The Villain by L.J. Shen

Idrove to Andrew Arrowsmith’s house as soon as I kissed my new niece, Rooney, hello.

She was a pink ball with a head full of red hair just like her mother and blue eyes like her father. The lungs, she probably got from Michael Phelps. The kid could blow off the roof with her screams.

All in all, Rooney was one of the cutest babies I’d laid eyes on and a welcome addition to the family.

I’d appreciated how Sailor refrained from pointing out that I was a complete and utter piece of human garbage for what I did to her best friend. She accepted my congratulations with a lukewarm smile even though it was obvious I was responsible for the fact her husband had arrived back in her hospital room beaten up to a pulp and sporting two shiners.

A few hours later, I caught Andrew wobbling from his front door to a U-Haul truck with a cardboard box tucked under his arm. The dirty sweatpants and disheveled hair were a far cry from his usual pretty boy attire.

Parking behind the U-Haul and blocking his way, I slid out of my Aston Martin, my sunglasses and fresh suit hiding my less than pristine condition.

“Moving so fast, Arrowsmith? We haven’t even had a chance to have brunch.”

He dumped the cardboard box at his feet, groaning.

“I’m handing in my resignation tomorrow. I took some time off to move out, as you can see.” He motioned for the truck, implying that I was delaying his progress.

“Doesn’t work for me, I’m afraid,” I tsked, scanning the half-full truck. “You’ll hand in your resignation by the end of the workday and drop the lawsuit by three o’clock. If not, I will sue you for every single penny I’ve spent in legal fees since this bullshit started.”

His jaw dropped.

Yes, I cursed.

No, I wasn’t afraid for the truth coming out anymore.

I’d already lost the most valuable thing I had—my wife—and anyone else’s opinion of me didn’t matter. Least of all his.

“Why?” he asked, rearing his head back to squint at me. “Why would I do things your way? All your nasty wife has on me is a bad report from a social worker.”

The speed in which I pinned him to the truck by the throat made him gasp.

“Your mouth is not worthy of referring to my wife, let alone calling her nasty.”

Choking, he curled his fingers around my wrist, which was the width of his neck. Pissing me off was not his best idea this year. Unfortunately for him, he realized it a moment too late.

Andrew turned pink, then purple before I eased the pressure on his windpipe.

“As for your question—it is more than a report, and we both know it. You are abusing a child with a disorder. Your own child. And let’s not forget the battery charge for what you did to your wife. That’s not very charitable, now, is it, Andy?”

I’d read the report against Arrowsmith all night, over and over again, resisting the urge to pick up the phone and beg Persephone for forgiveness. She did a thorough job handing me my enemy on a silver platter.

Andrew sagged, taking a ragged breath.

“I wasn’t…I didn’t…” He shook his head, turning his back to me, plastering his forehead to the truck and closing his eyes. “I love Tinder. I just didn’t know why me. Why did it happen to my child? How was it fair that I had to raise a child as screwed up as the man I hated the most—”

Me.

“My only sin was being the son of the man who hurt your family.”

He turned back to me.

“Well, hating him was futile, wasn’t it? He had a good reason to do what he did to my dad. Plus, it wasn’t like I had any access to him. You represented the Fitzpatricks. You were the person I’d seen day in and day out. I felt betrayed and played. Our paths, that had always been parallel, were now forking in different directions. I felt deprived. Robbed of opportunity and prospects and a future I deserved.”

He took a sharp breath, tilting his head skywards.

“I used to toss and turn in bed hoping the Fitzpatricks would adopt me.” There was a pause. “My wish—my fantasy—was to be you. And when I found out you were less than golden, less than mo òrga, I used it to my advantage.”

I looked away, cracking my knuckles. I was experiencing an array of negative emotions toward Arrowsmith, from resentment to pity.

I was feeling again, whether I wanted to or not.

“You and I, we were in the business of pain. But with Tinder…” Andrew scrubbed his face. “I never realized I was hurting him. I thought I was helping him. Your wife said she will make this go away if I attend therapy three times a week and live in a different house. I gave Joelle full custody yesterday morning. I can only see my own children while supervised now.”

My wife was fucking fantastic. It was hard to believe I’d mistaken her for a nervous, innocent girl who couldn’t stand up for herself.

Persephone was both the goddess of spring and the queen of the underworld.

“You have until the end of the day,” I repeated, taking a step back. The need to leave made the soles of my feet itch. I had better places to be. Better things to do. All of them connected to what mattered. To the person who mattered. “Drop the lawsuit and resign, then write an extensive press release kissing my ass and admitting your wrongdoings.”

I turned around to leave, knowing he was going to play into my hands.

“Cillian,” Andrew called out. I stopped, not turning around.

“How’d you do it?” he asked. “Teach yourself to feel again.”

I had a hunch I knew why he was asking me this question.

That, in fact, I wasn’t the only person who learned how to stop feeling in the process we’d gone through together that year in England.

Andrew was scarred and battered, too.

I shook my head as I slid back into my car.

“I didn’t,” I muttered. “She taught me.”

Driving back to my house, I realized that I’d taken two full days off work—more than I had since I’d finished college. I went up to my study and retrieved the contract. The one in which I’d handed over my soul to Persephone.

I was going to leave it for her in the mail. Emmabelle’s mail. Persephone had moved back to her sister’s house yesterday, after visiting my office.

I’d tried to implement rules, terms, and conditions for my wife to have my soul. Never taking into consideration the fact that the goddamn L-word did not ask for permission to be felt.

It didn’t matter what I wanted to give Persephone.

Because my love for her was a given.

And it was time she knew it.