Page 126 of Seeking Vengeance

He doesn’t know who I am?

I cling tighter to the knife, my palm beginning to sweat.

This son of a bitch doesn’t recognize me? He dared abduct my daughter. Was vicious enough to participate in the death of my husband. But didn’t bother to learn the faces of the lives he’d torn apart?

Fuck him.

“Look, I’m sorry he’s been playing games.” He crosses his arms over his chest with a look of chagrin. “But I need to speak to him about the shooting. I assume you were the one with him.”

No.

I shake my head, refusing to understand the reality taking shape around me.

“I get that you’re pissed.” He ignores the knife as if it doesn’t exist. “But don’t women usually snoop for shit like this? Aren’t those tactics in your DNA?”

My DNA is currently made up of rage and ruin. Devastation and destruction.

And Ihadsnooped.

I’d checked the mail minutes after first walking into the penthouse. I spoke to people Matthew works with. People he knows. Not a single soul addressed him as anything other than the name he gave me. Not helicopter pilots. Not waitresses. Not one single motherfucker on the face of the Earth.

I’d also done a thorough check on his clubs. All are owned by Matthew Langston. All of them legitimately structured without shell companies or dodgy dealings.

There’d been no indication. No inkling I’d been played the entire time my heart and soul had succumbed.

“Obviously his bills aren’t anything to go by.” Remy shrugs. “But surely you would’ve thought to go through his wallet. Or his drawers. He’d have something lying around.”

He’s right.

If Matthew isn’t who he says he is, there has to be evidence.

I drop the knife, the metal clinking against the marble as violence floods my veins. I reach for the nearest drawer, scavenging for anything to ease the sickness in my stomach.

I go through cupboards, below the marble counter and above. I search for anything with a name on it. With a hint. With a clue. And come up empty.

“Maybe try the bedroom,” Remy drawls. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

I glare and snatch for the knife.

Admissions bubble in my chest. The confessions of where I plan to drive my blade and why, all begging to be heard.

I could kill him and claim self-defense. But the pain of possible betrayal by a man I love punishes me far more than my need to decimate Remy Costa.

I trek his every move while I stalk across the room. Then keep one eye on my back as I enter the hall.

When I reach the bedroom, where pleasure and bliss had been awakened after years of drought, I pause, hating myself with or without evidence.

If Remy’s claims are true, I’ll never recover.

There’s no going back from this type of mistake. Not after the ones I’ve already made.

God,please don’t let it be true.

I step inside, slam the door behind me, throw the knife to the bed, and fall to my knees at the closest bedside table.

I yank the top drawer from its holding and dump the contents on the carpet.

There are coins and buttons. Receipts and innocuous tidbits, too.

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