Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Trystan glared at the man, knowing what Chance was doing, recognizing that he had a point to prove, but unable to stop him from doing so. Because he wanted to—needed to—hear this.
“Those are the randos on the street. The paps are worse. Because she’s refused to grant any interviews, they’ve gone feral on her. All the pseudo-psychological articles about her so-called clinical depression, pathological stalking tendencies. I think she was described as psychotic and psychopathic in a single article.”
“She’s staying with her family, right?”
“She didn’t want to bring the shitstorm to their doorstep. That was a little naïve of her… because, of course it affected them. They’ve lost business, been harassed, had to change their numbers. The kid brother has been in several fights already.”
Chance said naïve, while Trystan called it innocent. She was so damned innocent. Despite what and who her father had been, despite what she had aspired to be, she had no real concept of how ugly people could get. After all, she’d once confronted a near-rabid beast with sweet optimism and confidence and the belief that he would never really hurt her.
“And Iris is where?”
“Trapped. In her flat.”
Trystan swallowed back a moan at those words.
Trapped. God. She would hate that. She had to be terrified. With no freedom of movement, it was her worst nightmare.
“She checked her messages for the first time last night. Thousands of them. Dozens were threats of bodily harm or death.”
Trystan’s head shot up and his stomach churned.
“What?”
“You had to know this would happen,” Chance said, his voice even—almost affable—and his green eyes somber. “You’re you. She’s a little nobody from Southfields with no weight behind her name. And when you left her unprotected to face the wolves by herself you sent out a very clear message to all the sickos and fuckin’ crazies out there: open season on Iris Hughes.”
Chapter Twenty
Open season on Iris Hughes.
The five words rattled around in Trystan’s brain for the rest of the day. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Along with the fucking horror he felt at the knowledge of everything she’d been subjected to these past few weeks.
Chance had clammed up after that last statement, going back to his usual monosyllabic, taciturn self. Although Trystan was starting to believe that the usual that Chance showed Trystan was not the usual he presented to everyone else.
The other man had politely deferred from answering any further questions about Iris and had excused himself to take a quick shower. The rest of the day he’d spent lurking and hovering, occasionally playing with Luna, and vetting any of Trystan’s unscheduled drop-ins—from the pizza-delivery guy to Trystan’s PA. He’d left at six-thirty, when Caleb had arrived to take over babysitting/bodyguarding duties.
After picking at the pepperoni pizza he’d ordered for dinner, Trystan eventually retreated to his den with Luna, leaving Caleb in the living room with a thick book. Trystan didn’t usually have a round-the-clock in-house protective detail, but Sam felt the extra precautionary measure was necessary for the next few months or weeks, at least. And Trystan found it easier to acquiesce than argue with the man.
Luna settled down on the sofa next to him and immediately fell asleep. Trystan envied her that easy descent into oblivion. He scratched behind her ears, and she moaned in contentment without opening her eyes.
He reached for his laptop on the coffee table, hiked an ankle onto the opposite knee and rested the lightweight device on his thigh. He stared at the closed computer for a second before swallowing thickly and opening it.
He hadn’t looked her up. Hadn’t asked anyone for any information about her. Had shied away from following up on what had happened to her after that last day. Instead, he’d read that initial fucked-up article in the car en route from the airport—after his security team had so unceremoniously hustled her into the other car—and had resented her. Fucking loathed her. The seething sense of betrayal had fueled his fury and he’d clung to it. Had needed it because without the betrayal, without the fury, all he had was his overwhelming grief.
He ran a search on her name and read—with increasing horror—the articles, the social media clips showing her literally fleeing from journalists, the outraged rants on his behalf calling her a psycho stalker, a bitch, an ugly whore, a greedy slut…
It went on and on, every damned—sometimes blatantly libelous—article making outrageous accusations against her.
Then, just before his ill-fated interview with Mike Holmes five days ago, more excerpts from her journal had found their way online. Divulging painfully personal details about her phobias, her anxiety, her coping mechanisms, and the therapy she needed to keep it under control.
It was hard to read, and the mocking responses to those revelations from an unsympathetic public which added #teamtrystan to every repulsive, nearly-impossible-to-watch social media clip… That they would use his name to fucking torment her sickened him. And why wouldn’t they?