Page 159 of Falling for the Enemy

The word hung in the air like an accusation, a weapon he wielded, believing it would wound. Soren met his eyes across the table and held steady.

“One day, you’ll regret what you did here. I just hope I’m not around to pay for it.” Gathering his papers, Warren exited the room in a boiling rage, and in no rush to simmer. He paused at the door. “My daughter will hear about this,” he growled, as if sabotaging Olivia’s opinion of him was any kind of threat. “You’re too weak for her.”

“Well,” Greyson said. “I think you finally rid yourself of one parasite.”

“For now.”

Soren could guarantee Warren would vote against him for the rest of his days, and without a son, Olivia would one day inherit his chair on the board. She’d follow in Daddy’s footsteps, making herself an obstacle whenever the opportunity presented itself, but eventually, knowing the sort of leech she was, she’d one day trap a husband to do the work for her, and the dust would ultimately settle.

Olivia never wanted her father’s empire. She wanted a wealthy husband and would go as far as weaponizing her own father to achieve her selfish objective and manipulate anyone who stood in her way.

What women like her always failed to understand was that a man of actual conviction doesn’t weigh his values against desire. He desires that which is truly valuable, and Soren valued honesty and integrity above all else.

After a round of handshakes, the boardroom emptied, leaving only he and his brothers. They shared a silent smirk, each of them dancing around the same unspoken thought.

“Think Dad’s screaming down at us?” Greyson finally asked.

Soren shook his head and laughed. “No. He’s looking up.”

Logan and Grey both got a chuckle out of the joke, but as always, none of them lingered for long on the question of what their father might think. He didn’t think much of them while alive. Why should he think any more or less dead?

“Drink?” Logan suggested. “Feels like we should celebrate.”

“Can’t,” Grey declined. “I left Bodhi with a bunch of power tools and supplies. If I leave him unattended too long, he’ll build a tree fort for the cats, and I’ll be out of lumber.”

“Soren?”

He hesitated, remembering his first priority. “Raincheck?”

Logan grinned. “Jocelyn?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I found my North Star. Now it’s time to follow it home.”

CHAPTER 19

“IT JUST TAKES SOME TIME, LITTLE GIRL, YOU’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RIDE, EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING WILL BE JUST FINE”

The cursor leapt across the page, words spilling onto the white screen in sure, unapologetic strokes. Jocelyn’s fingers flexed every few minutes, shaking off the tightness in her joints which hadn’t rested in three days.

She wasn’t simply writing. She was creating art, carving a story of flesh and blood in a relentless assault against the keys. Her kimono hung open around her shoulders, silk worn gossamer-thin from years of wear. Somewhere in the tangle of her hair, a pencil remained wedged at a sharp angle, a relic from this morning or yesterday morning or some unmeasured stretch of time when the light through the windows had shifted from blue to pink then back to grey.

She had no clue what day it was. Didn’t care.

Submerged in her characters’ world, lost in a sea of agony and beauty, she had no plan to look up until the book was finally done.

Driven by caffeine and spite, the temptation of food had faded, and she hadn’t eaten a square meal in days. Only when her body insisted she needed sustenance did Jocelyn drift to the kitchen to quickly gobble something down over the sink like a bridge troll. Then she returned to her work and continued writing.

Her only loyalty was to her momentum and her readers. She promised them a masterpiece, and she was going to deliver.

Closing out the dialogue she’d just written, she hit save with a practiced hand and grabbed her mug, sipping then wincing at the grit of bitter grounds and sediment catching against her tongue. Her coffee had gone cold, but that didn’t matter. She drank it anyway, letting the familiar, clarifying ritual ground her as she pushed on.

The breadth of time since she’d entered the outside world had become a country unto itself. She’d been gone long enough not to care.

This was who she was now. She had no desire to return to real life again. She lived here now, in her fictional world, with her fictional characters whom she controlled with omniscient power. It was the only sure way to ever feel love and ensure the safety of her heart.

Reality was cold and bitter, and she’d much rather stay here, in her own little bubble where she was a pen goddess who decided which characters suffered and which thrived.

She broke the page and started a new chapter, energized enough to go all night.