The Bastard

by Julie Kriss

  “Got it.” I hung up as the shower stopped and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt instead of the suit I’d been going to wear. I scrolled through my phone again, making sure I hadn’t missed any messages. Half my brain was thinking about where to pick up some fresh water to take out to The King’s Land, and maybe some blankets and basic medicine. Where could I get asthma inhalers?

  All I saw on my phone were messages from my mother. I’d forgotten about those—she’d called and texted multiple times. Her texts were increasingly drunk: Call me. Call me! I have something 4 u. Why don’t u call me?? Check ur email, I sent it!!

  I sighed and accessed my voice mailbox. It was more of the same: My mother rambling about my going to Ronnie’s wedding, about how I was with the “whore lawyer your father was fucking.” It was alarming how much she knew about my movements. But aside from that, her disrespect of Maddy made me see red. Charlene was going to learn to keep her mouth shut where Maddy was concerned, or she’d be getting a lesson from me. I wasn’t going to put up with that shit.

  The last voice mail mentioned an email again. “You want to see what I sent you, trust me,” my mother warned. She was a notorious liar—I knew that. She was also a drama queen. Still, as I heard the hair dryer run in the bathroom, I flipped open my laptop, accessed my phone hotspot to bypass the Wi-Fi, and downloaded the last email that had come in.

  It was from my mother. Read This, it said. Attached was a file. She was probably trying to give me a fucking virus, but what the hell. I clicked it and looked at the documents inside.

  I went cold.

  It was me.

  The first item was a photo of me on the beach in Panama, walking on the sand. I was wearing swim trunks and no shirt. I remembered that day; it was one of the few days I’d spent on the beach when I first arrived. And I’d had no fucking idea someone was taking my photograph.

  The next photo was of me in Panama City, coming out of the bank. I remembered that day, too. I’d withdrawn my pay. The shot was taken from across the street, probably from a car.

  The next photo went back to when I was still in Special Ops. I was in a restaurant in Marrakesh with one of my exes, and—Jesus, you could see her foot under the table, where she’d pushed off her sandal and was running her toes under the cuff of my pants. I remembered that moment, too. I flipped through photo after photo, remembering all of them. Then I found more: financial records, military records. Prefaced with a simple memo: Dear Miss White, here are the documents you requested. Regards.

  She’d had me watched. How long? Months. Years. There were intercepted emails, private ones. Maddy had said nothing to me about this. And yet she’d read all of it. All of it.

  Part of me understood it. I was the potential heir to my father’s multimillion-dollar fortune; keeping me as an unknown entity was out of the question. I’d looked up Clayton Rorick myself, and so had Maddy. It stung that she hadn’t told me, that she knew so much about me and didn’t trust me enough to tell me how. But part of me, deep down, could maybe see why.

  It was the final email that broke everything.

  It was an internal memo sent from Maddy’s partners in the firm, addressed to her. Everything official, everything in line. Since we have received the fully executed documents regarding Dylan King and his father’s estate, and since you have completed what was requested of you by the firm, we have deposited your bonus. What followed was a very, very big fucking number: a bonus. For Maddy. For getting me to sign the papers forfeiting my father’s estate.

  Requested of you by the firm.

  I sat for a second and stared at it like an idiot. Maddy had pushed me to sign those papers. She’d been persuasive. And in the end, she had offered me herself. For seven days. If only I signed those papers.

  For money.

  A lot of fucking money.

  Jesus. How could I have been so stupid?

  Behind me, the bathroom door opened.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Maddy said. “I wanted to look nice. Has the rain stopped?”

  I couldn’t say anything. My throat was frozen. I could only stare at the screen, unable to believe what the hell I was looking at.

  There was a postscript at the bottom of the bonus letter. Thank you, Miss White. Well done.

  “What’s going on?” Maddy’s voice. The voice I’d heard in my ear in bed for the last two hours. The woman I’d been so sure of minutes ago. “Why are you in jeans? What are you looking at?”

  Thank you, Miss White. Well done.

  The memo was dated two hours ago.

  I found my voice, and it came out low with anger. “You tell me.”

  She came closer. I didn’t look at her, but from the corner of my eye I saw that she was wrapped in a towel, her makeup on and her hair done, ready for the wedding. She put a hand on my shoulder, but she must have felt how tense I was, because she dropped it. “What is that?”

  I flipped away from the memo to the photo of me on the beach. “Recognize this?”

  Her soft intake of breath answered my question.

  “Or this?” I flipped to the bank photo. The Marrakesh photo. The bank photo. “This? This?”

  Behind my shoulder, she was silent.

  “I guess you do,” I said, the words like ice in my throat. “And I know you’ve checked your email since we landed. So I know you recognize this.”

  I flipped to the memo, but I didn’t bother watching her reaction.

  We were done.

  21

  MADDY

  This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. I wasn’t standing here with Dylan—the man I wanted, the man I had just slept with, the man I was falling in love with—looking at that fucking file. Just ten minutes ago in the shower, I’d decided to delete the file because it didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t need it; no one needed it. And Dylan didn’t need to know it existed.

  Except now he did. And he was furious.

