Page 83 of A Game of Deception
“Can you?” I interrupted, suddenly exhausted, the fight draining from me like blood from a wound. “Can you explain why I had to find out about this from a junior therapist showing me a gossip site? Why you didn’t call me the moment she showed up? Why, after everything we’ve shared—your body on mine—your first instinct wasn’t to come to me?”
He looked stricken, his hands clenching at his sides as if fighting the urge to touch me. “I was ambushed this morning. Yourfather called me into his office, and she was just... there, with that smug smile and her hand on her belly. I’ve been trying to get to you all day, but you weren’t answering my texts, and then your assistant said you had an emergency...”
I checked my phone, the screen lighting up with several missed texts from him, all variations of “We need to talkandIt’s not what you think.” I’d been so caught up in my own spiral that I hadn’t noticed them, the notifications buried under the avalanche of news alerts.
“I don’t know what to believe right now, Xander,” I said, my voice breaking slightly, tears pricking my eyes. “I want to trust you. I want to believe this is just another of my father’s schemes. But...”
“But what?” he pressed when I trailed off, his voice a rough whisper, stepping so close I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
I looked at him—really looked at him. The man whose every move I’d tracked across continents, whose body I now knew as intimately as my own. The man who, just yesterday, had made me breakfast, kissing me like I was the only woman in the world.
“But I also know how you’ve been acting these many years,” I said quietly, the words heavy. “The drinking. The partying. The women. I’ve followed it all, Xander—every self-destructive choice, every meaningless hookup splashed across the headlines. I wanted to believe you’d changed, that what we have is different. But maybe I’ve just been fooling myself.”
He reached for me, his hand stopping just short of touching my arm, hovering like a promise unfulfilled. “What we haveisdifferent,” he insisted, his voice pitching higher with emotion.“Tara, you’re the only one who’s ever seen me—the real me. You’re the one who makes me want to be better.”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, taking a step back, the space between us feeling like a chasm. “Not now. I need... I need time to process this.”
The look of devastation on his face nearly broke my resolve—his strong jaw clenched, eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, we stood there in painful silence.
“What about Morrison?” he asked finally, his voice cracking. “What about finding out the truth about Jimmy? We were going to do this together.”
I closed my eyes briefly, the reminder hitting like a fresh wave. In the shock of the day’s revelations, I’d almost forgotten our plan to confront the detective again, armed with the Valdez leverage.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, opening my eyes to meet his gaze one last time. “I need to think.”
“Tara—”
“I have to go,” I said, turning away before I could change my mind, before the pull of him dragged me back. “I can’t do this right now.”
I got into my car without looking back, my hands shaking so badly I could barely insert the key into the ignition. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I caught him in my rearview mirror—standing exactly where I’d left him, shoulders slumped, looking utterly lost, like a man watching his world drive away.
21
XANDER
The soundof Brittany’s fake sobbing filled the penthouse like a bad porno soundtrack—overacted and making me want to hurl. I stood in the middle of my living room, a tumbler of scotch dangling from my fingers, watching her face on the enormous TV screen. God, she was good at this shit, I’ll give her that. Those big blue eyes welling up just right, not a single tear daring to streak her war paint.
“It’s been so difficult,” she sniffled. “For months, I’ve wanted Xander to take responsibility. Our baby deserves a father.”
The interviewer—some blonde vulture from a gossip sports channel faking sympathy—nodded like she was auditioning for an Emmy. “And how has Xander responded to the news?”
Brittany’s lower lip trembled on cue. “He... he said he needed time. That he wasn’t ready.” Her hand moved protectively to her rounded belly, stroking it like it was a goddamn prop. “But this little one isn’t going to wait.”
I hurled my glass at the wall with a snarl. It shattered spectacularly, scotch splashing across the pristine white surface.“That’s a fucking lie!” I roared at the TV, my voice bouncing off the high ceilings. “You ambushed me in that bastard’s office, you scheming bitch! That was the first I’d heard of your little ‘miracle’—and we both know it ain’t mine!”
Leo appeared from the kitchen, taking in the broken glass and the scotch dripping down the wall without so much as a flinch. The man’s seen worse from me over the years. Without a word, he grabbed the remote and muted the TV, cutting off Brittany’s crocodile tears mid-sniffle.
“That’s enough of that bollocks,” he said firmly, though his eyes were gentle with that annoying concern he always showed. “You’re just torturing yourself, mate. And the wall didn’t deserve it.”
I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers shaking like I’d just come off a bender—which, let’s be honest, I was itching for. “Did you hear the crap that woman’s spewing? That I abandoned her? That I’ve known for months?” I paced the length of the room, unable to stand still, my blood boiling. “She waltzes into Hank’s office like it’s a bloody stage, drops this bomb, and now she’s playing the victim card on every channel? Fuck me, Leo, it’s a masterclass in bullshit.”
Leo sighed, moving to clean up the broken glass. “I know, Xander. But shouting at the telly won’t change the narrative she’s spinning. It’ll just give you a headache.”
My phone buzzed for the hundredth time that day, vibrating angrily on the coffee table. Leo plucked it up before I could snatch it and smash that too.
“ESPN,” he reported after checking the screen, his tone flat. “Third time they’ve called in the last hour. Persistent wankers.”
“Tell them to fuck off,” I muttered, stalking to the bar to pour another drink. My hands were still trembling, making the bottle clink against the glass like a drunk’s Morse code. “Or better yet, tell ‘em I’ve got a paternity test lined up that’ll blow this fairy tale to hell.”
