My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(64)

Or on the property, really, beyond the hundred-fifteen-pound volume of space Shortbread took up.

I’d designed my entire life to fit my solitary tendencies. Which could explain why I felt a baffling rash crawl up my skin the minute I spotted seven luxury cars lined up on my street.

The gate pumped open. Slowly, the army of vehicles drove into my driveway. I squinted, trying to see who was inside them.

Cara breezed into my office, carrying a stack of documents. “Mr. Costa, your two-p.m. appointment with Mr. Reynolds from the DOD is here—”

“Not now, Cara.”

I recognized the first person to roll in, tucked inside his Rolls Royce. Barry Lusito. A former college buddy and a man I’d personally excommunicated from the industry almost seven years ago when he hit on Morgan while we were still together.

Right behind him, a Bentley cruised up my thousand-foot driveway, driven by one of Costa Industries’ engineers—or should I say former engineer.

A man I’d fired for sexual harassment shortly before my wedding.

What game was Dallas playing now?

After Barry, a few modest cars pulled up with women in them, some of whom I recognized as my wife’s new staff. (Why someone with no job, no volunteer work, and no physical ailments needed staff was beyond me.) And following the herd of women was none other than Oliver von Bismarck, who arrived in his flashy Aston Martin DBX—and had the audacity to wave hello to the camera.

Next, Zach emerged in his Lexus LC (he despised overpriced, unreliable cars).

Then, finally, Madison Licht.

I repeat—Madison Fucking Licht.

I couldn’t tell for sure, since he’d angled half of himself away from the camera, but his nose appeared to be covered by some kind of nude bandage.

“Sir…” Cara adjusted her documents. “You’ve been trying to get Mr. Reynolds’s attention for three weeks now. I’m not sure he’ll take well to waiting—”

“My meeting is canceled.” I stormed to my feet, plucking my blazer from my headrest and draping it over myself on my way out. “As are the rest of my obligations for today.”

There was no way I could entertain Thomas Reynolds in our Arlington headquarters while Madison Licht roamed the hallways of my mansion, snooping around.

Cara scurried after me. “Mr. Costa—”

“The answer is no.”

“What should I tell Mr. Reynolds?”

“That something urgent came up. Family-related.”

This wasn’t a fabrication. Something had come up. My blood pressure.

I stormed into the elevator, facing a frantic, frazzled Cara.

“Sir, you have never, in the eleven years I’ve known you, missed an appointment.”

“I have never, in the eleven years you have known me, chained my destiny to that of a beautiful sociopath.”

It was the last thing I said before the elevator doors shut in her face.





I navigated my driveway, forcing myself to fix my eyes straight. Or risk blowing a fuse that’d end up splattered across every local paper. Not to mention social media, under the ever-growing hashtag I shared with Dallas.

I was unable to reconcile the fact that my nineteenth-century estate, which once housed a prominent Union general, had been reduced to the witching grounds of a spoiled Georgian heiress.

People spilled out of my grand entry. Someone body-checked my Bentley, sloshing beer onto the windshield. I didn’t recognize a single one of them.

My blood, which usually ran as cold as my dormant heart, sizzled hot with anger and the urgent need to inflict pain on someone. A certain lovely someone.

I’d never felt more alive in my life.

Or as psychotic.

Eighteen different cars occupied my sixteen-car garage. It took me eight minutes to locate a parking space on my own property.

I stomped my way inside, shouldering past a panicked Vernon, who tried to run back outside.

A flushed Hettie met me at the door, both hands raised. “She said a small gathering of friends. I swear, Rom.”

Shortbread’s idea of a small gathering, apparently, consisted of an entire country club. Who were these people, anyway? She’d been in Potomac for less than two months.

I recognized my friends, the personal shopper at Hermès, two three-Michelin-starred chefs whose restaurants Dallas frequented, and remarkably, what appeared to be the vast majority of people I’d saved on the black-book spreadsheet in my home office.

The do-not-engage-with crowd.

People I systematically avoided at all costs.

Somehow, she’d found them and invited each and every one of them to my house. Incredible.

If I weren’t so furious, I’d be deeply impressed.

“Out of my way.”

Hettie hung her head, stepping aside.

I shoved past the mass of bodies. Most hadn’t bothered to dress up, enjoying the majority of the fine liquor from my wine cellar—the bottles I saved for special occasions—in Ferragamo leather slides and Bally tracksuits.

A full catering spread stretched across every counter, courtesy of Nibbles, a local boutique service that charged $1800 per head for parties.

People laughed, ate, mingled, and helped themselves to tours of my home. Which, by the way, was loud. Unbearably so.

My soul, if I indeed possessed one, itched to burst out of my skin like a bullet and run for its life.