“Your word doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know you. Which brings me to my final question—why should I help you?”

What kind of question was that? Why did normal people usually help others? Because it was the decent thing to do. But Cillian Fitzpatrick wasn’t normal nor decent. He didn’t play by the rules.

I opened my mouth, searching my brain for a good answer.

“Thirty seconds, Persephone.” He tapped the hourglass, watching me.

“Because you can?”

“The number of things I can do with my money is infinite.” He yawned.

“Because it’s the right thing to do!” I cried out.

He picked up one of the brochures on his desk, flipping through it.

“I’m a nihilist.”

“I don’t know what that means.” I felt the tips of my ears reddening in shame.

“Right or wrong are the same side of the coin for me, presented differently,” he said impassively. “I have no morals or principles.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Really?” He looked up from the brochure, his face a stone mask of cruelty. “The saddest thing I’ve heard recently is a woman who got screwed over by her no-show husband and was about to get trafficked, murdered, or both.”

“Exactly!” I exhaled, pointing at him. “Yes! See? If something happens to me, it will be on your conscience.”

My lower lip trembled. As always, I kept my tears at bay.

He tossed the brochure across his desk.

“First of all, as I mentioned not two seconds ago, I have no conscience. Second, whatever happens to you is on you and the complete and utter buffoon you married. I’m not another item on your pile of bad decisions.”

“Marrying Paxton wasn’t a bad decision. I married for love.”

This sounded pathetic, even to my own ears, but I wanted him to know. To know I hadn’t been twiddling my thumbs, pining for him all those years.

“All middle-class girls do.” He checked the time on the hourglass. “Very uninspiring.”

“Cillian,” I said softly. “You’re my only hope.”

Other than him, my only option was to disappear. Run away from my family and friends, from everything I knew, loved, and cherished.

From the life I’d built for the past twenty-six years.

He adjusted the tie clasped under his waistcoat.

“Here’s the thing, Persephone. As a matter of principle, I do not give anything away without getting something back. The only thing separating myself and that loan shark who’s after you is a privileged upbringing and opportunity. I, too, am not in the business of handing out free favors. So unless you tell me what, exactly, I could gain for the one hundred thousand dollars you’re asking me to kiss goodbye, I’m going to turn you down. You have ten seconds, by the way.”

I stood there, cheeks ablaze, eyes burning, every muscle in my body taut as a bowstring. A cold shiver ran down my back.

I wanted to scream. To lash out. To collapse on the floor in cinders. To claw his eyes out and bite and wrestle him and…and do things I never wanted to do to anyone, my enemies included.

“Five seconds.” He tapped the hourglass. His snake-like eyes sparkled in amusement. He was enjoying this. “Give me your best offer, Penrose.”

Did he want me to give him my body?

My pride?

My soul?

I wouldn’t do that. Not for Byrne. Not for him. Not for anyone.

The remaining seconds dripped like life leaving Auntie Tilda’s body.

His finger hit a red button on the side of his desk.

“Have a nice life, Flower Girl. Whatever’s left of it, anyway.”

He swung his chair to the window, documents in hand, ready to return to his work. The glass door behind me burst open, and two brawny men in suits stomped in, each grabbing me by an arm to drag me outside.

Casey waited by the elevator bank with her arms crossed and shoulder propped over the wall, her cheeks flushed with humiliation.

“It’s not every day security takes out the trash. Guess there’s a first time for everything.” She flipped her hair, cackling like a hyena.

I spent the entire bike ride to North End fighting back the tears.

My last and only chance just went up in flames.

“We’re pregnant.”

Hunter made the announcement at the dinner table. I wanted to wipe his shit-eating grin with a disinfectant.

Or my fist.

Or a bullet.

Breathe, Kill. Breathe.

His wife, Sailor, rubbed her flat stomach. Generally speaking, she was about as maternal as a chewable thong, so I wasn’t quite sure any of these idiots were capable of taking care of anything more complex than a goldfish.

“Eight weeks in. Still early, but we wanted to let you know.”

I kept my expression blank, cracking my knuckles under the table.

Their timing couldn’t have been worse.

Mother darted from her seat with an ear-piercing squeak, throwing her arms over the happy couple to smother them with kisses, hugs, and praises.

Aisling went on and on about how being an aunt was a dream come true, which would have alarmed me about her life goals if it wasn’t for the fact she was about to finish med school and start her residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. Athair shook Hunter’s hand like they’d signed a lucrative deal.

In a way, they had.

Gerald Fitzpatrick made it perfectly clear he expected heirs from his sons. Spawns to continue the Fitzpatrick legacy. I was the first in line, the eldest Fitzpatrick, and therefore was burdened with the mission not only to produce successors but to also ensure one of them was a male who would take the reins of Royal Pipelines, regardless of his love for business and/or capabilities.

If I hadn’t had children, the title, power, and fortune would all be given to the offspring next in line to the throne. Hunter’s kid, to be exact.

Athair—father in Irish Gaelic—gave his daughter-in-law an awkward pat on the back. He was big—in height, width, and personality—with a shock of silver hair, onyx eyes, and pale skin.

“Great job there, sweetheart. Best news we’ve had all year.”

I checked my pulse discreetly under the table.

It was under control. Barely.

Everyone’s heads turned to me. Ever since my father stepped down and appointed me as the CEO of Royal Pipelines less than a year ago, I’d been bumped up to the leader of the pack and took the seat at the head of the table during our weekend dinners.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Mother played with her pearl necklace, smiling tightly.

I raised my tumbler of brandy. “To more Fitzpatricks.”

“And to the men who make them.” Athair downed his liquor in one go. I met his jab with a frosty smirk. I was thirty-eight—eleven years Hunter’s senior—unmarried, and childless.

Marriage was very low on my to-do list, somewhere under amputating one of my limbs with a butter knife and bungee jumping sans a rope. Children weren’t an idea I was fond of. They were loud, the boring kind of dirty, and needy. I had been postponing the inevitable. Marrying had always been the plan because producing heirs and paying my dues to the Fitzpatrick lineage wasn’t something I’d dreamed of worming out of.