Page 5 of Reckless Love

Ava

“Owen said he’d be at the house in ten minutes,” I say to Raul when he comes into the kitchen the next morning.

“Let me know how it goes.” He scoops up the breakfast burrito our personal chef made earlier and left on a warming plate. The other meals for the day for the three of us are already in the fridge just waiting to be reheated. According to Raul, paying for the chef to stay here all day is a waste of money. For someone so rich, he can be pretty cheap.

“You’re not staying?”

“No need,” he says. “Owen’s got a team on me already. You’re meeting whoever he’s put in charge of your security and Landon’s security.”

“You don’t want to be here for that? You don’t care?”

He gives me a look as though I’m being “too much” and opens his breakfast wrap to take a bite. “Of course I care. But it’s not worth my time. Whoever Owen’s given this to is just going to go through your weekly routine. Come up with a strategy and the number of people needed to keep you both safe. I’ve got shit to do. The Bellerive branch of my company is in crisis. You don’t really expect me to stay, do you?”

“No.” I stare at what’s left of the bottle of scotch that’s still on the kitchen counter. No one has put it away yet. “No,” I say again, though I really mean “yes.”

Historically, fights never end well for me. Whenever he’s losing, he’ll threaten to pause the algorithm on The Nile, which pushes my perfume company higher in the rankings. Without that, I’m not sure my company could survive. To get what I want, I end up on my knees, letting him feel like a man, so the argument can end and he doesn’t tank the one accomplishment I’m proud of.

Unlike my other business ideas that never lifted off, I have a lot of employees working for me now. If Reckless went under, so many people, so many families in Bellerive would hate me. The executives Raul has found for me wouldn’t care, not really—they’d locate another job somewhere. A lot of them have already come and gone in the five years I’ve been in business.

The workers on the factory floor, though, the ones who are being paid a “fair” wage at my siblings’ insistence—even though Raul said I was being too generous—wouldn’t be able to find something of equal pay in this country. Reckless, my perfumery, flopping might cost my working-class employees a house or a car or the ability to raise their children out of poverty. It’s that last one that stops my heart every time I consider it. The way I love my son is mind-blowing. Makes me understand a little better how Gage changed so much once his daughter, Nova, appeared. Raul and I don’t have to worry about money, but I’ve spent enough time with people who do, heard enough from them to know, if not understand, the impact I have on their lives and their futures. That matters to me more than I ever would have thought.

Thinking about how my influence helps the working class on the island almost cracks open the door to a place I never go, and I manage to slam it shut before old memories creep in. That door leads to sleepless nights and endless regrets. I understand enough about Bellerive’s levels of poverty, and I don’t need to consider where or from whom I gained that knowledge.

Landon’s feet slap against the designer tile floor as he runs through our mansion from the stairs of his second-story bedroom toward us. I swear, an elephant would be quieter.

“Ah,” Raul says with a grin as Landon storms in, “here’s my boy!”

I crouch down, and Landon rushes into my embrace, little arms flinging around my neck with a squeal of delight. When I rise up with him on my hip, he cuddles in close, head on my shoulder. My mother tells me these moments will become more and more fleeting as he gets older. I don’t remember any with her. An ache always spreads across my chest whenever I think of that conversation. I live for these minutes with him, where he still craves this close connection.

“Daddy’s still here?” he asks.

“Daddy’s just leaving,” Raul says, ruffling Landon’s hair. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” He crumples the tinfoil from his sandwich and sets it on the counter, grabbing the coffee that was prepared and left waiting in an insulated mug before making his way out of the kitchen. Without another word to me, he leaves.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask Landon when we hear the front door close.

“Mini sticks,” he says, still snuggled close.

“At Aunt Sawyer and Uncle Logan’s house? I can call and ask. They might be busy. What else?”

“Palace park,” he says, and then he seems to remember something. He pops his head up to look at me. “You don’t work today?”

“I took this week off to spend it with you, since you go to school next week. No nanny all week.” I tickle his belly, and he giggles.

The doorbell reverberates throughout the house, and Landon wiggles to get down.

“I’ll get it,” he shouts as he zooms off.

“The maid will get it,” I call after him, wandering toward the front door, sure it’ll be Owen with whoever he’s assigned to watch over us.

The door opens, and the recognizable murmur of the maid and my son is a comfort.

Then a familiar baritone echoes through the expansive front foyer in response, and I stop in my tracks, unable to turn the last corner, which will put me in sight of the person who’s arrived. When I draw in a breath, it feels like my lungs rattle.

Because god help me, I know who it is.

My hand shakes, and I press it against the wall, willing it to stop. When that doesn’t seem to help, I rotate so my back is against the edge of the corner. My heart beats wildly in my chest with fear, but I’m not sure that’s the right emotion. He must know who he’s come to see, and dread pools in my stomach.

After all this time, I’d convinced myself I’d never see him again. That even if I did, seeing him wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t faze me.