“I’m never leaving,” he said.
“You should.”
He turned his body toward me, grabbing both hands in his. I turned mine toward his, squeezing my legs between his.
“You’re my family. You’re my blood.” He brought up my right hand and kissed the palm, where my scar was already fading, but the pledge would forever stay. “I love you.”
I started to cry then, gasping sobs pushing out of my chest. I loved him so much. Logan wrapped his arms around me and pressed me to him. I tucked my face into his neck and sobbed harder, big fat tears falling down my face. It felt like I’d finally opened myself up to the possibility of letting go of the sadness I’d been carrying. I wasn’t stupid though, I knew sadness came in waves, and just as it was leaving me now, it would be back.
“I want you forever, Amelia,” he said against my hair. “And forevermore after that.”
Epilogue
Logan
It had been six months. Two of Amelia dwelling in her sadness and four of her taking action and refusing to succumb to it. She’d been seeing a therapist. We’d all seen the damn therapist. She was against going in the beginning, so I signed up with her. And then Nolan signed up. And then Nora did. And then Marcus. And Lincoln. And Annette and Beatriz all the way in Scotland said they would as well if we thought it would help. So, we were all going to therapy once a week. I went for her, but stayed for myself. I hadn’t even realized how much I needed it. Old trauma has a way of living in the cracks and waiting for the least expected time to show up.
Felipe Bastón hadn’t come around. Nor had Ella Valentine. They were both absent in the yearly holiday gala and even though the whispers around the room had been about them, their presence hadn’t been missed. I tried to put a petition in to have them removed from the board, but it was knocked down before it could even reach any of the other board member’s desk. It didn’t surprise me. There was money, and then there was money. As long as they weren’t hurting innocent people, the current Eight was okay with it, and from what we could tell, the only ones who had been hurt throughout all of this were the ones with ties to Felipe Bastón directly—Lana, Lincoln, and Amelia.
Felipe didn’t have much left, aside from his billions, but what good was that if you had nobody who loved you to share it with? His wife filed for divorce. His sons were at odds with him. Lincoln wouldn’t even speak to him. Soon enough, Amelia wouldn’t even share his last name. I was just waiting for the right time to put a ring on her finger. I wanted to do it in the hospital, but figured I should wait until she was herself again. These days, she was. She was back to taunting and flirting and was fully focused on writing for the paper until she graduated in four months. She’d already received two job offers, and even though she hadn’t said it, I could tell she was waiting for me to pick a city. I’d graduated after fall semester and was now waiting to see what teams were offering me. My agent had already gotten me an athletic clothing deal, and from that money alone, I could technically retire without having played one professional game. My agent said teams would have offered me a lot more, had I not chosen to attend Ellis and get my four-year degree. I didn’t care. I just needed enough money to afford me that cottage on a lake with my girl. Everything else was just the cherry on top.
About the Author
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Books by Claire Contreras
Pre-order Twisted Circles now!
Other Romantic suspense titles:
There is No Light in Darkness
Darkness Before Dawn
Because You’re Mine (mafia)
Books in Kindle Unlimited:
The Sinful King: The Sinful King
The Naughty Princess: Get The Naughty Princess Now!
The Consequence of Falling - Enemies-to-lovers
The Player - Sports romance
Kaleidoscope Hearts - Brother’s best friend
Paper Hearts - Second chance romance
Elastic Hearts -Sexy, arrogant lawyer
The Wilde One -Music industry
Then There Was You - Childhood friends turned lovers
Fake Love - Fake fiance
Hostage
Hostage
By: Skye Warren & Annika Martin
Chapter 1
Brooke
I smile wide for the cameras from the Franklin City Herald-Star. The shots that get into the newspaper tomorrow will show a lucky girl surrounded by her friends and her adoring parents, daughter of one of the most powerful families in all of Franklin City, at her sweet-sixteen ball. If you’re looking at them online, you might enlarge them and see the pale pink embroidered roses around the sleeves and bodice of the white cocktail-length Givenchy gown I’m wearing.
What you won’t see is the blood in the water.
My dad always says you can’t let them smell blood. If the world is sharks, this whole party is about swimming past them, around them. Fooling them into believing you’re okay.
The pictures will never show that I’ve eaten two strawberries today because otherwise I won’t fit into the gown my mom bought from a consignment store. It’s a size too small, but it was cheap and this season. I told her it wasn’t a problem. I’d make it fit. People have to think it’s new.
Last year’s gown is blood in the water.
The cameras will never pick up that the smile on my father’s face is pure desperation. People see our family name—Carson—on cranes all over the city. Why would he be anything but happy?
They can never know that the great Carson Development empire is crumbling, little by little, and that this party is a lifeline. Or that I’ve hardly gotten any sleep over the past few nights because I keep having nightmares where I forgot to confirm the flowers or update the RSVP count for the caterers or get the DJ deposit in, and the party is deemed a disaster.
My mom couldn’t do much of the planning—she’s been working double shifts at a bakery in the next town to pay for this. Nobody can know that.
Nobody can know that this party is an elaborate charade.
Every member of Franklin City’s upper-crust elite throws their daughter a sweet-sixteen party. It’s our version of the debutante ball. Not to do it means you’re not one of the group. People do business with their kind.
Tomorrow morning, as people click to the Herald-Star on their phones or tablets and sip their coffee and flip through the pictures, they’ll see my mother smiling proudly, her slender arm draped around my shoulders.
What they won’t see is the tiny, burning little spot on the back of my arm where she pinched me to remind me of my posture. They won’t see how ashamed I felt that I’d forgotten again. Because I’m so tired. Because I’m trying so hard.