Promise Me Forever: Manhattan Ruthless
: Chapter 44

Fuck, I needed a drink tonight. It’s been a tough few days, and I’m relieved to be sitting alone at the stylish bar of the Grand Regent, enjoying a good Scotch. The bartender was kind enough to take a huge tip and leave the bottle.

Amelia has been whisked upstate for a night at a spa hotel by Emily. She’s been sending me photos throughout the day, including one of her newly pedicured toes and another of her and Emily in white robes, waiting for their massage.

The thought of my girl getting oiled up and rubbed all over is hot, but then I start getting jealous of someone else laying hands on her.

I start to fume and actually consider calling Constantine and telling him to get ready for a road trip, but my phone dings with a new message.

She knows me so well, I think, smiling. It’s nice to see her go for a little lighthearted banter.

Two weeks have passed since Edith’s funeral, and I still feel like something is slightly off between us. It’s nothing I can quite put my finger on, and our sex life shows no signs of suffering because of it. In fact, pretty much the only time I feel like I’m doing my job properly is when we’re fucking. When my mouth is on her pussy and she’s calling my name, when I suck her nipples until her back bows. When she’s tied up and begging for mercy, desperate for me to finally let her come. Then, we are truly together.

But the rest of the time? I’m not sure what to do for her, and she’s not sure how to behave. It’s a transition, and it sucks. I hate not being able to control things, and I hate not being able to relax. Mainly, I hate the feeling that I’m letting her down. When my mom died and Tiff wasn’t there for me, it hurt worse than if I’d been alone.

The fact that I feel even an ounce of relief to have a night to myself makes me feel like an asshole, but logically, it makes sense. Everything has been so intense as we’re settling into this thing between us.

I’m pondering all this and idly googling the place where she’s staying, just in case that Brad Pitt comment was true, when a shadow falls over me. I look up and my lip curls at the sight of Chad fucking Poindexter standing beside me.

I wanted to beat the shit out of him at the funeral, with his fake concern and cloyingly sweet memories of his time with Edith and Amelia. It was all an act. If he loved them so much, he wouldn’t have cheated. Wouldn’t have thrown Amelia away like trash. I was also secretly and childishly annoyed by the fact that he not only knew what Edith’s favorite flowers were, but Amelia’s too. Why the fuck didn’t I know that? I swear to god, the man smirked at how uncomfortable I looked right then.

I kept myself calm, at least on the surface, for her sake. But now? Now he has delivered himself to my doorstep, when she isn’t here to restrain me. Looks like I can add poor judgment to his lengthy list of flaws.

“Chad,” I say slowly, not standing up to greet him or offering a hand to shake or any of that other polite male-posturing bullshit. I see him eye my open bottle of Scotch, but he can go fuck himself. I’d rather pour it down the drain than let him get a taste. He’s already proved that the good stuff in life is wasted on him. “What are you doing here?”

To give the man his due, he has balls. He’s never once backed down from me, even though I’m much bigger than him. Even though I’m right now baring my teeth and growling at him in a way that most would find intimidating. He sits down opposite me, the cheeky fucker. I ponder breaking his fingers one at a time and wonder if that smarmy grin on his tan face would fade as I snapped them.

“I came to talk to you, Drake. About Amelia.”

I narrow my eyes at him over my glass. “I don’t like her name on your lips, you jerk. Say your piece and fuck off, or I’ll smash those shiny veneers down your throat.” I deliver this vicious speech in a calm and reasonable tone, presenting like I do in court. He flinches slightly but shows no sign of leaving.

“Okay—this is my piece. She’s my wife, and I want her back.”

My pulse shoots up into the stratosphere. Is this joker for real?

“She’s your ex-wife, and if I recall correctly, you gave her away. You cheated on her, broke her heart, and you’re now engaged to your mistress. Did I leave anything out?”

“A lot. For a start, I’m not engaged. We broke it off. It was … a mistake. A stupid mistake. You wouldn’t understand this, but marriage is complicated.”

“I might not have been married, Chad, but I’m not a simpleton. Try me.”

“Right. Well, it’s like this—Amelia and I are meant to be together. We’ve loved each other since we were sixteen. Yeah, I fucked up, but I’m human, and that’s what humans do. This thing with Edith, it’s made me realize how much I still love her. You might think I’m a dick, and I can’t argue, but I mean it. I still love her, Drake. She’s amazing.”

I bite back a snarl, because I don’t want him to see that he’s getting to me. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“You know she wants kids, right?” The sudden change of subject confuses me. I don’t show it, though, and simply nod. I know she does, but Amelia and I haven’t discussed it properly. We had sex without a condom that day on my desk, with Chad bleating in the background, but she’s had her period since. Was that a lucky escape, or was she secretly disappointed? It’s something we do need to discuss, because while I’d love nothing more than to see my baby growing inside her at some stage, I’m not sure we’re quite there yet. At least I’m not. I think I’d like her all to myself for a little while longer. Hell, maybe forever. I guess you could say I’m conflicted.

“Are you ready for that?” he asks. He gestures around him. “Are you ready to give up all of this? To give up your fancy bachelor lifestyle and be a husband and father? You live in a hotel, for god’s sake.”

“That’s got fuck all to do with you, Chad. Is there a point to any of this?”

“My point is that I am ready for that. I’m ready to love her the way she deserves. I’m ready to have kids, to give her what she wants. You don’t just throw away the kind of history we have together, and I know that deep down, she still wants us to work. She’d be willing to give us another chance and become a mom, just like she always dreamed of. There’s only one thing in the way.”

I sip my Scotch and ignore the frantic beat of my heart inside my chest. The sense of panic that’s rising in my throat. “Let me guess,” I say, smoothly and calmly. “Me?”

“Yes, you—you’ll never be able to give her what she needs because you can’t ever know her like I do. You won’t be able to make her happy. If you really love her, you’ll let her go.”

He stands up to leave, and I force myself to stay where I am. If I rise to my feet, I will kill him. I will beat his smug face bloody and choke the fucking life out of him. I will squeeze his throat so hard he will never be able to say her name again.

Instead, I stare at his back as he strides away, fighting down my anger and my anguish. My self-loathing and my doubt. The self-loathing is doing its usual thing, lurking around and telling me I’m not quite good enough. And the doubt? The doubt is eating me alive.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wonders whether motherfucking Chad Poindexter might actually be right. He’s been a damn sight better than me at consoling her in her grief—could it be that he’ll be better at all the rest too?