Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
32
Trent
Why the helldid I do that?
I have done a lot of stupid things in my life, but this . . . ?
Yeah, this takes the cake.
Kissing Payton.
Her soft, sweet lips.
Fuck.
I can’t even form a sentence as I barrel back into the living room.
My jaw is locked. My hands are clenched.
I need a drink.
Now.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone.
Over my shoulder, I bark orders, and Mia, my pseudo date, follows me, judging by the clicking of her heels.
She was supposed to be here early to give me the edge.
Instead, Payton turned it all around on me.
Her words resonated inside me.
For the firsttime in my whole miserable existence, I felt seen. Of all the people in my life, Payton broke down the wall I formed around my heart and fucking saw me. She saw me for more than the trust fund kid.
More than the funny friend.
More than the corrupt investor.
More than the angry son who inherited a shattered dynasty.
She had a first-row seat to the Trent show, and she didn’t miss a beat.
I should have stayed put.
But I couldn’t.
Words had to be said, so I followed her.
Then . . . I don’t know what my plan was. To say something? To tell her she was wrong? That she didn’t know me? That everything she said was a load of shit?
All of the above?
Instead, I kissed her.
Big mistake.
I still taste her on my lips.
She tastes like strawberries.
Sweet yet tart.
I can’t even allow myself to think about it because the more I do, the angrier I get. How this woman managed to mind-fuck me, I can’t possibly begin to understand. I am so pissed at myself. Pissed I let her get to me when this whole scenario was designed to rattle her.
Her.
The one my father dearest left money for when he couldn’t be bothered to save Ivy.
I don’t hassle with opening the door for Mia. I walk around to the driver’s side and fling my own wide before taking a seat and revving the engine to life.
“Where are we going?” Mia asks.
I never noticed how annoying her voice was before. “Nowhere. You are going home.”
Her face crinkles faintly next to her eyes, where the Botox has dissolved a bit between injections. “I thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter, drawing out the sound with another rev of my engine.
I was supposed to get laid tonight.
I have been so busy that I have not been with someone for a long time. I thought this plan of having an old prep-school classmate come with me would kill two birds with one stone. One, I would throw Peyton off her game and be happy to piss her off, and two, I get my dick sucked.
Neither of which happened.
Or will happen, in Mia’s case.
I really played this one wrong.
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” she asks, pouting.
“You want to talk to me? After calling me a dick?”
“Um.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I just don't see why we can’t have fun.” She leans over the console, hands resting on my thigh. “You seem stressed. Do you want me to help?”
Her hand starts to creep up, but it’s not the hand I crave.
I imagine Payton sitting in that seat, moving her hand onto my leg.
Finally, my dick starts to spring to life.
Fuck. How do I fix this runaway Payton train in my head? I look down at Mia’s hand. Being anywhere with her, let alone fucking her, is a terrible idea.
Right now, the only thing I want to do is grab a drink alone.
I lower my hand to my lap, and Mia’s perfectly veneered smile lights the car. She thinks I’m about to say yes, but she is grossly mistaken.
“Remove your hand, or I’ll remove it for you.”
When she doesn’t move, I do it for her and put it back into her own lap.
Then without another word, I start to drive her back to her apartment.
Never call an ex. Too complicated. It’s never what you truly desire . . .
I keep driving until I pull up in front of her high-rise.
She pouts. Again. “I don’t get you. You tell me to come over and say we are going out. That you just need to hear some presentation you didn’t even explain. Then you make me listen to some woman ramble on in some speech on Carl Jung. One—who the hell is Carl Jung? I still don’t know. And two—are you fucking the help, Trent?”
“Not that I have to explain myself to you, but no.”
“Then why are you not taking me out?”
“Because I realized I don’t want to.”
I also don’t want to have this conversation, so why are you still here?
“Does that mean you no longer want to fuck?”
“I never wanted to,” I growl.
“Could have fooled me.”
She stares at my dick, but it’s no longer hard. And it was never hard for her, but I don’t tell her that. That would require admitting aloud that Payton Hart gets me hard.
I turn to face Mia more squarely. I’m too tired for this shit.
“Just get out,” I say, tired. “I’m not in the mood.”
I never was.
“Never call me again,” she fires back as she swings open the door.
“Trust me, I won’t.”
And, for the record, Mia called me first. I accidentally answered, caught sight of Payton, and succumbed to my need for a distraction. Sue me.
Mia storms from the car, and before the door is even fully closed, I’m pulling away down the street.
I’m not sure where to go.
Who to speak to.
A drink is what is necessary at times like this, but I can’t bring myself to go alone.
Instead, I find my car driving uptown.
Heading in the direction of my mother, believe it or not.
Heading to Cresthill.
The reason I bought the building and transformed it into a luxury retirement home in the city was for my mother.
I didn’t tell Payton my mother lives there.
But Mom needed something to do.
Yes, she has gardening that brings her joy, but she needed a purpose.
So, I gave her one.
It doesn’t take me long to arrive.
I go in through the back entrance, then look for her. She lives here, too, but at this time of the day, she’s working.
Either helping someone learn how to plant in the garden we built in the rotunda for her or just talking to someone. Obviously, I didn’t get my inability to give a fuck from her.
Although everyone is here by choice, sometimes the tenants’ families don’t come often. Mom knows a thing or two about being alone. When she found out I was building Cresthill, she volunteered to live here and help manage it with Margret and keep the residents company.
I see what the purpose does to her.
Gives her something more than just Ivy and me to live for.
After being with Dad for so long, she needed to fill the void he left in his absence.
She’s made great friends and is happy.
Just as I suspected, I find her in the rotunda.
She’s kneeling on the floor, gloves on, looking at her plants. With her hands pressed together at a stem, she almost looks like she’s praying to them.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“I’m afraid this one has rust.”
“What does that mean?”
“It might spread and harm the rest.”
I sit beside her, staring at the thing, not sure what I’m looking at. “What will you do?”
“I’ll try to separate it.” She fusses with the stem. “See if I can heal it on my own.”
“And if you can’t? What if what infects it . . . can’t go away?”
Her hands stop, and she turns to look at me. The blues of her eyes meet mine. “Why are you here, Trent? It’s late.”
“Can’t I just be here to see my mother?”
She raises her brow.
She knows me too well.
“Is this about the girl? I saw her here. Apparently, you want her to clean toilets.”
Margret. The blabbermouth.
“It’s not about her,” I lie.
She nods. But I know she doesn’t believe me.
She goes back to her plant. “We can remove the plant. Distance it. Allow it time to heal on its own.”
“And if the time away doesn’t help?”
She sighs. “Then there is no helping the plant . . .”
“And then what happens?”
“It dies alone.”