Page 43 of The Enemy

She made me softer.

I learned, and I grew. I became my own man from the shadow of my family’s drama. I had failures and triumphs of my own merits.

Now, reading the newspaper, I felt like a lost little boy all over again. My older sister had lost one of her sons. Printed on the pages were my sister, my nephews, and my older brother, all in black, mourning.

It reminded me of my father’s funeral.

You’d think they would let me mourn in peace after the father I shared with them passed away, but no. They immediately pushed me out of the family like they always wanted. I wasn’tallowed to sit in the front row with them. My mother and I were forced to sit back. Regardless of how they felt about us, we weren’t some dirty little secret. My mother was his wife.

I almost laughed at the word. Being an angry eighteen-year-old, I was sure there had been foul play in the will.

My mother got nothing.

Everything went to his children and grandchildren. I got a small trust fund. Even though I was grateful my father still left me something, I felt sour when I found out it was one-third of what my older siblings had been left.

I don’t know if my father had been going broke or if he did it out of spite because I was never allowed to review his financial records. He left my mother the house and a few jewels, but with no money, she couldn’t afford the taxes on the property or to insure her valuables. Mother let go of the house and the jewels and sold a few of her purses, which she said she had bought for stock purposes. My mother made sure my inheritance was left untouched while she hustled to get us out of the financial hole my father had left us in.

After that, I promised myself I would do everything possible to show my siblings I didn’t need them. That their money never mattered to me. I could come out on top on my own.

More like on the back of Lou?

The money in my trust lay mostly untouched after my first four years of college since Richard took over my school fees, acting as a good stepfather. The account was there gathering interest. My pride wouldn’t let me use it. Instead, I made it work with my income and Mr. Riviere’s kindness.

Changing my last name hadn’t been made on a whim.

I had gotten tired of being called the other “Caldwell kid.” Attending events where my brother and sister were also present made it awkward when they mentioned us to one another.

The further away I got from my birthright, I pushed Lourdes from hers.

So, when I got a notification that the card linked to my trust fund was being used, I was sure my siblings had found a way to fuck with me.

Being charged for a fifteen-thousand-dollars-a-month apartment was not what I had been expecting. Before I could contact my accountant to see what the fuck was going on, my phone pinged with a notification.

Lou had made a post.

It was the first time since I had moved away that she had posted something. Ever since Wes mentioned her photos, I got curious. Of course I would never let her know that I followed her. My account was a fake one. One that followed random people to seem somewhat legitimate, but the only reason I wanted it was to see her posts since they were private.

Being so far away, I could almost pretend that nothing had ever happened between us. That there had been no moment of weakness on my part.

I didn’t account for the taste of her lips to follow me in my dreams. It was fucking stupid of me to think that because I couldn’t recall her face, she would be easy to forget. In the darkness of that elevator, she left an imprint. My muscle memory recalled her scent. On lonely nights, I could remember her breathy moans in my ear. And when I pushed my body past exhaustion in the gym and my muscles twitched, I could feel the imprint of her fingers as she clutched onto me while she came.

I had run away, and yet she found a way to make sure she haunted me.

When I looked at the post, I was disappointed it wasn’t of her face. Instead, it was of her perfectly manicured hand holding a glass of champagne. The background was part of a railing andviews of the city. The caption was simple.If he hurts you, make his pockets hurt.And underneath,Home sweet home.

I knew it was aimed at me. It wasn’t a coincidence that she had gotten her own place just as I had been charged for it. So, I let her access the account I refused to touch. The account I couldn’t care less about became an obsession. Every month, I looked at the transactions, trying to figure out if she would bleed me dry.

Her apartment kept getting charged against my account every month, right after furniture stores. Most of her purchases were made online, where they wouldn’t ask for identification. At restaurants, she got brave when she knew no one would bat an eyelash as long as the bill got paid. A few months later, I was charged to refill her coffee card balance, and from then on, it became a weekly occurrence. Then the charges for La Perla came, and I had half a mind to cut her off.

Like hell I would be paying for undergarments, only for some other fucker to be lucky enough to take them off. It was the first thing I thought about when I saw her again. I wondered what would be under her tight little skirt, except she wasn’t wearing one. She had not worn a skirt in the two weeks since I had returned.

Other than the first day, she had ignored me.

She was busy managing her department, and I was getting ready for retribution. For someone who always had to have the last word, she couldn’t find one anymore, and it annoyed me.

I hated that I sought her out at every turn.

She had changed. She was sharper now, more calculating. She was fitting in when she was better at standing out. Her hair was all wrong, and her clothes were still stylish, but they didn’t feel like her. Don’t get me started on what I felt when I saw her walk away. My gaze always landed on the way her pants huggedher ass, and it irritated me to no end because I knew every fucker who saw her thought the same thing.

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