But we didn’t talk. Not really. I was waiting to see how she was going to broach the subject. Not that it mattered in any way, of course. Her fate was sealed.

She’d not murmured a word about the reason she’d flown here, not until after the waitress served us our entrees. Then she finally spoke up. “Your father’s getting worse. He’s going to pass soon, I’m afraid.” She stared into her plate, poking at her food, like she had no appetite. “My poor sweet husband.”

She pretends to love him.

I stabbed my steak with my fork, cutting into the blood rare filet, chewing the juicy piece of meat, my face blank.

But my hate for him is genuine and real.

“That’s a shame,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

Her gaze met mine. She shivered inside her fake designer number.

“I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to hold on.” She rearranged the silverware over the napkin she hadn’t placed in her lap, straightening them in a neat line.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and spit it out, Jo.” I smiled politely, draining my glass of scotch—fuck wine—and sat back, making myself comfortable. This was going to be good.

Squeal, Mother. Squeal.

She took a tissue from her purse, patting the mist of sweat from her waxy Botoxed forehead. It wasn’t warm in the restaurant.

She was anxious.

It felt good.

“Baron…” She sighed, and my eyes clenched shut, my nostrils flaring.

I hated that name. It was my father’s. I would’ve legally changed it long ago if it weren’t for the fact I didn’t want anyone to know I gave a shit.

“You don’t need all of his money,” Jo said with another sigh. “You’ve built a multi-million-dollar company on your own. And of course, I have no expectations about how much I might inherit. I just need a place to stay. This whole thing has caught me so unprepared…”

I was only ten when Dean’s father, Eli Cole, a family law attorney who represented some of the biggest actors in Hollywood, shut Dad’s office door for a two-hour consultation on estate planning. Despite being crazy for Jo—or maybe because he was crazy for her and never really trusted himself—Dad insisted on a prenup that protected every penny and gave Jo nothing if she ever filed for divorce.

Death wasn’t a divorce, but she was worried about the will.

Neither Jo nor I knew what his will said, but we could guess. My father was a vain old man whose wife was his once mistress, a second violin to his business empire. And me? To my father, I barely existed except as a name that symbolized his legacy, but unlike her, I could help that legacy live on.

In all likelihood, I was going to be in charge of his entire business empire soon. I would hold the purse strings, and Jo was worried that my main vice—vindictiveness—would mean she was going to lose her cushy lifestyle. For once in her miserable life, she was right.

I exhaled, lifting my brows and looking sideways, like she’d caught me off guard. Not uttering a word—it was too much fun to watch her hopeful gaze as it met my armor of indifference—I took another slow sip of my scotch.

“If we find out that he…” she trailed off.

“Left you penniless?” I finished for her.

“Give me the mansion.” Her tone was clipped, and surprise, surprise, she was no longer pretending to be warm and motherly. “I won’t ask for anything else.”

The way she looked at me—like a brat who’d been denied their favorite toy, like she was in a position to negotiate—almost made me laugh.

“Sorry, Jo. I have plans for that mansion.”

“Plans?” She seethed, her bleached teeth shining with saliva. “It’s my home. You haven’t lived in Todos Santos for ten years.”

“I don’t want to live there,” I said simply, tugging at my tie. “I want to burn it to the ground.”

Her blue eyes flared, and her mouth collapsed into a frown. “So if it comes to that, you won’t give me even one thing, huh? Not even the mansion.”

“Not even the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. Sans fruit,” I confirmed, nodding. “We should do this more often. Jo. Spend time together. Dine. Share a nice wine. I had a lot of fun tonight.”

The waitress placed the bill on our table, the timing perfect, just like I’d arranged. I smiled, and this time—this one miserable fucking time—my smile actually reached my eyes. I yanked my wallet out of the breast pocket of my blazer and handed over an American Express black card. The waitress took it immediately and vanished behind a black door at the end of the busy room.

“Remember, Baron, we don’t know what the will says.” Jo shook her head slowly, her eyes hard. “There will be no mercy for those who have not shown mercy to others.” She was quoting the Bible now.

