The Villain by L.J. Shen

“Sir, you have a visitor.”

I didn’t look up from the screen, still typing out a message to my legal team regarding Green Living.

“Do you have eyes, Serena?”

“Sophia,” she corrected mildly as though the mistake was her fault. “I do, sir.”

“Then I suggest you make use of them and look at my planner. It is wide open for a reason. I do not accept visitors at this time.”

She was still standing on my threshold, wondering how to approach her new boss. At times, I was certain the definition of hell was new personal assistants going through orientation. Sophia needed to be spoon-fed everything, and her only saving grace was that, unlike Ms. Brandt, she wasn’t a world-class bitch who looked like a half-melted Barbie

“It’s your wife.” She physically cringed, bracing herself for a verbal whipping.

I resisted the urge to look up from my laptop and steal a glance at Flower Girl through the glass wall.

To tell Sophia to let her in.

Nothing good was going to come out of this.

She was probably here to give me the third degree about threatening her ex-husband at gunpoint. Or maybe she finally realized how much of a fuckup I am and decided to help Andrew with his lawsuit. To testify.

My wife knew my secret.

Sam had told me about her little stint at Andrew Arrowsmith’s place as soon as he walked out my enemy’s door. I knew Persephone had seen the videos.

She had no right.

No right to butt into my business. No right to uncover what I wanted to keep a secret. No right to peel off the layers I’d refused to shed when she tried the nice way.

“Turn her away,” I ordered, my eyes still on my monitor.

“I’m afraid she can’t and won’t do that. Also, don’t take that tone with her. She is your assistant, not your servant.” I heard a throaty, sweet voice from the doorway. This time, I did look up.

Flower Girl stood at the doorway. She wore a sunny dress and a stern look. I wanted to take both of them off her.

“You’ve fired Ms. Brandt.” She closed the door on Sophia, stepping into my office. “Why?”

“That’s not any of your business.” I closed the laptop.

“Try again.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Because you hated her,” I spat out, disgusted with myself.

She smiled.

I died a little inside.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I stood, gathering the paperwork on my desk to keep my traitorous eyes from wandering her way. Watching my wife was akin to watching the sun. The euphoric, blinding notion you were both immortal and pathetically human grabbing you by the throat.

“I suppose you’re here because your ex-husband has dumped you again. Am I the consolation prize?” I stuffed my paperwork into my briefcase, itching to go somewhere—anywhere—that was far away from this woman.

The pressure signaling an impending attack pressed against my sternum. Every time she walked into the room, I had to regain my control.

“You knew he was in town?” Her peacock blue eyes followed me intently.

“Your security cameras,” I pointed out, in case she planned on accusing me of slapping her with more private investigators.

She stalked in my direction.

“I threw him out the night he showed up. You’d have known that if you’d bothered to answer any of my calls or actually go through the pain of giving me the time of the day when I tried to visit you at your house.”

Yourhouse.

Of course it was my house.

Why would it be ours? I’d plucked her out of the clinical apartment I’d put her in, stuck her in one of the guest rooms, and expected her to…what? Form any sort of attachment to the place?

“Would you like a prize for remaining faithful?” I arched an eyebrow. She stopped right in front of me. Her scent was everywhere in the room, drowning my senses, and I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Kick her out, kiss her, fuck her, yell at her. All these possibilities exhibited both emotion and complete lack of control.

“Sam told you, didn’t he?” She tilted her head, examining me. She meant Andrew Arrowsmith’s laptop. The tapes she must have watched.

“He is on my payroll.”

“So is the rest of the city.”

“You included, so do yourself a favor and stop sniffing around my business before I cut you off.”

“We both know I’m not here for the money. Now, I want to talk about what I’ve learned.”

She treaded carefully into the conversation.

“No,” I said flatly. “You had no right.”

“Had no right?” She laughed sadly. “I’m your wife, Kill. Whether you accept it or not. I wanted to help you. That’s why I decided to work for Andrew in the first place. To extract information. To get a glimpse into his most intimate place. I knew there was too much riding on this operation, and that you’d try to stop me because you’re too righteous to accept you needed my help.”

“Your job is not to save me.”

“Why?” She parked a hand on her waist. “Why isn’t it my job to save you? I’ve lost count of the times you’ve saved me. You saved me from Byrne and Kaminski, from a horse, from a poisonous flower, from my ex-husband. The list goes on and on. Why is it okay for you to give up your entire existence for the world, to put your father’s needs before yours, to walk through fire for the people you care about, but I can’t do you this one solid?”

