Page 89 of Hate You More

“I’m aware of my blessings.” I almost choke on the words.

“The opportunities you’ve squandered, the mistakes I’ve covered up on your behalf. You owe everything to me.”

“This isn’t the same,” I begin, my voice shaking with rage. “It isn’t nearly the same. I was there. I saw how frightened she was. I can’t ignore that.”

His lips give an arctic twist. “You’re not going to ruin your life for some woman you barely know.”

My own gaze pinches, his meaning unraveling in my head. All those monetary benefits. Comforts. My so-called blessings.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Clara. Go against my word, and I’ll cut you off.” He gives a click of his fingers. “Just like that.” His cruel smile says that he means every word.

But then, so do I.

Chapter 24

Clara

I almost told him at dinner. I almost said what happened in the family office that afternoon. But I couldn’t, because then I’d have to confess what happened eight years ago. And those words are much harder to find.

Best to let the past lie.

Anyway, after Troy suggested that my dad might just find it hard to tell me he loves me, I’d redirected the conversation to him. He told me about his fellow founders. Max, the cutthroat lawyer whom I’ve already met, and Hugo, the brilliant engineer who sounds very British and slightly eccentric. And Hannah, of course, the kick-ass behavioral scientist, whom Troy described in such glowing terms that it was hard not to feel jealousy.

He spoke of them so fondly, with an affectionate side of shit-talking, of course, that it made me glad to know he had people in his corner. But when he asked what I was going to do with the rest of my life, I couldn’t answer him. I’ve been too busy trying to survive. Or so I thought until I realized he’d been in a similar place. Poverty and injustice hadn’t stopped him.

Troy was always brilliant. Driven and focused. And I called him a loan shark. I might’ve even suggested he was scum. But that was before we reached this place of . . . cordiality. That day, I was feeling stung, like a failure caught in an apron and ugly shoes.

At least I’m not wearing ugly shoes tonight.

As for the things I said, the insults, the Troy I knew, and the Troy I’m beginning to know again—he wouldn’t take advantage. There’s no way he would profit from people’s circumstances. I see now his brilliant business idea is more about giving people a chance. Table charges the merchants more and the consumers less and doesn’t load penalties and interest charges immediately for late payments. Which is probably part of the reason it’s been such a meteoric success.

That’s not to say Troy is a saint. He’s not above using charm and flattery to get what he wants. Not that he used that charm with me when he did the whole “You owe me” thing. That was more like brute-force manipulation. And look how well that ended for him, I think a little smugly. Walking hand in hand home with his legal wife, while pretending he’s besotted.

He’s so good at it, I could almost believe it myself.

I needn’t have worried about things being awkward in the apartment over the weekend, because Troy shot out of the door bright and early Saturday morning for the office. Or so he said. He also said his weekend was full, that he’d be at the gym that evening, and that Sunday morning was blocked out for investor meetings over brunch. Sunday evening, I’m not sure where he was. Maybe he had a date. It’s not like he needs to report in. While I try to keep those kinds of thoughts light, it’s not how they feel inside me.

But I kept myself occupied, and after spending Friday night sleeping on the couch, I was relieved when my new bed arrived. Well, sleeper sofa. Sleeper chair? I had the delivery guys place it in Troy’s office, where I practiced. You know, pulling it out.

Pulling it out. Not having him pull out.

I give a sigh. I may well suffer eternal embarrassment over my earlier verbal slip. Thanks so much, intrusive thoughts.

But after a few uncomfortable nights, I can confirm my new sleeping arrangement is no improvement on Troy’s couch as far as my poor back is concerned. I should’ve gone with a regular bed, but in a classic pattern of overthinking, I didn’t want to risk anyone—Agné, Troy’s housekeeper, potential visitors, the maintenance and cleaning crews—wondering why the newlyweds were sleeping in separate rooms. On the plus side, not sharing a bed with Troy has meant there’s been no repeat of boob-gate.

“Morning.” I hear his sleepy voice before I see him, but there’s no mentally preparing myself for the sight of him.

“Good morning.” Abs. I try not to count them, but there appear to be more than six. And the way the morning sun’s rays turn his skin golden seems desperately unfair as he turns for the cereal cabinet. “I can tell you don’t go to the gym,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?” He turns suddenly and looks down as though checking for something.

“Nothing.”

“Did you say I don’t look like I go to the gym?”

“No! Why would I—”

“Surely you mean I look like I go to all the gyms?”