  I could see it in the line of his body, his jaw. The tightness of his voice. And he wouldn’t look at me. He just looked at his laptop screen as he flipped through the photos and—

  God, it was all there. And through the wash of panic and shame in my blood, I also felt a burning anger lit by curiosity. The Dylan King file was confidential. Who the hell had leaked it?

  This was the worst, though. I would explain. I had been hired to keep that file; Dylan would understand that. I should have told him about it sooner, but keeping it in the first place hadn’t been my idea. This was bad, but it could be saved.

  Then he flipped to another document, and everything got worse.

  It was the memo from Malick. I’d seen it come in on my phone, seen the email subject—King agreement—and I hadn’t opened it. I’d assumed it was just an acknowledgment that the partners had seen the contract, that everything was business as usual.

  But that wasn’t what the memo said. Reading it now, I saw that the partners had given me a bonus. A very, very large bonus. For completing what was requested of you by the firm.

  I felt sick, my stomach like cold, thick lead. “Oh, my God,” I rasped.

  “Thank you, Miss White,” Dylan said, his voice cynical and harsh. “Well done.”

  No. Oh, no. He was quoting Malick’s postscript at the end of the memo. “This isn’t what you think,” I managed to say.

  “No?” Dylan stood and walked to his suitcase. “It seems pretty fucking clear to me. Your partners gave you an assignment to get me to sign those papers from the beginning. And you followed through, because you always follow through. Right? Even if you have to fuck me to do it.”

  “No,” I said. I sounded panicked. I was panicked. He was so cold, this man I’d just spent hours in bed with. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “You didn’t get a bonus?” Dylan threw his clothes into his suitcase. “I guess you didn’t keep a file on me for years, either?”

  “That was just an assignment, part of the King file. Hank had to know where you were and what you were doing. You were hi
s heir, the heir to everything, and you weren’t speaking to him. He had to have updates on you. He needed to know.”

  “And my emails? I suppose he needed to read those, too.”

  “Dylan—”

  “Copies of my paychecks. My medical records from the military. Pictures of me with girlfriends.” He dropped the last item into his suitcase and slammed it shut. “Did you get paid a bonus for those, too? I’ve been pretty profitable for you, haven’t I?”

  I felt so naked, standing there in just a towel under his scathing anger. I looked at his profile—because he still wouldn’t look at me—and saw a man made of granite. “Dylan, please listen. I realize this is—”

  “Maddy, they paid you a fucking bonus.”

  “I didn’t know about it!” I cried. “Malick never told me about a bonus! I swear it!”

  “Right.” He turned to look at me at last, and his eyes were dark with fury. “He just told you to make me sign the papers that would put Clayton in control of King Industries. He assigned you to do it. The other partners, too. And because you have to keep your job, you fucking did it. You followed orders.”

  I swallowed. “It was the right thing to do and you know it.”

  “Of course you’d say that. Your bank account is very convincing.”

  I couldn’t believe Malick had given me a bonus. It made me furious, but my anger didn’t matter. This had already ruined everything. I had to ask. “How did you get those files? They’re confidential.”

  “My mother,” Dylan said. He snapped the laptop closed and zipped his suitcase. “She’s a bitch, and she thinks you were fucking Hank. She heard I was coming to the wedding with you and she thinks you have me in her clutches, as she puts it. She sent it all to me along with a bunch of drunken messages about how I should know the truth. If I had to guess, I’d say she got the files from your assistant. My mother has a lot of money, and she always knows who to pay to get what she wants.”

  Amanda? Jesus. She’d worked for me for over a year, and she’d come with impeccable references. But those files couldn’t have come from anyone else, except me personally. The King file wasn’t kept on a company server, only on my private one. No one else had access to the passwords. “That’s how your mother knows you’re here with me,” I said. “From Amanda.”

  “It is.” Dylan looked grim. He sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and pulled his boots on. “It’s also how she knew I was back from Panama. I couldn’t figure out who told her, but now I know.” He paused and looked up at me. “Are you ever going to tell me how you knew I was on that flight? Or are you going to keep the rest of your secrets?”

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter anymore. “Max, my investigator, had a contact there,” I said. “A woman.”

  Recognition crossed his expression, and then he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Funny. I thought she actually liked me. Oh, well—at least she’ll put the money to good use.” He picked up his boot, then stopped again. “Wait a minute. When we first went to the Hexagon, you poured me a whiskey. I thought you’d made a good guess at my favorite drink. But you didn’t, did you?”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back against the dresser, silent.

  Dylan looked at me, his gaze hard. “You got that from the emails you intercepted. And Jesus—the lingerie. That’s why you wore that lingerie. Isn’t it?”

  I looked away. My eyes stung. I could feel the track of a tear on my cheek, and I took a breath to keep the rest of them back.

  “Don’t answer that.” I heard Dylan stand up. “I get it. You used the information you had to manipulate me, to get me to sign those papers. You had an assignment, and you got paid. None of it was real.”

  “It was real,” I protested, looking at him again. He was fully dressed now, and he picked up his suitcase. “I was just trying to—”

  “To what?” His voice was hard. When I didn’t answer, he turned for the door.

