Page 157 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I clench my jaw. I've got a lot of power right now. I've always hated that feeling, that responsibility of carrying another's life in my hands.

Yet for the first time in my life, I'm enjoying it. The gun in my hand feels simultaneously too heavy and too light. The power to end a life is compressed into a few ounces of metal.

"I'm planning on it," I tell him.

Miller laughs, a hollow, manufactured sound that belongs in one of his shitty movies. His confidence is returning now that the immediate danger to his life seems to have passed. Amazing how quickly men like him regain their arrogance.

"Why not finish me now?" he asks, eyebrows lifting in a challenge. "You had your chance in that bathroom. You have it again. What's stopping you?"

Don't tempt me, you asshole.

One squeeze of the trigger and this sadistic narcissist disappears forever. But Mike's face flashes through my mind, followed by his kids and pregnant wife. Then Londyn. Our child. All the threads binding me to a future I desperately want.

I lower the gun slightly, not enough to give him an opening, just enough to shift the dynamic from execution to negotiation. An idea curdles my stomach, but I force myself into the role. I have to become the character, some scumbag blackmailer. The kind of person Miller might actually respect.

"You think this is about killing you?" I force a smirk that feels wrong against my lips. "That would be too easy." I step closer, keeping the gun trained on his chest. My free hand gestures around the room. "Nice setup you've got. Fancy boat. Expensive sheets. Good life for a man who should be rotting in prison."

His eyes narrow. "So what—this is about Londyn?" He spits her name like it's garbage in his mouth. "She's nothing. A whiny little bitch who couldn't handle what she signed up for."

The rage flares so hot I have to lock my knees to keep from lunging at him. My finger twitches against the trigger guard.

"Dead men don't pay," I say, letting a greedy smile twist my features. "And you're going to pay. Handsomely."

Confusion wrinkles his forehead. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"While I was helping your… guests… find their way out, I took the liberty of documenting your little hobby. I took plenty of pictures and videos. Even of your blow job earlier. High definition. Crystal clear audio. The works."

Miller's eyes widened, darting around my face to search for lies. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I shrug. "I have plenty I can send to the media. And I've got two witnesses who are willing to testify. Plus Londyn."

His face pales but he continues to challenge me. "You can't protect her if she goes public."

I don't respond, taking a page from Victor's playbook. Silence shows confidence. When you hold all the cards, you don't need to argue. I give him a slow, bored blink.

Miller swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. A vein pulses at his temple and his gaze wavers. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Fifty million." The number slides off my tongue like I've been planning this for months. "Wire transfer to an offshore account. By noon tomorrow."

He barks out a laugh that's pure disbelief. "You're insane."

"Probably." I shrug, like his opinion means nothing. "But I'm not the one facing life in prison for kidnapping, torture, rape, human trafficking. Multiple counts." I step closer, watching him flinch. "Also, all of Hollywood will hate you. You'll never direct again."

The thought of playing this role—pretending to profit from Londyn's trauma and these women's suffering—makes me want to vomit. But it's working. Miller is calculating something in his head and weighing his options. He's buying my story.

His face twists with rage, but beneath it, I see a flash of real fear. "Ten million," he says. "That's all I can get without raising questions. You want my accountant or business manager flagging something?"

I pretend to consider it. "Fine. Ten to start. We can discuss the rest later."

"I'll need a day to arrange it."

I've interrogated enough liars during my military days to recognize the signs of a liar: the slight flutter of his left eye, the way his fingers flex against the sheets. Miller is playing me. Whatever he's agreeing to, he has no intention of followingthrough. Not that it matters since I only need him to remain ignorant until the cops search this yacht tomorrow morning.

"Get on the bed," I say, gesturing with my gun. "I'll text you the account details in the morning."

He moves back, sitting on the edge of the mattress and watching me as anger makes his limbs tremble. He tips his head to look at me over the end of his nose. "You know, that bitchlovedit rough. Begged for more every time. She tell you something different? She's lying. Everytime I whipped that little cunt—"

"Shut up."

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