Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
He stares at me again, and while he might read as stone to anyone else, I can feel his unease, his certainty he’s made a wrong judgment. “Let’s sit.”
“Let’s not. Release Bella.”
“Let’s sit,” he bites out.
I don’t move.
“All right then,” he says. “We’ll stand. Yes, the file exists. I’ve got a copy. Your father had another copy. I assume you do now, as well. Give it to me, and I give you Bella. After which, we never have to talk again.”
“I don’t have the fucking file. Why do you think I’m looking for it? If I challenge the format of my father’s will, that file will be released to the public.”
“By who?”
“Withers.”
His eyes narrow. “Withers? He’s on our payroll.”
“I’m aware and to that point, my father’s will reads like a bluff, but per this conversation we’re having right now, you say it is not.”
“I don’t pretend to know your dead father’s intentions toward you, but I know what they were toward me. He made a point of paying me a visit after my father’s death.”
“To what end?”
“To make sure I knew he could hurt the family.”
I consider this premise and all I know about my father. Did he like games? Yes. Did he play them with no endgame? Never. “Why did he think your understanding of this matter and his extreme effort to solidify that threat necessary?”
His energy spikes, his expression indiscernible. “Why indeed?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, well it’s not pleasant now, is it?”
“Let me be clear with you. Bella—”
“Is safe.”
“And you are not until she’s back by my side, and even then, I’m your new enemy.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. I have a proposition for you, Tyler Hawk.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bella
The relief I feel about Oliver leaving without raping me or killing me is short lived.
What if Oliver comes back and he’s been ordered to kill me?
I sit on the floor for about five minutes before I pull myself up and walk to the door and start pounding and yelling. It’s really the only plan I can conjure right now, which isn’t exactly a grand plan at all, but I can’t do nothing. I try the door. I try random walls. And then I repeat. I’ve been at this for an hour, and my mind is starting to really mess with me.
What if Tyler is dead?
I’m queasy with the idea, and I just want to be back in time, back home earlier today, this morning, loving on Molly and trying a new coffee with Tyler. I want to plan my wedding, and not think about the will, or the reasons we’re pressured into a long engagement. It shouldn’t matter. We need time to plan anyway. I want the world to see how different Tyler is from his father, and if they knew that, maybe we wouldn’t be living this hell.
If we get out of this, we’re not going to live in fear over the will. We’re going to be frank with everyone, including the partners, invite them to our wedding, and own our new life.
I’ve just finished pounding on the door for one more round, and sunk down to the floor, defeated, when I hear, “Hello,” spoken through the door.
My eyes go wide and my pulse leaps, hope filling me. “Yes. Yes. Hello!” I twist around and struggle with my hands to get to my feet.
“I need help,” I call out and fearful of alerting Oliver, I add, “Please can you get housekeeping?”
“Can you open the door?” the woman asks , her voice strongly accented.
“I can’t. Can you get them to open it from that side please?”
“Oh, si, senora. Un memento.”
I hear footsteps walking away and I want to scream, “Come back!” What if she tells the wrong person about me pounding on the door? But that’s not what happens. Suddenly, the steps grow nearer again and the door opens. A short, robust Hispanic woman appears and the minute she spies my hands her eyes go wide. Rapid Spanish fires from her lips and I lift my bound hands. “Help, please. Can you cut it off?” I motion toward the kitchen. “Knife.”
She seems to understand, and together we race that direction, and while she struggles to free me, she makes it happen. “Gracias,” I say, and then hold my finger to my lips, making a walking motion with the fingers of my other hand indicating that I must run.
Her expression is fear for me, which isn’t unfounded, but I need out of here and I need out now. I rush for my purse and shove my gun inside, already out the door and hurrying to the stairwell, not about to step into an elevator where there will be cameras. I start the walk down and decide I can’t go out the front door. The doorman will call Oliver. Maybe he’s even working for him, and I risk being stopped.