Page 21 of CurVy Forever

And the implant…

Fucking Lunatic.

So, the next morning, I’m stern and strong.

I tell Tyler what we are doing.

He goes very quiet, but I don’t falter. Not to his puppy-dog-eyes or the lazy way his heated gaze strokes me. My cold shoulder sets the tone. He can see I’m furious about the fucking incident with my implant.

It takes a lot to get him into the black SUV that is waiting for us after breakfast, but in the end, he follows me. I feel as though he will always follow me.

I can’t see through the divide between the front and back seats, and the side mirrors have a tint, an ominous metallic grey surface.

Still time to jump from the car, Vallie…

I don’t. My arse stays planted to the seat beside Tyler as the car takes us away from suburbia, the urban landscape transforming into rolling fields and large manner-style homes.

Fallen orange leaves border the streets.

The fences get taller and longer between each driveway the further we roam.

“I did it for us,” Tyler finally says, his tone sad.

I cross my arms over my chest, fixed onto the sprawling outside, unable to look at him after what he did. “I promised you I wouldn’t choose between you and your brother. Not that I wouldn’t be mad when you violate my trust.”

“Violate?” He cringes. “Don’t use that word, baby. I was clear, and I was gentle. You didn’t feel a thing.”

Lunatic.

We pull into a driveway dusted in brown and orange leaves. And the home ahead is grand as fuck—they have money. The house has an elegant symmetry, a testament to history and old-world charm. It’s intricate, too, with greenery creeping over the brickwork and lots of large windows.

Awed, I ask the first thing that comes to my mind. “What do you do for a living?”

“Nothing.”

I turn to him. “What?”

“Trust fund.”

“And Donnie?”

“We have shareholders that run our family business, but he is like, the, ah… final word. Pretty sure, he just signs off on stuff, really. I think I’m enough of a job for him. Which you can now understand, right baby?”

I hate the way he talks about himself.

But yes.

“You’re not a job, Tyler.” I frown at him, but with his underdog floppy hair paired with the wide blue eyes and striking carved jaw, I melt. I hate that I melt. “What about your parents then?”

“Dead,” he announces, just like that, and the word sits like a sad weight in my lower stomach. Dead… What do I say? I’m sorry? When? How? “Long ago?”

And now I’m not angry.

Dammit.

“Yeah.” His voice is level, like he’s answered this question a million times. “I don’t remember them. I was raised by a stream of nannies and watched closely by a corporate body that needed our signatures when we turned eighteen. So, do you make much from your TikToks?”

Nice try. “Excuse me, I was talking about you. Don’t change the subject, Tyler Vaughn.”

---