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22
No Time For Regrets (Miles)
Pain vibrates through my shoulder from the impact.
Not enough.
Not one iota of the hell I deserve for ramming a knife through her chest, yanking her heart out, and leaving her literally limping away from me.
The woman I love—the woman I’m still too fucking stupid to tell—left crying and ruined and it’s all my fault.
I shouldn’t have cornered her in the alley with my brain an armed minefield.
I should have just let her leave and left it alone.
All the shouldas don’t matter now, though.
Because we’re here now.
I’ve already destroyed something more fragile and beautiful than anything I’ll ever deserve.
My kitten will never speak to me again.
I throw my arms up, yelling a few incoherent curses at the sky.
If there’s a God up there, he isn’t in my corner today.
He just makes me watch helplessly as her Uber vanishes with a destroyed look that hurts vastly more than my ruined hand.
I release a breath.
At least she’s safe now.
Safe from me.
She’ll be okay and I won’t have to cut my own tongue out to protect her anymore.
I also still have a fire-breathing bitch to finish dealing with.
To be fair, Bradley warned me.
Any face-to-face meeting with Lilith incarnate was bound to be cursed from the second we sat down.
Still, I never imagined this.
I never expected to drag myself back to Sweeter Grind, hoping for a chance to save my father from more hellish stress and legal interrogations he’ll never understand, and all after I obliterated the woman of my dreams.
I throw the door open and glance over at the booth where we were sitting.
As expected, the biggest murdering whore in the universe is gone. Was she watching my entire meltdown the whole time, getting her fucking jollies off?
I slouch down across from Bradley, swiping a hand down my face.
“Miss Niehaus left a message,” he says cautiously.
“What?” I ask miserably.
“'Don’t do anything stupid.' Her words.”
What the fuck?
It’s too late for that.
The big fat fucking idiot line was crossed the day I had my people set this meeting up.
“I think that’s what she’s waiting for, honestly,” Bradley continues.
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to pop off and do something reckless. She’s a master manipulator, Mr. Cromwell—not that I need to tell you. That’s why she had you meet here, and that’s why she called Jennifer over. She’s hoping if she pushes your buttons, you’ll lose it in public. You’ll do something truly damaging.”
The awkward way he shrugs tells me I already did.
Goddamn.
I shake my head like it weighs a metric ton. “I had to talk to Jenn.”
“Certainly, you did nothing legally actionable. Our security specialist made sure there were no cameras around. Um, how did that go, by the way?”
I shrug. “About like walking into a petting zoo full of rabid llamas.”
Bradley winces, his bald head reddening.
“Is Miss Landers okay? I noticed she was limping when she left...”
I nod. “She took an Uber to her parents’ place. She’s strong. She’ll get over.”
I fucking hope.
“Are you okay, Mr. Cromwell?” he adds.
“I’m peachy, Bradley, considering Simone will stop at nothing to make every new day on this rock a fresh stage of hell.”
“So, I don’t know what you did to her, but the woman holds quite a grudge.”
“I didn’t do anything. Besides torpedoing the merger after she got my mother killed.”
He goes quiet. I don’t blame him.
There’s no polite response to that.
“Why are we still here? Let’s get back to work,” I growl, already standing.
At least at the office, I can stay busy. I don’t have to dwell on the fact that Jenn hates me forever and I don’t even have a way to thwart a dangerous sociopath from shredding my life.
I go through every anonymous HR complaint that’s ever been filed over the last twenty years for what feels like the millionth time.
I’m looking for a needle in a fucking haystack that likely doesn’t exist.
Something to corroborate either woman’s story, or something to clear Dad beyond all doubt.
You can guess what I find.
Jack shit.
Nothing.
There are vanishingly few complaints. In fact, the ones that turn up have more to do with benefits and compensation than anyone’s bad behavior in the office.
I regret lying to Jenn and pulverizing her heart, but now that it’s over, there’s nothing to distract me from getting to the bottom of this abyss.
I pick up Jillian Oakes’ file and call every number listed. When she doesn’t answer, I try sending a text, and then I try numbers I find on Google supposedly associated with her.
No response.
Ava Wickes is next, the other accuser. Several different numbers are listed in her file. The first one seems disconnected, and there’s no answer at the second number. It’s probably useless, but I try the third anyway, a more recent one added from my own quick data digging.
“Hello?” She picks up on the third ring.
“Ava Wickes?”
“Speaking.”
I inhale slowly. “Mrs. Wickes, this is Miles Cromwell.”
