Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
And just that easily, he is the sun, burning me alive with anger and other things I will never admit. Because I didn’t know you could love and hate the same man as much as I do this one. I rotate to walk way, to leave him where he stands. I make it two steps when he says, “Do not walk away from me, Alana.” I halt because we both know I have no choice.
He owns me.
Chapter Two
Ellen Blue
Twenty-Four years Ago—age seven
“One hundred thousand? Are you insane? My client is not coming off that property a hundred thousand dollars. It’s prime real estate.”
“Oh, come on, Ellen. We both know the market is shit.”
“Prime real estate in New York City.”
“You’re good. I give you that, but I’m better. Call me when you’re ready to deal.”
I clench my fist and grimace. Eric Swenson is the real estate mogul straight from hell. I bet he’s the devil’s son. I start to punch in Richard’s number to tell him we might have to take a second mortgage if my luck keeps going this beautifully when I realize Alana and that new little boy next door are slippery and missing. They were just here. I twist around in the living room, making sure the kids are not behind me, but oh, no. No, they are not.
“Alana! Damion!” I call out and hurry toward the many rooms in the lower level of the apartment, repeating their names over and over. The problem with a monstrous home in a highly sought after zip code, I think as my heels click and clatter on the ridiculously expensive natural stone floor, aside from having to pay for it is finding what you have lost is impossible. But this was all Richard. We have to live the lifestyle to sell it, and become the real estate agents of the rich and famous. I roll my eyes as I start up the stairs. “Alana! Damion!”
By the time I’m at the top of the stairs, what felt like kids being kids is starting to feel ominous and freak me out. “Where are those kids?” I murmur, cutting right toward Alana’s bedroom and calling for them again. “Alana!” Damion!” Scanning the kitchen to no avail. “Kids! Where are you?”
I pass the kid’s library we had installed six months ago to create a love for books and learning in Alana, and double-step toward her bedroom. Once I’m inside the doorway, I halt, scanning the room, and the flutter in my chest is nothing in comparison to the sickening sensation in my belly. With a trembling hand, I reach for my phone, about to call Damion’s parents, praying they just slipped next door to his house, when I hear giggles from the inside of the closet.
It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t a parent what it feels like to be angry and relieved in the same moment. I suspect it’s a bit like surviving a tidal wave. The water drags you under, suffocates you, and then you fight to survive, kicking and pumping your arms until the sweet thrill of air permeates your lungs. Shortly after, you swim as hard as you can to ensure your safety. The anger that follows a parent’s panic is much like that swim toward the shore. It feels necessary to ensure the survival of yourself and your child.
My feet pound a path to the closet and I whip open the door. The two kiddos sit there, eyeing me only to have my scowl transform their laughter into terror. It’s pretty easy to scare kids, and most of the time, us parents don’t want to do any such thing except when they scare us and we see their lives and our own flash before our eyes.
“Out,” I command, offering them the space it requires for them to pop to their feet and exit the closet.
Alana chews her bottom lip, an un-ladylike habit I’ve tried to wean her off of, but it’s almost as ingrained in her as her love of bargain box mac n cheese. I waggle my finger between them. “Why didn’t you answer me? I was worried. I thought someone grabbed you. You scared me to death. What were both of you thinking?”
“We were copying you and Mr. Blue,” Damion blurts.
My brows shoot up. “What does that mean?”
“Alana said I’m supposed to stick my tongue down her throat. That is what boys do to girls, but her gum got in my mouth and it was gross.”
Alana elbows him. “My gum is not gross, Damion.”
“It’s gross. Jeez, Alana. How do you not know that’s gross?”
Oh my God, is all I can think. They’re seven and already sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths. I point at Damion. “Go home.”
He tucks his chin, eyes Alana, and then darts from the room.