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My fingertips feel like they’ve been singed. I brush them against the seat. Soft leather touches the skin of my palm.
It feels like butter.
This car is officially the nicest car I’ve ever been in.
A Mercedes Maybach.
I guess whatever he does, he does it well. Judging by his Olympic capabilities at being an asshole, I believe it.
“Nice ride,” I mutter.
“It gets me from point A to B.” He shrugs, and it may be the most civil conversation we’ve ever had.
Living with him is gonna be hell. But I’ll make sure it’s hell for both of us.
“Any car would do that,” I volley back, unable to help myself.
“Maybe, but not every car has a back seat that reclines.” He points at the button beside me.
“That must come in handy after a long day of work. What is it you do again?” I ask, making simple and easy conversation. If I’m going to be stuck with him, I need to learn to talk to him without wanting to flee.
“Oh, I thought you would know . . . Being Daddy’s pet and all.”
The insult brushes off my shoulders at this point.
I shrug. “Can’t say that I do. Why don’t you just tell me? Or does everything have to be so complicated?”
“Just tell you? What would be the fun in that?” He smirks.
That smirk is dangerous.
It’s deadly.
What could I do to make him genuinely smile at me? I shouldn’t want him to look at me that way.
I turn my attention away from him and stare out the window instead. Anything is better than losing myself.
It sounds cliché.
No man should have any power over me, and he doesn’t. Not really. But when he smirks like that, I forget for a second. I forget that he is pure evil incarnate.
I forget he is the reason I have lost everything and that, because of him, I am a pawn in a game I never intended to play.
The car starts to move. It weaves its way through city traffic.
I’m lost in the vision; I’m lost in the sights of the city. It’s been a long time since I lived here with my sister.
For the past ten years, I’ve lived on Long Island twenty minutes outside of the city. Nestled far away from Ronald’s web of lies. In hindsight, that seems by intentional design. After all, he’d been the one to suggest Ludlow, insisting on covering tuition after I balked at the price. He even wrote me a letter of recommendation.
Despite the sounds of the honking horns and traffic, it’s eerily quiet in this car. I can hear every time Trent taps his hand on his phone, firing off text after text.
I pretend not to notice, but from the corner of my eye, I can see him.
“Like my father, I run a hedge fund.”
I was willing to let it go, but apparently, he wants to talk now. On his terms, of course.
“Sweet. A field full of gentle souls,” I say sarcastically.
