Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Through gritted teeth, I seethe, “Do. Not. Tell. Me. You. Have. Absolutely. Nothing. Park.”
His stoic demeanor doesn’t change. “I have eliminated possibilities.”
“It’s been almost three weeks!”
“I-”
“Three. Weeks. Park!”
“I-”
“I kept my wife locked in the on property medical suite with an around the clock armed guard for the first one-”
“I-”
“I kept her phone completely away from her the second for surveillance purposes-”
“I-”
“And now we are headed into week fucking three with no changes? No leads? No idea at all who the fuck is after my wife and son?!”
He presses his lips momentarily together prior to answering. “Correct, sir.”
“I don’t want to be correct, Park! I want answers!”
His mouth doesn’t move.
“I want suspects!”
Wisely, he remains silent.
“I want our lives back!”
Park nods his comprehension yet doesn’t verbally express it.
“Get me something.” My back slams itself further into my chair. “Contact our executive sources at Haworth Enterprises if necessary.” I begin weaving the object around my fingers. “I don’t care about the cost. Financial or other. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Park’s dismal barely precedes Hamilton’s cheery arrival. “Evening, Wilcox.”
It’s impossible not to sneer. “Why are you so chipper?”
“Maybe because it’s my first night off in forever, and I have a date with the most stunning neurologist.” His smug grin deepens my glare. “And before you ask, no. It’s not a conflict of interest for your wife’s primary physician to enjoy a glass of Screaming Eagle at Silver’s Steakhouse with one of her specialists.”
I wasn’t going to ask.
I was merely going to remind him that there’s no such thing as a “night off” when you’re a concierge doctor.
I call, he comes.
My wife calls, he comes.
My son sneezes questionably, and his ass will be at Wy’s door with a thermometer, tissues, and recommended amounts of orange juice for the next four to six days.
“I’m merely stopping by on my way out to check in with you.” He steps inside and slides one hand into his dress suit pocket. “Have you eaten today?”
“Breakfast.”
At least that’s what I consider the spoonful of parfait my son demanded I eat instead of him.
“Worked out?”
“Weights.”
“Cravings?”
“Constantly.”
His nod is filled with sympathy. “Called Sawyer?”
“No.”
“Don’t be afraid to,” Hamilton sternly scolds. “That’s what he’s on retainer for.”
The twirling of my chip mindlessly continues, doing everything it possibly can to provide me with solace.
“And given the instability of your current situation, maybe you should consider having him relocate to the property for a few weeks?”
I create a much-needed segue to return to work, “I will consider that right after I consider where I’d like the Dalvegan division to be located.” Diverting my gaze downward to the paperwork sprawled across my desk is instant. “Downtown would be ideal if it weren’t so densely populated by athletic operations.”
“Or perhaps you could pause those considerations to consider others?” Clark unexpectedly suggests, pulling my attention over to where he’s standing and Hamilton is leaving. “Perhaps ones involving spending more time with your family and less with that of which you tirelessly argued about before the incident?”
Guilt knocks my gaze elsewhere.
Prior to the abduction attempt, yes.
How much I worked was a point of contention.
A constant point of contention.
One so fucking strong it was the last thing we said to one another before my Bryn was taken from me.
Literally.
Taken.
Physically?
She’s the same only housing some darker bruises and healing scratches from her body scraping the road.
Her tattoos are all there.
Her messy buns remain.
Even her love of blue mascara has gone unchanged.
The beautiful brown skinned woman who barged her way into my life in low cut tank tops and tattered jeans and odd sunglasses is still here.
She’s still on the property.
She still orders PBJs as though she believes them to be superior to grilled cheese.
Physically, the woman I fell for is accounted for.
Mentally?
I live in the estate with a stranger.
A stranger that avoids making eye contact with me.
That hides around corners out of sight.
Is invited to participate in the simplest activities yet can’t.
Or won’t.
Or doesn’t believe she should.
One that won’t even hold a conversation with me long enough to flirt.
Gone is the woman who stood toe to toe with me about an issue, who pushed for my undivided attention during meals, who would spontaneously kidnap me to the aquarium room to watch our fish and fuck like the newlyweds we no longer were.
Our large family dinners have been continuing to occur in her absence.
Vanessa understands but clearly misses her best friend.
Calen understands and shows up with his wife in hopes of getting even a glance.
J.T. and Janae ceaselessly argue about the best method to proceed, each divided on the interpretation of the doctor’s orders, while Clark and Lauren merely take turns coddling their grandson when I can no longer stomach being around others.
The estate staff as well as those that tend to our needs at the penthouse daily ask about her wellbeing or wish her a speedy recovery, not truly understanding the depth of her condition.