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“As I understand it, my daughter has plans to become quite the philanthropist.”

“So?”

“I know you dislike the comparison, but perhaps you ought to reconsider how alike Clara and I truly are.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Because you remember what happened the last time she was made to choose, don’t you, Troy?”

“Leave her out of this,” I growl. Does that mean he’s gonna offer her the same deal? Leave me or he’ll fuck up her foundation? Jesus, I want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

“I have no intention of involving my daughter in this discussion. But we both know that when it comes down to it, Clara will always choose herself.”

“No one is choosing anything!” The words burst angrily from me. I refuse to allow my mind to go back to that night. “You don’t know who the fuck she is.”

“In your heart of hearts, you know what I’m saying is true. Because you remember. You have firsthand experience.”

Nothing. I say nothing. Though I might be about to crack a couple of molars.

“Choose your company, Troy. Save yourself. Before my daughter does.”

Chapter 42

Troy

The door clicks open, and I turn my head over my shoulder with a snarl. “Fuck’s sakes, Paolo, I said—”

“Yeah, he told me,” Max says, frowning back at me.

I glance away, not sure what to say. What to think. What the fuck to do except return to staring unseeing out the fucking window.

“Why aren’t you picking up your phone?”

I could be in a state of shock. Or maybe grief. Whatever it is, I feel like the rug has been pulled briskly out from under my feet. And I’m still teetering.

I had denial. He can’t do this to me—I won’t fucking let him. Anger. I’m gonna tear off his pompous head and shit down his neck. Bargaining. Just let me have them both—Table and Clara—for a little while longer. Sadness and acceptance can both fuck right off as I loop straight back to denial. What the ever-loving fuck.

“What’s going on with you? Are you even listening to me?”

I pivot, arms still folded across my chest like I’m trying to hold myself together.

“You look like shit.”

“Perceptive.”

“You ill?”

“Sick,” I say with a tilt of my chin.

Max’s gaze narrows as he tentatively steps closer. No one with his responsibilities can afford to get ill. The job is enough, and Archie might have a nanny, but a sick kid only wants his daddy. And a sick daddy is—

Something Clara knows well. I huff out a laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Not a thing.” Sounds better than I’m fucked. And without the happy payoff.

“Jesus, sit down before you fall down.”