“Because you didn’t accomplish anything!” I boomed in her face, baring my teeth. “You pretty little idiot, the videos you found won’t hold up in court. They are not legal evidence. They’re stolen, and probably fuzzy, and don’t capture his face. You’ve worked for nothing.”

The frustration of knowing she’d seen me at my worst, and for no good reason at all, maddened me. I grabbed my wife’s arms. “Your little stunt did nothing more than put another ten-foot dent in our marriage, which, by the way, was the worst mistake of my life.”

The words flew out before I could stop them. I’d heard of people saying things they didn’t mean while angry but had never experienced it because, well, I was never angry. This was an unwelcome, humanizing first. My wife’s blue eyes glittered with rage. I wanted to apologize but knew that the entire floor was watching through my glass office walls, and that an apology would achieve nothing.

We were done.

I was faulty. Broken beyond repair, and she wasn’t going to stick around long enough to try to fix me.

“You don’t know what I found out,” she said quietly.

“I don’t fucking care!”

In my periphery, I could see Hunter marching from his office to mine. He waved away the curious audience forming outside my door, shooting me a pull it together look.

I’d officially hit rock bottom. Nothing said you were a world-class loser more than Hunter goddamn Fitzpatrick telling you to chill.

I turned my attention back to Persephone, lowering my voice but still feeling that undeniable shake. “Nothing you found on Andrew’s laptop can help me win this case. The only thing you did was give him more ammo on me. Now he is probably telling people I sent my wife to sniff around his work and made her perform two jobs to try to dig up some dirt about him. Not only did you not help me, but you also put yourself at risk, and I…”

That’s where I stopped. And what?

Persephone slanted one eyebrow up, studying me with eyes so hungry, if I had a heart, it would break for her. She clearly wanted me to care.

“And you what, hubs?” she asked softly. “What would have happened had Andrew done something to me?”

A violent shudder ran through me.

The waterboarding.

The burns.

The beatings.

Getting locked in the confession booth for hours at a time in a dark church with only my demons to keep me company.

Coming back to him, asking him for more. To atone for my father’s sins. To grieve our friendship. To numb my feelings.

And just like that, I remembered who I was.

Who Andrew Arrowsmith had made me.

Who my father—my whole family—expected me to be.

A grim smirk slashed my face like a wound. I leaned down, my lips brushing my wife’s ear, my hot breath fanning her pale hair.

“And I wish he’d finished the job, Flower Girl, so I could finally go ahead and marry someone in my own league. You were a mistake. A foolish, horny mistake. Divorce couldn’t come fast enough.”

I felt, rather than saw her take a step back. That was when I realized I’d closed my eyes like a pathetic moron, inhaling her.

With her head tilted up and her spine stiff, she pulled a stack of papers from her bag and slammed it against my chest.

“In that case, congratulations. You’ve worked really hard to show me Andrew turned you into a heartless monster. Consider yourself free from this marriage. Here’s your parting gift from me. A Child Protective Service report deeming Andrew a dangerous, unfit father. Thought it might be of interest to you, since he’s lost custody of his children, and will be losing his job next.”

She took a ragged breath that shook her entire tiny body.

“I love you, Cillian Fitzpatrick. I’ve always loved you. From the moment we first met at the charity ball when I spotted you across the room. You were a god among mortals. Vital yet dead. And when you looked at me—when you looked past me—I saw my whole future in your eyes. I knew you were rich, and handsome, and powerful. Yet the only thing I truly ever wanted from you, Kill, was you. To peel off the layers, shed them with my fingernails, and have you, and love you, and save you. I thought I could change you. And I tried. I really did. But I cannot change someone who doesn’t want to change. I love you, but I love me, too. And I deserve more than you’ve given me. More than you are willing to part ways with. So I’m saving you this one time, for all the times you saved me, and saying goodbye.”

She rose to her tiptoes and pressed a cold, impersonal kiss on my lips, her eyelashes brushing against my nose.

“We’ve always been so bad at respecting each other’s boundaries. We broke our contract again and again and again. If you have a shred of sympathy for me in that cold heart of yours, don’t contact me anymore. No matter what happens, no matter how much you want to tell me something, leave me alone. I need time to digest, to lick my wounds, to move on. Don’t show up at my sister’s house, or at my workplace, or anywhere I might be. Let me get over you. My heart can’t take another blow.”

She turned around and walked away.

Leaving me to stand with my get-out-of-jail monopoly card, the perfect evidence against Andrew Arrowsmith, and my heart in my throat.

It beat, loud and fast.

Alive.

Angry.

And full of emotions.

Rather than extinguishing the five hundred fires wreaking havoc in my life, I opted to take the car, drive to the closest liquor store, stock up on the cheapest, most punishing brand of vodka—the type certain to give me a hangover from hell—and drive to the ranch.

