Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
That bracelet wasn’t just a piece of jewelry. It symbolized another part of my life I’d never get back.
“Please forgive my self-pity.” I dabbed at my eyes again. “I love you so much. Both of you. Elliott—I miss our banter. And our late nights binge-eating biscuits in front of EastEnders. Sorry, Dad. Yes, it was us who ate your digestives, which, by the way, are still junk food. Just because they have the words ‘whole wheat’ on them doesn’t make them healthy.”
I snorted out an ungraceful laugh.
“I miss kicking your arse at Wii. And you kicking my arse at tennis. And the practical jokes we pulled on each other. And how you were so attuned to my feelings, you once took my goldfish to the vet because it was unwell and actually managed to save it.” I clamped my mouth shut, looking down at the damp, loose ground. “And, Dad, I miss your advice. Geeking out with math riddles. I miss the unconditional love I took for granted my entire childhood. I have recently come to realize that no matter how grand and all-consuming love can be, nothing can match the love between a parent and a child.”
I stood up and turned around, surprised to see my husband leaning against a black SUV. He waited a few feet away from Enzo, staring at me quietly, his pocket watch in hand.
How long had he been here? How much did he see?
I slinked toward him. Twilight draped over the cemetery, the crows standing on bare branches in the shadows our only audience. I stopped six feet away from him. “How long have you been here?”
“My flight left twenty-five minutes after yours.”
My gaze immediately shot to Enzo, who gestured to his face. “I think we can both agree I am far too beautiful to be beheaded.”
“You betrayed me.” I narrowed my eyes.
“I was never loyal to you to begin with,” Enzo corrected softly.
Tate unbuttoned his coat, producing the divorce papers from his breast pocket. “Thought I’d do this in person.” He proceeded to tear the papers in front of me, tossing them between us. They sailed to the ground like confetti.
To have Tate fight for me, right when I was about to lose my last relative on earth, felt reassuring. But he wouldn’t feel the same if he knew the whole story.
“She’s dying,” I said.
“Not dead yet,” Tate countered.
“You’re no good for me,” I said.
“I can change. I have changed.”
“I’m no good for you,” I tried again.
“Let me be the fucking judge of that.” His eyes burned with determination.
“Tate…” I hesitated.
Guilt devoured me like a hungry pack of wolves, tearing at my flesh. I knew the truth would make him hate me.
He deserved to know the truth. And I deserved to be set free.
“It wasn’t Daniel,” I blurted out, the bitter wind slapping my face.
“What do you mean?”
“That night. The man your father killed. Leon Gorga. He didn’t kill him…” I closed my eyes, not wanting to see his expression when he finally heard the truth. “I did.”
Silence. Thick and sticky and suffocating. I opened my eyes. He stared at me, his eyes suspiciously bright, red-rimmed, matching his ruddy cheekbones.
“Gonna need more than that.”
“Leon Gorga killed my father and brother. He was the other driver. Gorga was on holiday in London and pissed out of his arse. But he got away with two vehicular manslaughter charges because he was powerful and wealthy, the son of a senator. His solicitors managed to exclude incriminating evidence and argued rubbish premedical conditions. I’m sure the fact that my father was driving a Vauxhall, not a Ferrari, played into the trial. Point is Gorga didn’t spend a day in prison for what he’d done. And…and…”
“You couldn’t bear it,” Tate finished for me. “The injustice.”
I had obsessively searched every detail about Gorga after the accident.
Where he lived: Westchester, New York. Where he worked: Wall Street. Who he was: a twice-divorced wealth management playboy with a pink cocaine habit.
“You’re not the only one with fixations,” I croaked out. “I was obsessed with Gorga for a very long time. When I finished my A-levels, I chose to go to college in New York so I could follow him, even at the price of moving away from Mum. In hindsight, it was probably what finished her.”
Mum was young—still in her late forties—suddenly widowed and without the prized teenage son and husband she adored so much. Her daughter, me, moved across the pond, leaving her to lick her wounds alone. It was, in her doctors’ opinion, the catalyst of her early-onset dementia. So in a way, Gorga didn’t only take Elliott and Dad—he also took Mum.
“It helped that I got a full ride through my tennis. I stalked him every waking moment I wasn’t studying or playing. I knew where he took his lunch. Where he dined. The clubs he frequented. Which hotels in the city he took his hookups to.”