Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(59)

Still, I came to court every day. Maybe to punish myself, but more likely to punish Dad. I knew how much it killed him that I witnessed all this.

I didn’t do a whole lot of sleeping these days. I mostly cried myself to exhaustion, my mind running through all the memories of Dad’s interactions with his female employees in my head, like a broken record.

Then I’d wake up and drag myself to court again and again and again.

After each day in court, Christian would hand me a printed reservation he’d made for one of the most talked-about restaurants in town. Be it Benjamin Steakhouse, Luthun, Pylos, or Barnea Bistro.

“I’ll wait there for an hour tonight. We’ll have a private room, or at least a booth where no one can see us.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’d be all your pleasure to get caught,” I’d answer.

“Not at all. If we get caught, we both lose.”

He never pushed, never begged, and never expressed any disappointment or anger over my absence the next day, even though I knew he was sitting by himself at restaurants every day.

Each day I ignored his invitation, my resolve would crack a little wider. A tad deeper. I would watch him in action in court, my gut filled with anger and longing, and exasperation, too, because for the first time in my life, I couldn’t tell if someone was an ally or an enemy.

Most of all, I observed Christian with fear, because I suspected he’d figured out that I wasn’t coming to court for Dad anymore.

I was coming to court for him.



One night, I was fast asleep in my bedroom, clad in a simple sweatshirt I’d stolen from Jillian some years ago in college. I was pooped from a day of attending court and working (I’d pretty much managed to get back on top of work, but it was killing me to be present in two things that took over my life). I’d drifted into sweet slumber when I felt a shadow hovering above my body, and when I looked up, Christian was there, standing at the foot of my bed, still in his sharp suit.

He smelled like the rain and pencil shavings, and I was tired of pushing him away. So tired, in fact, I didn’t even ask him how he’d gotten in.

“What are you doing here?” I asked instead. My voice lacked that furious fight I used every time we were bickering.

But Christian didn’t answer. He took a seat on the edge of my bed, grabbed my ankle, and perched my foot in his lap to give me a foot massage.

I groaned, throwing my head back and letting him work his magic. I was appalled with my inability to push him away.

His hands hiked up to the back of my knees, working restlessly, kneading and squeezing the soft, sore spots in my body.

“This will mean nothing,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. Because I knew where it was heading, and so did he.

A low chuckle emerged from his throat. “I’ll cancel our wedding invitations.”

“But not the cake. Send the cake to my office. I’ve been craving sugar all week.”

His hands went higher up, to my inner thighs, and he tugged me down so he could touch more of me, until his fingers were right there, between my thighs, in the holy triangle no man had touched in such a long time. I let out a shaky sigh when his hand pushed past the side of my panties. He dipped two fingers in, finding me soaking wet.

“That’s my girl. Now, I’m only going to use my fingers tonight so that tomorrow, you’ll wake up aching all over and ask me for the real thing. You understand?”

I opened my eyes, frowning at him. He had some nerve to sound so self-assured and cocky. I had no intention of seeking him out tomorrow, but if I could get an orgasm out of it tonight, I would put up with his grandiose ideas.

“Whatever, Napoleon. Just make it good for me.” I took his hand and pushed it deeper into my underwear, and he laughed his deep male laugh that danced in the pit of my stomach.

And then he was fingering me. His fingers sliding in and out of me, curling when they were inside me and hitting me somewhere deep and sensitive. He massaged my sensitive bud as he worked me, and I begrudgingly had to admit he wasn’t wrong—he was good at everything. Especially with his hands.

My hips bucked forward, rolling to meet more of his touch. My panting became quick and shallow at the same time as I chased that elusive feeling of being pleasured by someone else.

“Christian. I . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Can’t form a coherent sentence?” he hissed into the shell of my ear, chuckling softly.

“Screw you.”

“Already way ahead of you, darling.”

He played with me faster and deeper. His hands were everywhere now—on my breasts, clutching the back of my neck, roaming my legs. But he didn’t kiss me, and he didn’t have me, just like he’d promised.

The climax washed over me in waves. Everything shuddered, and I squeezed my eyes closed, unable to look at him when he gave me such pure pleasure and joy.

When I finally opened my eyes again, Christian wasn’t there.

The only thing I had left was dampness between my thighs, ruined underwear, and my fingers, which were still tangled in the elastic of my panties.

It was a fantasy.

A dream.

Christian had never been here.



“Your father is asking to see you.”

My mother delivered the news with morbid dejection. I supposed it was warranted, since I’d been ghosting her for a few days now. I didn’t blame her for not coming to court. I was a first-grade masochist for doing this to myself. I did, however, blame her for pretty much everything else, including (but not limited to) neglecting my existence up until the last few weeks, when everything with Dad had blown up. Now she wanted my company. To make amends. This was a classic case of too little, too late.