The Ruthless Heir

Erica’s [POV]

In the aftermath of our fight, days pass, eventually turning into weeks. During that time, Judge and I revert to what we know best. He loses himself in his work and whatever else he’s been hiding from me. At night, he sneaks into the bedroom once he thinks I’m asleep to lay on his side and leave before I wake. There have been several times when I felt him turn toward me, his hand hovering just above my arm or hip. Once, he even brushed the hair back from my face. But he hasn’t taken it further, and I suspect he may hold himself to it this time. It’s a gut-wrenching realization, but at the same time, I know we’re both too stubborn to give in.

He hasn’t outright told me what the rules are or why guards are hovering about the property outside, but instead uses them as his carrier pigeons, delivering grunted messages that I’m not allowed out. I’m imprisoned again for reasons he doesn’t think I need to know, and my only contact with the outside world is the phone he gave me, which I’m fairly certain is linked to his. I don’t doubt he can see everything on it, so I have to be careful what I say or do, but I know with every passing day, it’s time to seriously consider my options.

The first and most viable option is to approach my brother, but right now that’s not even possible with the current circumstances. I’ve been texting him occasionally for reports on Ivy and the baby, and he’s given me terse replies. At least, that was until last week, when he sent me a message to inform me the baby had been born healthy and was being well cared for. It was a happy and sad moment as I stared at the first photo of my niece from a screen. But the news wasn’t all good because when I asked, there was still no improvement with Ivy. I didn’t have to hear Santiago’s voice to feel his heartbreak. What started as a war had evolved into something else, and in my present circumstances, I can finally understand that.

I feel remorse for the way I’ve treated Ivy. I feel partially responsible for what happened to her too. And I wish more than anything I hadn’t held on to my anger for so long. Being where I am now, I can see things through a different lens. I can see her humanity, her fragility, and the simple truth is that she and I aren’t all that different. We are both trapped in a world we’ve been trying to navigate the only way we know how. Her captor was my brother, and mine is Judge. And despite all odds, Santi has developed feelings for her. Feelings I have no doubt are love. I feel it’s only fair that one of us gets their happy ending, and I find myself praying every day for her recovery so that it can be her.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I’ve considered contacting Clifton. When I told Judge I needed to find a husband, I wasn’t just goading him. The thought entered my mind more than a few times already that I can only make the best of the situation I’m in. I’m a hostage to The Society until I can either convince Santi to give me my portion of the inheritance I’m owed or find someone to marry me. Judge has made it clear it won’t be him, and if I truly intend to protect myself, I can’t allow him to find out what I’ve done.

Like in any other hostage situation, the only way out is through negotiation. Clifton is a Sovereign Son, but he’s unwed because he’s looking for an affluent wife to pad his bank account. The Phillips line isn’t nearly as wealthy as the De La Rosas, and my dowry is undoubtedly a shiny, bright beacon to him. He isn’t at all romantic, and I realize now that I shouldn’t be either. We can make a business deal. I could tell him the truth about my situation, and he would agree to it because the benefit to him outweighs any feelings he might have about my circumstances. We could have a shotgun wedding, sign the contract, and live in harmony as roommates who are free to do as they please with nobody being any wiser.

It all sounds good in theory, but as I type out a draft message to the phone number I’d hidden in my clutch, I’m still not convinced I can bring myself to do it. A wave of nausea rolls over me at the prospect of bearing his family crest on my neck. It feels like a betrayal, a hot knife to the heart. But what choice do I have?

I write the text over and over again, rewording it, trying to remain vague but interested as I propose we have a conversation at the next Society event two weeks from now. There’s no guarantee I’ll be able to sneak off to do that, but I’ll have to try if I plan to follow through with this. The alternative is being locked up like a prisoner with a man who runs so hot and cold that he’ll never agree to my release or my capture.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“Fucking hell.” I toss the phone aside with a sigh and collapse onto the bed. “It shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Everything okay, dear?” Lois pops her head through the doorway, and I glance up at her with a smile.

“Yes, of course. I’m just… having a moment.”

“We all do.” Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Your friends are here for afternoon tea.”

“Oh.” I spring up eagerly. “Thank you so much.”

She beams at my eagerness, the first she’s seen in days. I’ve been sleeping far too much and have been less than excited about all the delicious food she prepares, which I feel guilty about. But I just haven’t felt like myself.

Getting up, I follow Lois out the doorway and down to the sitting room, where Solana and Georgie are waiting for me. They’re studying the cute little towers of pastries and finger sandwiches Lois has prepared for today, quietly bickering about who gets what.

“There are plenty more in the kitchen,” Lois assures them with a laugh before she takes her to leave. “I always make way too much.”

They thank her, and their gazes snap at me as I join them.

“Hey.” Solana pulls me in for a hug first, followed by Georgie, who then holds me at arm’s length.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I force a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He bites his lip in the way he does when he’s concerned. “You just… look a little pale.”

“It’s nothing.” I wave it off. “I’ve just been feeling blah this week.”

“Well, you’re going to love this creepy-ass gift from Madame Dubois then.” Solana chuckles as she hands me a brown paper bag. “She insisted I must bring this to you.”

“Oh, God, what is it?” I peek inside and take a sniff.

“Ginger tea,” Solana informs me. “She said she had a feeling you’d need it.”

“Huh?” I murmur, my brow furrowing.

“I’m telling you, that woman scares the bejeezus out of me.” Georgie shudders. “I kid you not, last week she brought me a box of Band-Aids. Two hours later, I sliced my thumb clean open with a pair of shears.”

“Told you she was the real deal.” Solana snorts. “And here everyone thought I was crazy for bringing her into the shop.”

“Well, please thank her for me.” I set the tea aside absently.

“Okay, can we dig in?” Georgie’s eyes drift back to the food. “I’m starving.”

Solana and I laugh in acknowledgment, and we all fill our plates with entirely too much. I’m not even that hungry, but it all looks amazing, and I don’t want to hurt Lois’s feelings when she went into the trouble of doing this. Regardless, I’m fairly certain Georgie will eat the whole damned display himself if we let him.

We sit down and start to chatter between bites when a big glob of mayonnaise from one of the sandwiches squishes from the bread into my mouth and makes my stomach roil. Solana pauses, her macaron halfway to her lips.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, but another wave of nausea rolls over me, and I know I’m not. I barely have the grace to set the plate aside without spilling the contents before I’m up on my feet and running to the nearest bathroom, where I proceed to puke my guts out.

I’m clinging to the toilet seat, my head a sweaty mess when I hear Solana’s voice behind me.

“Oh, God,” she chokes out. “The ginger tea…”

I blink up at her, too weak to deny my current reality.

“You have to swear you won’t tell anyone,” I beg. “Not even Georgie. Not yet, okay?”

Her eyes go wide, and she looks like she might be sick too. “Does Judge… I mean… are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.” I whimper as another wave of nausea steals my breath. “But I’ll need you to bring me a test this week and then take it away when you leave again.”

She looks at me uncertainly. “Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “I just need some time.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll do it. I’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you.” I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing. “It turns out I might need that tea after all.”