Nice touch. I distinctly remembered Thou shalt not kill somewhere in there, too.

“I smell a challenge. You know I’m always a little silly for a challenge, Jo.” I winked and thumbed my collar, widening it. I’d been in this suit for far too long. I wanted to shed it along with this shitty day. My expression remained amused.

“Tell me, Baron, do I need to seek legal representation for this?” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table

Elbows on the fucking table? Josephine would’ve smacked me good if it were me with my elbows anywhere near the table when I was a kid. Her brother would’ve finished the job with his belt in the library, too.

I cracked my neck and squeezed my lips together, pretending to think about it. I definitely had legal representation of my own. It was the nastiest motherfucker to ever study law, and it was me. I might be cold, heartless, and emotionally handicapped, but Jo knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was also the best in the business.

I’d spoken to Eli Cole, too. He’d agreed to represent me in case my father did leave her something and I needed to scare her off. I wanted her penniless. It wasn’t about the money. It was about justice.

The waitress reappeared with my credit card. I tipped her a hundred percent and got up, leaving my stepmother alone at the table in front of her half-eaten dish. My plate was clean. My conscience was, too.

“By all means, please feel free to lawyer up, Mother,” I said as I shouldered into my cashmere pea coat. “Frankly, that’s the best idea you’ve had in years.”

Ten Years Ago

“SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO go back to the party?” I asked Dean between breathless kisses.

He nuzzled his nose into my collarbone, our lips swollen from the last half hour. We’d kissed until we’d run out of saliva and our mouths were numb. I liked his kisses. They were good. Wet. Maybe a little too wet, but definitely enjoyable. Besides, we were still figuring out how to enjoy each other. Things were going to get even better with time. I was sure of it.

“Party? There’s a party?” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, pinching his eyebrows together. “Cut that shit, Millie. I didn’t even notice. Way too busy spending time with a girl who tastes like ice cream and paints like Picasso.” His voice was husky and hoarse.

I ignored the Picasso remark because my style was nothing like his, but I appreciated the compliment, I guess. Okay, it annoyed me a little. Because I knew for a fact Dean didn’t know even one Picasso painting.

God, what was wrong with me?

I liked Dean a lot. He was handsome, with his chestnut man-bun and green eyes. I ran my hand over his bulging triceps, groaning with need when I thought about what they could do to me if and when we decided to take our make-out sessions to the next step.

I knew all about the Four HotHoles, and he was one of them.

Soon, Dean was going to ask for sex.

Soon, I was going to agree.

I would be happy to give him my V-card if not for the nagging feeling that this was just another cruel Vicious joke. Surely, Dean wasn’t hateful enough to date me just so Vicious could make fun of me later? No, he seemed genuine. The sweet messages. The coffee he brought me every morning when we met at school. The late night phone calls. The kisses.

When he’d first asked me for a date months ago, I’d politely declined. He’d persisted. For weeks and weeks, he’d waited next to my locker, beside my bike, and outside my family’s apartment at the estate. He was relentless and focused, yet kind and sweet. Said that he promised not to touch me until I was ready. Said I shouldn’t judge him based on his reputation. And claimed to have a ten-inch dick, which meant absolutely nothing to this virgin. I might have playfully punched his arm for the latter.

But I was lonely, and he was cute and nice to me. Having someone was better than having no one.

Sometimes, doubt still crept into my mind. The HotHoles didn’t have the best reputation. Even worse, I had unresolved feelings toward his good friend. Granted, most of those feelings were negative, but still.

As if sensing my wall of defensiveness going up, Dean leaned into me on my narrow single bed and pressed his lips to my temple. “I really like you, Millie.”

“I really like you too.” I sighed, rubbing his cheek with my thumb. I’d spoken the truth. The feelings he stirred in me, they were positive. Safe. But they weren’t wild. They didn’t drive me crazy, and they didn’t make me want to act irrationally and unlike myself.