and some sort of headline that makes clear that Ashton Stone is paying me three million dollars in exchange for my sexual favors.

So, yeah. Caleb knows.

My phone chimes in my hand, and I look down to see a notification of both a call and a text from Aria. I close my eyes and sigh, realizing that was the topic she’d been dancing around, wanting to know how I was handling the press, but not wanting to say anything in case I hadn’t yet seen it.

I let the call go to voicemail. I’m really not in the mood to talk.

There is one thing Caleb got right—I’m very, very glad my parents are on a cruise ship somewhere in the vicinity of Greece.

With a shudder, I pass the folder back to Ash. My stomach is queasy, and I’m forcing myself not to throw up. “Your pictures look great,” I say. “But you’re famous enough they must have a good stockpile to choose from. All the photos of me are from after the kidnapping. Except one. I saw one that was taken at a Stark Children’s Foundation benefit.” I smirk, recognizing the irony.

“Bree.” I hear the pain in his voice and try to turn away. He stops me with a hand to my shoulder, then takes the folder and tosses it onto a coffee table. “Are you okay?”

I want to snap at him. To tell him I am not even remotely okay, and, gee, why might that be? Answer: because I agreed to be Ash’s sex toy so I could snag three million and protect my privacy.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m swimming in irony.

I take a breath, then force down that urge to snap. Instead, I start to pace the suite. I pause in the kitchen area, open one of the packets of Oreos, and start to eat as I walk. “This doesn’t make any sense. Nobody knows except Aria, and she wouldn’t⁠—”

“Are you sure?” There’s a harshness in his voice, and I whip around to face him.

“Hell, yes, I’m sure. She would never betray my trust. Never. “Don’t you have any fucking friends?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking genuinely contrite. “And yes, now I do. And none of them would betray me that way, either.”

“Now you do?” Both the word and the tone capture my attention and dull my wrath.

He shrugs. “I grew up in pretty shitty circumstances. Not that many friends. Things changed for me in college. Before that?” He glances at me for only a second, but it’s enough to see the pain in his eyes. “Before that, things were pretty damn bad.”

“Ash, I’m sorry.” I don’t remember crossing the room, but my arms are around his waist and I’m looking up at him, wishing I could change his past or erase his pain.

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “We have more to worry about than the tragic story of my life.” With a finger, he tilts my chin up. “Especially since it’s not so tragic anymore.”

“Isn’t it?” My mouth is suddenly dry and my heart’s beating a little too fast.

His fingertips brush my shoulder. “I like to think I’m on my way to a happily ever after.”

“Happy endings are good,” I say, telling myself not to hope. That these are just words in the eye of a storm, and I can’t expect them to mean anything. Especially since, once the storm passes, we’ll be surrounded by rubble.

He cups my cheek with his palm, and his smile seems a little sad. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he’s silent for so long I decide that I’m wrong. This is just a moment. One calm moment in the storm for us to share.

Then he speaks, and I realize the storm hasn’t even started. “Our deal’s off,” he says, stepping back as an arctic wind cuts through me, turning my blood to ice.

“What are you talking about?” My mind is reeling. In my head, I’m shouting at him, but the words come out even and measured, so heavy with pain and betrayal that I have to push them past my numb lips. “You know there’s no other way for me to get the money in time, and now you⁠—”