  I suddenly realized what was going on. “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “The wedding’s off,” he said shortly. “Ronnie has a bunch of guests there sheltering from the storm. I’m going to bring supplies and help them.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I hugged myself harder, feeling more naked than ever, barefoot and wearing only a towel, unable to follow him out the door. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay here,” he said. “The weather could turn again. There’s no need for you to leave.”

  “You just don’t want me with you.”

  He turned back and looked at me. “It isn’t safe,” he said, “but no, I don’t want you with me.”

  Damn it. I couldn’t even leave, because he was taking our only car, and he knew it. “So you’re stranding me.”

  “Honestly? I don’t care what you do. Watch some TV if the power comes on and you can get a signal. Read a book. Use your wads of money to charter a private plane. Whatever you want to do to pass the time.”

  I flinched. “You really are an asshole.”

  “Yeah, well, that isn’t news. I have to go. I’ll send someone back to pick you up and take you to the airport in the morning.” He turned away.

  “Fuck you,” I said, but the door had already closed behind him.

  I stood there for a long minute. I felt raw, as if someone had stripped my skin off. Like someone had opened my chest and ripped the inside out. I had warm tear tracks on my cheeks, no doubt smearing the makeup I’d so carefully put on for the wedding.

  I twisted a hand in my towel, squeezing it. Fuck it. I didn’t know about the bonus. And I’d been doing my job—my damned job. The job I’d fought so hard for and clawed my way inch by inch to get and keep. And signing those papers had been the right thing to do.

  But I knew Dylan now. I knew the object of all my research. I’d talked to him, argued with him, listened to him, been to bed with him. I’d fallen for him. This wasn’t a job anymore. He felt like he’d been manipulated, like he hadn’t been given a choice. By me. And in exchange for taking away his choice, I’d been paid a lot of money.

  Damn Malick. Damn Amanda, who was going to find herself on the receiving end of criminal charges as soon as I could get myself together. Damn Charlene, Dylan’s mother. Damn Hank, for assigning me to snoop on his son in the first place.

  And damn Dylan. He hadn’t even let me explain. He’d just walked out, leaving me naked and in tears. Leaving me stranded and alone in the middle of a storm, so he could go play hero and never have to look at me again. All because I’d let him down.

  Slowly, as I stood there, my ripped-open grief turned to anger. Anger at myself for being a heartless bitch. Anger at everyone.

  I undid the towel. I used it to wipe my tears, and then I dropped it to the floor and walked naked into the bathroom. I washed the makeup from my face, then brushed out the careful arrangement of my hair and twisted it into a ponytail.

  I stepped out to my suitcase and pulled on the only casual clothes I’d brought: a slim pair of dark capri pants and a fitted cream T-shirt. I’d planned to wear them on the plane home tomorrow, but now would have to do. The wedding-guest dress I’d brought would stay on its hanger in the closet.

  I pulled on a pair of canvas sneakers and picked up my purse. Dylan might have driven off in the car we shared, but if he thought I was going to sit here and weep into my handkerchief, he was very fucking wrong. I had things I could do, too.

  I finished tying my shoes and the breath went out of me in a swoop. I sat with my hands hugging my knees as pain rushed through me, up from deep in my stomach, through my chest. I gasped for air and bit back tears, trying not to sob.

  You lost Dylan. You had him, and you lost him.

  I didn’t entirely succeed in staying quiet. A few sobs escaped me, and a few more tears tracked down my face. It seemed that this was what heartbreak felt like—something I’d never felt. No wonder people lived their entire lives trying not to feel this way. It was horrible and overwhe
lming, and I had a feeling I was going to be feeling it for a long time.

  When the pain subsided a little, I straightened and wiped my tears. Then I picked up my purse and left the room.

  I’d had him, and I’d lost him.

  But I wasn’t dead. There were still things I could do.

  22

  DYLAN

  I hadn’t seen The King’s Land since the summer I was fourteen, the summer I spent with my sisters. I’d pushed that memory far down, made it part of my past, but looking at the place now brought everything back again.

  The house was huge, there was a pool, and the grounds were big enough for a teenager and three young girls to roam. There was a stable with horses—one of Hank’s profitable pastimes had been horse breeding—and if you hiked far enough there was a watering hole to swim in. We hardly saw our father and we were mostly cared for by servants, which was fine with us.

  The place looked the same now—the big house, the long stretch of driveway, the grounds—but it was set in a different light. The storm cells hadn’t moved out yet, and the rain had come and gone on the drive, once coming down so hard that I couldn’t see the road. There were broken branches strewn over the grounds and across the drive, and the sky was dark as smoke, lightning flashing and thunder booming as I pulled up.

  The wind whipped me as I got out of the car. I had managed to buy a case of water from a variety store that was still open, so I yanked it out and climbed the front steps. I put the case down and was about to try the doorbell—it felt weird just to walk in, even in this situation—when the door was flung open and Sabrina stood there.

  She was wearing yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt, and her dark hair was down. She looked so good, and I was so happy she was okay, that I didn’t even think. I just scooped her up and hugged her.

  There was a second of surprise, but only a second. Then she hugged me back, hard, her arms like tight bands around my neck. “Dylan!” she said.