Page 8 of Arranged Control
Even when I’m losing my mind, I still have to be in control.
I take off my clothes. I’m still in cute underwear at least. I put on the pearls, fix my hair, touch up my face, and quickly straighten my room. It’s already pristine and perfectly organized, but God forbid he notices the neatly folded stack of sweaters on top of my bureau.
I put on a bra and check myself one last time.
This is insane. This is seriously mentally insane.
And then I stop. Take a breath. Pause and think about what I’m really doing.
This isn’t me.
It’s like in the emotional overload of the last hour, from the embarrassing call with Seamus through that horrifying conversation with Papa earlier, I’ve somehow forgotten one important detail.
What the hell happened with Alex?
I’m shaking as I grab a big sweater and pull it over my head. I wrap my arms around myself, shocked at how close I’d been to making an enormous mistake.
Seamus hurt my boyfriend.
Maybe Alex was never meant to be forever—but he didn’t deserve whatever he got.
My stomach’s a knotted mess. I’m angry with myself for nearly going nuts. And I’m livid with Seamus for being such a bastard.
I go to the front door and peer through the security hole. He’s still waiting for me in the hallway, distorted by the fish-eye glass.
“I hear you breathing,” he says, idly swiping at his phone.
I flinch back, covering my mouth. Is he being serious right now? But there’s no way. I lean forward again and peer through.
He’s looking back.
“What did you do with him?” I ask through the door.
“Less than he deserved.”
“You hurt my boyfriend. I get it, we’re going to get married, but why did you have to hurt him?”
Seamus slowly shakes his head. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?” I’m starting to lose my patience, and when that happens, my temper takes over. “Why don’t you just get out of here?”
He swipes on his phone again. It’s so rude, the way he’s more interested in that stupid device than he is in our conversation right now. Doesn’t bode well for our future together.
“I found your boyfriend in a shithole drug den up in Harlem. He had a needle in his arm and some crack whore on his dick.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “You’re lying.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Only a few days ago.”
His eyebrows raise. “Your boyfriend disappears for days at a time often?”
“Yes, but?—”
“That’s addict behavior. Normal people don’t ghost like that.”
“Alex wasn’t cheating on me.”