I got drunk with my horses (I did all the drinking; they were there to watch me through the half doors of their stalls), with my phone turned off. Flower Girl was finally done with me. Mission accomplished. Now when I had Andrew’s downfall in my back pocket, when I knew he’d drop the lawsuit thanks to her, all I wanted to do was go down in flames right along with him.

I took a swig from the vodka, slouching against the wall in the barn, surrounded by horse shit.

I closed my eyes. A snippet of a few weeks ago played behind my eyelids.

Of Persephone pulling me to the laundry room—I had no idea where that room was, exactly, before that moment—hopping on a working washing machine, spreading her thighs for me, and moaning my name as I fucked her hard.

I opened my eyes, rubbing at them. It was dark outside. I must’ve passed out a few hours ago and blacked out.

Excellent. A few more months of this, and I should be good to go back into my previous state of numbness.

Yellow headlights shimmered from outside the open door of the barn. Tires crunched hay outside. Someone was coming.

I let go of the empty vodka bottle, watching as it rolled all the way to Hamilton’s stall. The asshole almost cost me a wife. Fucker.

The intruder killed the engine, flung the driver’s door open, and stepped out, the crisp sound of leaves under their boots grating on my nerves.

“Kill? Are you there?” Hunter’s baritone demanded. Since when did my brother turn into an authoritative, respectable figure?

“No,” I growled, knowing he was going to come in anyway.

He did just that, halting at the door to the barn with his hands on his hips.

“Sailor had the baby. I have a daughter.”

I expected to feel the relief of him not having a son, a true heir, someone to take over Royal Pipelines, but all I felt was emptiness. I knew normal people would be happy for their brother. I wasn’t normal.

“Congratulations,” I said monotonously. “Are the mother and daughter healthy?”

“Very.”

“Good. I opened a trust fund in your child’s honor. Three grand a month until college.”

“Thanks, but that’s not why I’m here.” He took a step inside, closing the door behind him. “Sam found out Andrew put Paxton Veitch on the plane back to Boston. That’s how he got here. Arrowsmith was obviously trying to stir shit.”

Paxton was no longer a threat.

He was probably never a threat.

The only person standing in my way to having Persephone Penrose was me, and I did a hell of a job at keeping us apart.

I unscrewed another bottle of vodka. My bladder was screaming at me to stop drinking, but my brain urged me to keep going until the blissful numbness was restored.

“I know,” I drawled. “I got it out of Paxton myself. Apparently, I’m the only son of a bitch around qualified to get shit done.”

“Doubt it.” Hunter sighed.

“Why?”

“Because you’re currently trying to loosen the bottom of a liquor bottle.”

My brother grabbed the vodka from my hand, turning it upside down. I took the opportunity to wobble to my feet. I turned around and took a piss. Strictly speaking, pissing in my horse stable was vandalizing my own property. Then again, punishing myself seemed like a good idea.

I turned back around. Ceann beag handed me the bottle silently. I glared at him. At all six versions of him.

“I took care of the Arrowsmith problem,” I said blandly. “Well, my wife did.”

“That’s not why I’m here, either.”

“Why are you here?” I squinted. “Go be with your family.”

Hunter had a family of his own. A real family, shaped and molded by him and his wife. His wasn’t rotten from the inside, built on the ruins of social standing, old money, and greed.

“I am with my family.” He grabbed the bottle in my hand, throwing it aside with a frown. “With the family who needs me right now. And I’d very much like to go back to the one I’ve just created, so would you tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”

I zigzagged to the door, flung it open, and stepped out of the barn. Hunter grunted, following me. It wasn’t lost on me that the tables had turned. I was the shitshow brother now, and he was the responsible family man.

“She saved my ass,” I said as my brother tracked me down the dirt path back to the main cabin. “Tutoring that asshole’s kids. Digging up dirt on him. She did it for me. All this time, I thought she was just getting back at me for being cruel to her.”

“You cursed,” he noted.

No fucking shit, Sherlock.

And it felt too good to fucking stop, dammit.

Since Tourette’s syndrome was known as “that cursing disorder,” I’d made it a point to never utter a swear word. There was no better way to distance myself from the stigma. But profanity was never my problem. I’d never cursed during my attacks.

At that moment, though, I had an acute case of not giving a fuck.

Not giving a fuck if people found out.

Not giving a fuck if cursing wasn’t proper or well-mannered.

Not noble enough for the heir of Royal Pipelines.

“Persy’s in love with you,” he grumbled, still following me.

