Debt Inheritance (Indebted #1)(21)

My ears pricked at the name. It sounded familiar—reeking of old money.

He’s from nobility? The concept of Jethro being a duke or an earl was preposterous, and yet…uncannily perfect. Everything about him was deceptive and…bored. Was that all this was? A game to pass the time for some rich brat who got sick of killing puppies?

I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering—both from disgust and cold. The man named Flaw glanced my way. His eyes narrowed. “He’s expecting you and the woman. I’ll message and let him know it’s gone well.”

“Don’t,” Jethro snapped. His English accent thickened with the demand. “He doesn’t need to know. He’ll see us soon enough.” Dismissing the man as if he was the hired help and no longer required, Jethro stalked toward me, holding out the bag.

Flaw dissolved back into the shadows like a scary apparition.

“This is yours. Get dressed. You won’t be allowed in the building half-naked and shoeless.”

Taking the duffel, I muttered under my breath, “I was dressed in an outfit worth thousands of pounds before you tore it off me.” The loss of my showpiece smarted like an open wound.

I had two wishes—one, that he’d heard me and knew just how pissed I was. And two, that he didn’t hear, because I was afraid of his reaction.

Jethro smirked before turning to his bike.

I opened the bag and promptly dropped it.

Oh, my God. I had to be dreaming. Wake up, Nila. Please, wake up.

My knees buckled, following the bag to the floor. Shaking, I collected the photos sitting on top of a mound of clothes. My clothes. Everything I’d brought to Milan—minus the fashion show apparel and my work tools—running gear, a bikini, sweat pants, pyjamas, and a simple collection of blouses, jeans, and maxi dresses.

But on top of it all rested strewn photographs.

Photo-shopped images that never happened.

Doctored snap-shots of lies. Such horrible, horrible lies.

No one will come.

Jethro was right. The police would laugh if anyone asked for their help. What I held cemented my new life being Jethro’s plaything.

Shuffling through the deck, I couldn’t stop a hot tear searing down my cheek.

There was me—smiling, glowing. I remembered the day. V and I had headed to Paris for a local mid-season show a few years ago. He’d beaten me at poker in a silly pub tournament and a patron snapped an image of us. Laughing, overly warm, arms wrapped around each other in sibling affection, we’d been so happy.

Only Vaughn didn’t exist in this photo. The background had been amended to show a fancy restaurant while the man who clutched me was Jethro.

The smile on his face was the warmest I’d seen. His attire of open-neck black shirt and jeans made him look young, in love, and dashing.

I couldn’t study it anymore. Flicking to another one, I slapped a hand over my mouth.

This one pictured my father and me. Or had. He’d splashed out for the annual staff retreat, and we’d gone on a one week cruise around the Mediterranean. We’d stood with the setting sun dancing on the orange tinted waves, dressed in loose fitting ‘cruise wear’ that I’d created only days before. I’d planted an adoring daughterly kiss on his scratchy face.

That kiss now belonged to Jethro.

The ship had been tweaked to show a luxury yacht rather than commercial liner. The sunset cast a different glow. Jethro stood broodily, staring into the camera with such an intense glare of sexual power, no one would disagree that there was chemistry and need between us. The way my body curved into his, the sweetness and trust I displayed, only helped confirm the illusion of a couple besotted with each other.

The photos wobbled in my hands; another tear stained the glossy deception.

I looked up, not caring my heart was ripped out and beating coldly on the car park floor. “How—” Gritting my teeth, I tried again. “Destroying my dress wasn’t enough? You had to steal my past, too?” I held up a photograph of a half-naked Jethro holding my chin as he kissed me. That wasn’t based on my dateless life, but it was so lifelike, so true, so incontestable.

How did they make it so realistic?

Jethro shook his head, rolling his eyes. Locking the bike, he pocketed the keys before turning to face me. Dropping to his haunches in front, he whispered, “I not only stole your past. I’ve already stolen your future.”

I breathed hard, hating the look of enjoyment in his gaze.

Never breaking eye contact, he tapped the photographs in my hands. “You didn’t see them all. Flick to the back. They’re especially for you.”

I couldn’t unglue my lungs. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe without pain again. Splitting the tower of pictures, I glanced at the last ones. Immediately, I looked up. All sense of decency and pride gone.

“Please, you can’t. This—it will break their hearts.”

Tears scalded the back of my throat. My eyes burned, glancing down again. This one showed my empty hotel room—exactly as I left it with last minute ribbon and feathers littering the bed before rushing to the show—but now my toiletries from my nightstand, my laptop, and belongs were gone. Including my carry on and suitcase.

The room was abandoned. It looked as if I’d packed up and left my dreams, livelihood, and family without so much as a backward glance.

This would break my brother and father’s heart, because it was the exact same way of how my mother, Emma Weaver, left us.