Page 98 of Xander

According to the lawyer, I had to do was retain temporary guardianship of Jordan while my father was in the process of leaving the post, marry her, and then apply for conservatorship.

God, this was even better than I’d hoped. My father had basically offered me Jordan—and his ruin—all up on a silver platter.

How fucking kind of him.

“I’ve got you now, motherfucker,” I whispered, glaring at the wedding picture he kept on his desk. A nice little prop, no more real than anything else in this house. Jordan looked so beautiful it hurt, but the desperate loneliness in her eyes couldn’t be hidden.

Sliding the picture out of the frame, I tore Henry out of it and pocketed the half containing Jordan. I never wanted a reminder of their wedding, but I also didn’t have the heart to rip up one of her photos.

Satisfied, I locked up his desk and replaced the key before heading back down toward the hall—where I ran right into Jenna.

She looked at me and then down at my bare feet. I saw several expressions flicker over her face. “Your father just called,” she said, her tone carefully modulated. “He told me not to expect him tonight.”

“Then I guess I’d better head out.”

She nodded slowly, turned, and walked away. I waited to see if she’d pick up the phone, but she only went back into the kitchen.

It seemed like my father hadn’t won her over, either.

I let out a breath and slipped my shoes back on before getting the hell out of there. Exhilaration throbbed through my veins, creating a dizzying head rush. I won, I thought. I fucking won.

I had my father exactly where I wanted him.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

JORDAN

It was the first time he had left me alone in the house. If it weren’t for the grim resolve in his eyes when he’d left, I might have said that he seemed almost remorseful of his actions.

The first thing I did was try the door. I was unsurprised—but still disappointed—to find it locked.

My phone buzzed. Xander, I thought, probably checking in on me for the hundredth time. He had been texting me nonstop since the moment he left, but I hadn’t responded.

I was surprised to see it was Henry responding to my last text.

Me: What do I need to do to make this stop?

Henry: Jordan! I’ve been so worried about you. How are you?

Henry: Can we meet up and talk? I realize now that I may have been unfair to you, but you can’t blame me for reacting.

My eyes widened so much that the backs of them ached. This was an old trick of his—he’d admit to the scarcest amount of wrongdoing and make out he was being generous as the aggrieved party, but the lion’s share of the blame would always go to the other person involved.

Namely, myself.

I had given in before, more times than I could count, because I thought I was in love, and I thought love meant sacrifice. I thought love was supposed to hurt because then it would get better.

In my naive hopefulness and misplaced sense of gratitude, I didn’t realize that the people who love you aren’t supposed to hurt you at all.

Or if they do, they’re supposed to say sorry and make amends.

Not do it again.

And again.

And again.