“She’s in love with the idea of me.” Many women were. “What it comes down to is this, ceann beag. She is, and always will be, a woman I’d bought like a sack of potatoes. She came with a price tag, like all the women before her. And if you can buy it, you can replace it. I’ll find someone else. And Persephone? She’ll marry again, too.”

Hunter stopped. I soldiered on, past the cabin, toward my car. I needed to get over this little self-pity party, drive back to the office, and start putting things in motion.

Suddenly, I felt something heavy and damp plastered to my back. I turned around. My brother had thrown manure on me.

“What the f—”

“You asswipe!” He crouched down, grabbing another ball of manure in the dark. I’d never fought with my younger brother. And we’d definitely never been physical. There was nothing brotherly about us, other than the title.

He knew it.

I knew it.

Hunter aimed—and caught—my shoulder.

“Stop it,” I growled, narrowing my eyes at him.

He ignored me, kneeling to grab more manure. A childish zing of vengeance sparked inside me. I lowered myself to grab as much manure as I could find.

“She was never in love with your persona, assface.” Hunter swung his arm backward, like a baseball player, and caught me in the chest. I aimed my ball of shit to his face, striking a good portion of his neck and chin.

Now we were both in deep shit. Literally.

“Stalin had a more loveable character, you moron. She was always stupidly—and may I add unreasonably—in love with your ass!”

He threw another ball at me.

I threw one back at him.

“She owed a lot of money,” I yelled back. “I paid her debt. That’s why she married me.”

“I know!” Hunter laughed hysterically, deserting the manure and pouncing on me. He shoved me to the ground, twisting the lapels of my blazer as he pinned me down. “I know, because after the night Persy came to accept your offer in the blizzard, I knocked on her door. I knew I had to make it right. Not for her, or for you, but for my wife. I didn’t want anything to upset Sailor so early in the pregnancy. Persy told me about her debt. I offered to pay it in full and wrote a check right in front of her.”

I blinked at him, confused and disappointed with myself for wanting to hear the rest, blood thundering through my head.

“You wrote a check?” I growled. “Doesn’t your generation Venmo?”

He lowered his head to mine, his eyes burning with rage. “She tore the bitch up in front of my face and told me she was marrying your sorry ass. She wanted to marry you! Stipulations and assholery included. Now my question is this—how did you manage to lose her? How did you let the only girl you’ve ever loved just…go?”

“I don’t—”

“Of course you do!” He smashed my head against the dirt. I twisted, grabbing him by the shirt and rolling him over, switching our positions so I was on top of him now.

“You fool, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see you’re crazy about her. You couldn’t look Persephone in the eye like a six-year-old for as long as you’ve known her. You couldn’t bring yourself to attend her goddamn wedding. You’ve had it bad for her from the moment you saw her. You let her go because of your stupid insecurities. Because you are so convinced you’re Hades, doomed, dark, and unredeemable, you haven’t even bothered to read the myth all the way.”

He reached to wrap his fingers around my throat, pressing, draining the oxygen out of me.

“Persephone!” He clasped harder.

“Loved!” He shook me by the neck.

“Hades!”

“I don’t l-l-l-love her.” I heaved, plummeting into his face with my fists. Stuttering. Losing it.

Hunter smiled through the pain.

“Say it louder,” he whispered.

“I don’t lo-lo-lo dammit! Love her!” I punched him again. This time his jawline.

“Louder.”

“Are you an idiot?” I didn’t know why I asked this question. I was already well aware my brother possessed the intelligence of a turkey. A cum-stuffed one, for that matter. “I don’t love my wife.”

He punched me back, laughing. We rolled on the ground, hitting each other, yanking hair, poking eyes, cursing, and grunting like two cavemen.

Like two brothers.

I kept saying I didn’t love her, and Hunter kept cackling as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

I didn’t know how much time had passed, but when we were done, we both looked and smelled like horse shit.

Panting and sweating, we were covered in mud and manure head-to-toe.

Hunter was the first to stand and stomp back to his car.

“Apologize,” I demanded to his retreating back. He waved me off.

“Siblings don’t apologize. They just start acting nice to each other. Now, you ain’t driving anywhere after polishing off a bottle of vodka. Get your ass in my car. I’m throwing you in the shower and taking you to see your niece.”

I opened my mouth to say something. Even though he couldn’t see me, he still raised his palm in warning.

“Save it, bro. I don’t care. And if you’re worried about seeing your estranged wife at the hospital, don’t. By the time we get there, she’ll be at work. You didn’t even ask what my daughter’s name was.” He threw the driver’s door to his Audi open.

“What is it?”

Please don’t let it be Grinder or Nature Valley.

The smile that broke on his face threatened to crack it in two.

“Rooney.”