Page 113 of The Bad Boy Rule

Okay… I tryRousseau Enterprises.

Wrong.

Surely, it’s not…

The computer unlocks as soon as I type inLagniappe Lady, and I can only shake my head.

His fucking boat name.

Of course.

There’s no way he made itthateasy. Either there’s nothing on here that’s going to incriminate him, or maybe… he has the hubris totrulynever think that anyone would ever dig into what he’s doing.

I start with the desktop, clicking through folders and random documents that I can’t even begin to wrap my head around. It’s a bunch of gibberish that runs together, but nothing about what happened with Saint’s father or anything really about his company.

God, there’s really nothing here. Or maybe my father just locked it up someplace safer than his desktop computer.

I’m searching through every single item on here, but there’s not much more on the desktop outside of the few documents that I’ve already gone through.

A frustrated sigh slips past my lips as I comb through some of the files that I’ve already gone through, once again coming up empty.

Therehasto be something.

I click on the computer’s storage system, and then I see that his cloud storage is almost full. Quickly, I click it open and scroll through the folder names.

And that’s when I see it.

My heart thrashes in my chest, a sinking feeling careening in my stomach.

DEVEREAUX

It could be nothing. He was an employee at Rousseau Enterprises for years—it could simply be his payment information, certifications. Legal records. Itcouldbe anything.

But the gnawing, heavy-as-lead feeling in my stomach has me hoping that it’s…something.

That once I click on this folder, everything is going to change.

Not just with my life but with Saint’s too.

My mother, his mother.

With everyone who’s involved with my father.

I’m terrified of what may be inside. My hands are shaking so hard that the mouse is clinking against the mousepad, and mypulse is thrumming so loudly I can hear it in my ears, drowning out everything around me.

Saint.

You’re doing this for Saint. He deserves closure. He deserves the truth. Even if the truth hurts.

Slowly, I click the folder, and at least a dozen documents are inside, popping up one by one. I click the first one, scanning the document, and at first, I’m not sure what I’m reading.

But then, the pieces begin to align, and suddenly, the chair beneath me sways, my hand flying to my mouth when I realize what I’m seeing.

Holy shit.

FIFTY

SAINT

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