Page 58 of Juliet's Echo

The bane of my existence stood proud in an expensive suit, diamonds decorating his wrist, teeth shining confidently like he wasn’t a selfish, meddling individual.

The article praised him like he had invented sound itself.

Young mogul and visionary genius my ass.

My stomach twisted.

This should have been me.

I should have been standing in that article. The man people looked up to. The one with the fucking power.

Me.

I beat my fist against my chest so hard water rushed to my eyes. Standing, I paced back and forth with the laptop still in my hand, my own voice filling the room as my rant continued out loud.

“Not this thugged-out, girlfriend-stealing punk,” I muttered, shaking my head as I turned and paced the other way. “He should be the one hiding. He should be the one changing his name. He should be the one looking over his shoulder every time the wind blew too hard, or a floorboard creaked beneath him.”

My steps grew heavier, faster, each turn pulling more anger out of me.

“He should be the one taking pills to fix his mind. He should be the one replaying sleepless nights of his girlfriend breaking up with him and telling him the baby she was carrying wasn’t his.”

The words burned on their way out, but I kept talking, because stopping meant I was suppressing. Stopping meant I was ashamed, as if I did something wrong. And I didn’t.

“Leading me on damn near the whole pregnancy.”

I laughed, but there wasn’t anything funny about it.

“Yeah, she tried to tell me several times. She began avoiding me and even threatened a restraining order.”

My voice faded after that, leaving only the sound of my feet pacing across the floor. The moment I stopped speaking out loud, my thoughts raged recalling the memory as if it happened yesterday.

Restraining order my ass.

Simone didn’t know what was best for her. I did. And I knew it was Echo telling her to lie to me about the baby not being mine, just so he could take my kid away too.

But if I couldn’t have them, he damn sure wouldn’t either.

She deserved every bullet I put in her. Little bitch was really going to try and walk away from me. Leave me? Motherfucking Sloane Roberts?

Hell no.

I come from greatness. The bitch should have considered me knowing her name an honor, let alone making her mine.

I can still hear the tearing of her skin with every bullet that pierced through her.

Still see the blood splattered across the walls, the couch, and coating the floor in red.

I still see the fear and desperation on her face as I stood over her body, watching her fade away.

And instead of apologizing to me, begging me for her life, groveling before me like the king I am, Simone had the nerve to cradle her full-term stomach and tell that bastard baby she loved it.

As if either of them was going to see daylight.

I let loose another shot, aiming for her stomach, but my mother’s scream threw off my aim. The memory alone made a slow, venomous laugh crawl up my throat.

“Hope that little mistake felt everything its mother had,” I said out loud, laughing harder as the words filled the room. “Death included.”

“Alonse!”