Page 15 of Takeover

“I don’t want you feeling sorry for me,” she finally says.

“Why would I feel sorry for you?” I ask her.

“Well, you’re in this kitchen being nice to me, and I know it’s because of what you overheard. I don’t need your pity, Ethan.”

I don’t see the hostile woman I met a few weeks ago or the one who was ordered to meet with me at the toy store. For the first time, I see her vulnerability. I see the young girl whose mother walked out on her and had to pick up the pieces. I see the little girl who came home from school only to find her mother gone. I see the woman who still wants her family together on her birthday.

“So, you do know my first name? I like how it sounds on your lips.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt before she can begin, “And why would I feel sorry for someone who has so much love? Your sister’s ready to go to war for you, and I know your brother will too when he finds out. Your father and stepmother clearly adore you. No reason for me to feel sorry for you. You know who I do feel sorry for?” I ask.

“Who?” she asks, her voice so low I almost don’t hear the word.

“For the person selfish enough to want to miss out on all of this. I feel sorry for the person who has three amazing kids but doesn’t see it. She’s the one who is missing out.”

“You think so?” Something flashes in her eyes when she asks that question. Something I can’t place.

“I live this every day with my own son. His mother left too. I told you that your father and I have a lot in common.”

She looks down, and I finally release her chin. When she looks back up at me with fresh tears glistening in her eyes, I almost become lost.

“I’m sorry.” She bites on her bottom lip. “I didn’t know the circumstances. You’re a great father.”

“An actual compliment,” I say, smiling. She smiles back, and her shoulders relax. My breath hitches at the sight of her. “I wish I knew it was your birthday and that you love Thai food,” I say. I reach out and run my hand over her ponytail.

“Why is that? How would things be any different if you knew?”

“I would have taken you to Thailand.”

Her eyes widen and she gasps. She gives me a questioning look as if she doesn’t believe what she just heard.

“You heard me,” I say.

“Why?” she asks with an eye roll. “So you could bury my body?”

Unable to help myself, I let out a laugh, and to my surprise, she laughs too.

“Burying that body would be a waste. It’s much too nice for that, and I like looking at it.”

The smile slips from her face, replaced with surprise. I take a small step closer, and she presses her back against the counter. For an excuse to touch her, I grab her chin and dab at her eyes again.

“Why are you here, Ethan?” she whispers.

“I think you know why, Tara.”

“To get back at me.”

“For being such a—” I pretend to mull my next word. I watch, fascinated as the sadness slips from her eyes and replaced with the same righteous indignation from the first day we met.

“Such a what?” she hisses, challenging me. Daring me to say what’s on my mind.

“Brat.”

Her nostrils flare. “Brat? Are you sure that’s the word you want to use?”

“What other word would I use?” She snatches the paper towel from my hand and tries to move away, but I step closer, pinning her to the kitchen counter.

“Bitch, Mr. Bradford. You want to call me a bitch. Say it. You’ll feel better. Men like you always call women like me bitches. Do you know why that is?” She puts a hand on her hip, looks into my eyes, and waits for me to answer.

“Men like me?”

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