Page 6 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
Nope, the lady had no idea. It’s hours later and I can’t stop thinking about her. Pisses me off. Sheshouldknow who the fuck I am. She should feel it. The weight of what he did. The people he hurt. The mess he left behind every time he stepped foot outside his mansion. My mother worked herself into an early grave and I can lay that directly at his fucking feet.
But she stood there, polite expression and nothing more.
She smiled like the world hadn’t fallen apart. She asked the right questions. Signed the application, then the NDA, with a hand that didn’t even tremble while I watched her with the kind of look that left most men shaking in their fucking boots. I stare out the window, eyes blurred on the lights below. Harold Horner’s daughter.
Working inmyclub. Looking for a paycheck like she doesn’t know who paid for her designer shoes or her fucking cashmeresweater. Like her whole life wasn’t bankrolled by the piece of shit who fathered her.
I pace faster. She’s hiding something. Has to be.
She said she was new to the city. Said she needed the job. And maybe that’s true. Hell, I took everything he had. But a girl who looks like Jules shouldn’t have a problem finding a man to pay her way. That’s prime pussy right there.
Why is she working menial jobs when she could be eating dinner or fucking any of the men who belong to my club? The girl had gone to boarding school in Switzerland for fuck sake. There’s a story here. Do I care enough to find out what it is?
I pour another drink and wonder if she knew what kind of man her father was. Maybe she’s just another casualty of his sins, swept under by the same wave he thought he could outrun. I should care, but I don’t. All I can think about is how I’m going to play this.
Anyway, whatever she is or was doesn’t matter, I suppose. Not now. Not that she’s in my world. She walked into my club on her own two feet. Hell, I didn’t even know she was in the city.
But now that she’s here, things are different. Now she’ll pay for that Horner blood, and her father will fucking keel over and die when I tell him all the ways I’ve ruined his Babygirl. I smile at the thought, though it fades when I think of my sister. The one he tossed aside like garbage. My hand tightens on the glass until I feel it strain. I toss back the tequila, but it barely burns anymore. My anger has long since scorched the rest of me clean.
I picture her again. The way she stood in the doorway of the suite. Not cocky. Not flirty. Just calm. Earnest. Those big, dark eyes taking everything in. And I picture what it’s going to look like when the truth hits her.
When she finds out the man offering her this job is the same one who destroyed her father’s empire. The same man who stripped him of everything—his money, his legacy, hisreputation. But there’s time for that. The reveal won’t happen until I want it to.
She’s the last unbroken thing Harold Horner has left. I smile and down the rest of my drink. I’m going to break her, too.
Not with fists. Not with threats. That’s too easy. Too quick. I’m a bastard through and through, man enough to admit it, but I don’t hurt women that way. No, I’ll unravel her slowly.
I’ll earn her trust. Watch her settle in. Let her believe she’s found something safe, something real. And when she finally lets her guard down, when she finally breathes again?
That’s when I’ll strike. Because there are rules in my world.Rule number one: Don’t fuck with me—or I’ll fuck you up harder.Her father is about to learn how personal that rule really is.
Bone tired I glance toward my bedroom, but like most nights these days I flop on the soft Italian leather sofa and close my eyes.
The morning comes early, sunlight hitting sharp and I roll off the sofa. I wake easily, no hangover, no fog. A miracle really. I’d been running on empty the day before, though years of discipline make it impossible to sleep in, even on the nights I don’t crawl into bed until dawn.
I’m stiff but that won’t last long. I don’t bother with a shower and pull on running gear instead.
The city is already alive when I lace up my running shoes and head out. The streets near Central Park are crisp with early morning air, the sky pale and clear. A perfect day for a run. I take the time to stretch properly, then move fast and fall into a steady pace, my thoughts quiet for the first time in weeks. Out here, I’mnot the man who built an empire on revenge. I’m not the man plotting to dismantle Harold Horner’s last living legacy. I’m just another face in the city, another runner pounding the pavement, lungs burning in rhythm with my stride. The Foo Fighters kick in filling my ear pods with hard chugging rock and I fly down the trails.
After a few miles, I cut off the path and head toward my usual breakfast spot—a small corner diner tucked between a bookstore and a florist shop. Old-school neon sign, windows always fogged from the heat inside. I found it the first time I came to New York City and it’s been a favorite ever since.
The bell over the door jingles when I step in. The smell of coffee and bacon hits instantly, along with a blast of heat that hits me in the face. My stomach rumbles.
“Morning, Beck!” Ellie, the owner’s daughter, calls from behind the counter. She’s twenty-something, all smiles, and always sneaks me extra toast because she says I look like I could use it. It’s all bullshit. I hit up the gym steady, but she flirts and I humor her because I know if I ever made a move she’d run the other way as fast as she could.
Also her mother would kick my ass.
“Morning,” I reply, pulling off my cap and raking a hand through my hair.
“Usual?” she asks, already reaching for a mug.
“Yeah. And make the coffee strong.”
I slide into my usual booth by the window. People here know me—business owners, the older couples who linger over pancakes, even the beat cops who stop in for breakfast before their shifts. They nod or wave, and I return it with the easy familiarity I’ve cultivated over the years.
This is the other side of the coin. The part of me people trust. Respect. Maybe even like. And it’s not fake, exactly. Idolike thispart of my life. The simplicity. The ritual. But it’s also a mask, one I wear so seamlessly that no one ever looks past it.
Ellie sets down my coffee, along with a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. “You’ve got that look,” she says, tilting her head.
