Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
33
Payton
I’m being a baby,but I’ve never left a place faster than I left Trent’s.
I don’t know what part is driving me out of my mind more—the fact that he kissed me or the fact that he pushed me away so fast as if I was something disgusting.
He treats me like a gnat that is buzzing around his head, annoying him. Like his only objective is to swat and kill me.
It sucks.
Majorly.
And the killing blow is when Gail told me Trent left with her. The blonde. Who knows where they even went? Did they go for drinks? Is it a date?
Since I have no clue, I refuse to be there when he gets home.
Sure, the loft space is large, but it’s not large enough that I wouldn’t know if he brought a girl home.
The sound in this place echoes, too.
I would die if I had to hear him sleep with her.
I don’t know why I care.
Correction: I shouldn’t care, but I know why I do.
It’s because he’s weaseled his way past my barriers in ways I vowed never to let anyone do.
How can I give a shit about what some jackass does (or whom he does) when he’s been trying to make my life a living hell for the past several weeks?
Add up the time from the day we met, and it’s been twelve—no, not twelve. It’s been fourteen weeks since this man began his quest to ruin me. The fact that I care about him is an insult to the word self-respect.
So, why do I?
Once the adrenaline of finishing his task faded, why did it gut me so much to see his reaction to my presentation?
Because you saw inside him. That’s why.
I saw a piece of him that he didn’t want me to see, and now I understand.
Or maybe, you understand nothing.
Maybe the truth is, everything was a façade. Maybe he really is a jerk, plain and simple, and there is no good side. Maybe he’s not a lost little boy looking for his dad’s approval, even after his death. Maybe his mom’s words were mere ramblings of a biased woman who can’t help but love her son.
Get a grip, Payton.
As I ride the train back to Long Island, the hairs on my arm stand like someone is watching me.
I know I’m being paranoid. It’s the residual effect of the phone calls, the break-in, the strange truck that I swear was following me. These weird things, things I should confront Trent about but keep forgetting to, make me on edge. Twenty-four seven.
I feel the adrenaline spiking.
Is this Trent’s doing still?
Wouldn’t put it past him. There is a very good possibility he is doing things to drive me insane.
That’s probably the goal.
Has it all been about money this entire time?
If I am deemed insane, if I have a mental breakdown, he will petition the court so that I am not able to get the money, or maybe even worse.
He will position himself in a way to hold the money over me throughout my life.
It’s fine. You’re fine.
No one’s following me.
No one knows I’m even gone.
Trent doesn’t know where I am.
I don’t believe my bullshit, palming my phone just in case. But knowing Trent, he probably had one of his goons deactivate it again.
And this is a man you kissed back.
I force myself to relax. I’m not doing anything illegal. I can take a little break. Trent never said I have to be at his place every minute of every day. He just said I have to live with him. Not one time did he state that I cannot stay with Heather for a few days.
Or at least tonight.
As long as I maintain everything else, it’s totally reasonable.
A sleepover, a little girl time, is exactly what I need.
Throughout the rest of the ride, I still feel as though something is wrong. Maybe Trent is having me followed.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
He has the money to. And the astounding lack of boundaries.
Of course, he would.
Anyone who has gone through betrayal from a father would not be above having me followed. I know because if I had the money, I would have someone track Erin. Make sure she’s still alive. That whatever sicko she’s dating isn’t getting her into something dangerous and destructive.
But you don’t have the money. And whose fault is that?
My stomach growls out of nowhere.
I forgot to eat.
Maybe I have a protein bar in my bag. Normally, I carry something to munch on since I’m always running around.
I start to go through my bag to look for a snack. When I get to the small side compartment, my finger slips through a hole in the bottom.
Dammit. This is a new bag, and it’s already torn.
It feels like something is stuck in there, too.
Carefully, I probe the hole to see what it is. When I find the small object, I fish it out.
I stare at it, brows furrowed. It’s some kind of weird black metal device in my grasp. Never held one in my life before. It reminds me of a USB flash drive.
Lifting it up to get a closer view, I realize that’s not what it is at all because there is no plug for the computer.
That’s when I realize where I’ve seen it . . .
Every stupid spy movie I ever watched flashing before my eyes.
It’s a tracking device.
Trent isn’t having me followed; Trent is fucking tracking me.
He already mentioned his access to my phone. Now I realize he put a tracking device in my bag as well. Probably because he knows if I don’t want him to find me, I could turn my phone off. This, I can’t get rid of, because I didn’t know about it.
A great idea forms.
That’s exactly what I should do. I should turn my phone off, but first, I keep it in my palm and head down the aisle. Normally, I would never go in a train’s bathroom, but I find my sense of humor at the idea of one of his men going into the public bathroom of a train to locate me.
I can’t stop laughing at the thought. I can’t stop laughing until I bump into someone.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, but the man just grunts, his head down as he walks away.
It reminds me of the jackass who bumped into me on the street the day that Trent cleaned my leg.
The day he touched me. Really touched me.
The day a part of me ignited and lit a fire that has yet to be put out.
His lips.
It’s as if I were branded.
I can feel his mouth on mine.
No, don’t think about that.
He’s not a good guy.
He’s a jerk.
He’s the reason I left tonight.
I need to remember this every time I think of his lips on mine . . . Trent Aldridge walked out after kissing me to go do whatever it is he is doing tonight with his date.
Finally, in the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. It’s dirty, and my reflection looks cracked.
It makes me look as sad as I feel.
Removing the tracking device from the palm of my hand, I search for a place to leave it.
A place where it won’t shut off, then he will have to search for it.
I decide to place it on the floor behind the toilet. Holding my breath, I kneel and drop it.
My gag reflex kicks in, and I’m sure I will vomit, but I hold it in.
Pushing the feeling down, I stand.
Good.
Take that.
I hope he’s the one who looks.
I hope he vomits all over himself.
It would be the best karma a girl can have.