He is dressed in a tailored suit and his shoes are so shiny, I could probably see my reflection in them if I bent down. This is how he dresses, I remind myself, but he makes the apartment I’d been so happy to find and afford feel small and squalid.
I stand there, desperately wishing I could run away from this confrontation but not wanting to act like a coward in front of my son.
“Barron, please go wait in your room. I will come get you when we are done.”
“But, Mama…” he starts, his huge eyes eating up Holt like an archangel has come to pay visit,
“You will not like it if I have to ask you twice,” I answer before he can finish that sentence.
A moment of silence passes, then soft footsteps signal he’s decided today won’t be the day to see whether he’ll like it or not.
Holt’s intense gaze shifts from me to our son, following him out of the room before it returns to me. “He reminds me of myself when I was a kid. I always thought I was smart enough to stay with the adults when my dad visited. And I never understood why they always sent me away.”
“What do you want, Holt?” I ask. Then I brace myself, waiting for the latest threat.
But after a long moment, Holt sighs and says, “Look…I…my father…”
I wait. Fascinated because I have never seen him at a loss for words.
But in the end, he huffs and says, “I’m dropping the suit for full custody.”
I am not like Holt. I cannot hide my emotions behind a stony façade. My utter surprise registers across my face before I can stop it. But I recover quickly, composing myself before I say, “Yes, I heard your father was arrested for trying to kill Kyle Drinnen and plotting to kill me. So now this has become a case you cannot win.”
“You think this is about me being afraid I can’t win against you in court?” He shakes his head, eyes hardening. But then just as quick, his expression goes soft again. “No, Sylvie, if I wanted to take full custody of Barron, I could. I’ve got the money and the power and that’s what my father would do. But…I’m not my father. I thought that’s who I had to become to get what I wanted, to keep myself from ever being hurt again. But turns out my father is a sociopath. He thinks power and money are more important than human lives. And I don’t care how upset I was with you, I would never have tried to kill you. And the fact that you think I would do that, even for a second, shows me how many wrong turns I’ve made with you.”
He shakes his head again. “Listen, Sylvie, you know my story. Know how my mother died. I don’t have any excuses for the last few months, except that I couldn’t figure out any other way to keep you. I don’t…I’m not good with love, I guess. The last woman I truly loved killed herself, and I could see it coming but there was nothing I could do about it. She slipped through my hands. So, I held on to you. I tried to trap you, and I scared you enough to believe I wouldn’t be a good dad to Barron. I’m sorry for doing that.”
I stare at him wide-eyed. Unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You are apologizing to me? Forgiving me?” I ask him. “Just like that? Even though I kept Barron from you all this time?”
His eyes shift to the arched doorway Barron left through. “At the end of the day, he’s not completely fucked up. And that is because you raised him, not me. He’s great and smart and mentally stable, for reasons that have nothing to do with me. But instead of thanking you for being the parent I wasn’t capable of being, I tried to take him from you. Because of my pride. I’m sorry. But…I’m going to prove to you that I’ve changed. Weekends. That’s all I’m asking for now until I prove I can be the kind of dad you’ll want to share custody with.”
I continue to stare at him in disbelief, not knowing what to say about his big change of heart…until suddenly, I do.
“No,” I say to him.
His body stiffens, going rigid as if my “no” has sent a bullet through his gut.
“You won’t even let me have weekends?” he asks, his voice coarse with pained shock.
“No, I won’t let you have weekends,” I answer, my tone hard. For the first time in my life, I feel strong in his presence.
“Ten years ago, you fought to keep me from running. And then you fought to put us back together in Mexico. You tried to offer me everything I ever wanted in Arkansas, and I planned to run away from you again. Because even though I tried to be perfect, I’m not and I was afraid you’d reject and hate me when you found out just how imperfect I am. I was always trying to run before you could push me away like my mother. But I have one question for you now, Holt Calson. Do you love me? Even after I ran, even after I kept Barron from you. Do you still love me? Can you still love me?”
His expression changes, his blue eyes softening as he answers, “Sylvie, with you it’s never been a matter of if I still love you. The real question, the only question, is will I ever be able to stop loving you. And the answer to that question is no.”
I shake my head, my heart singing like a kalimba inside my chest. “In that case, you cannot have weekends. I am fighting back now. Standing up for myself and for our son. And if you want to have a relationship with us, you must let us move back in. You must let us try to be a family together with you and Wes as we are so obviously meant to be—or why else would the universe have put us back together in Mexico? From now on, I am fighting for us, Holt. And in this case, I will not settle for anything else.”
My heart is all the way inside my throat. But for the first time in my life, I am absolutely certain that what I am saying, what I am doing, is right. And I don’t take back what I’ve said. I don’t back down or soften my stance.
Instead, I wait for his answer.
Which comes instantly, like the sun suddenly obliterating a rainy day. A wide, heartbreakingly handsome smile spreads across his face, followed by the rich sound of his laughter.
Then he steps forward and pulls me into his arms for a kiss worthy of a girl who has finally stopped running from her prince.
Chapter Forty-Nine
We don’t move back in with Holt the next day. We move back in within the hour. I have never been so grateful for the minimalist lifestyle Barron and I took on when we moved to employee housing in Mexico as I am when Mika opens one of the front doors for Wes. He comes running into my arms when he sees Barron and myself coming up the driveway with our one rolling suitcase each.
There are no negotiations this time. We sit down together at the table to discuss how it will be with us, and everyone asks for what they want. Wes wants to start having father-son days with him, Holt, and Barron. Barron wants to continue sequencing Wes’s emotions and start having lunches at the Cal-Mart offices once a month—to discuss shared family history and try out all the beta versions of the videogames Holt told him are often sent to the marketing department. I want Sundays to be family days. No work, no schoolwork. Then Holt shocks everyone by saying he wants me to be his wife…and he produces a lovely solitaire to go with the question.
“Say yes! Say yes!” the boys yell at me.
But the ring is so small and understated, I have to ask, “How long have you had this?”
Holt shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But I believe it does. “Since Arkansas?” I ask him.
He shakes his head.
“Before that?” I ask.
“Yeah, before that,” Holt answers, voice tight.
And I guess, “That day you came to Hartford. You had it then, didn’t you?”
This time he nods, emotion shining in his eyes. He tells me the story of going into the liquor store and buying it off the lady behind the counter, because even though it was small, it reminded him of me, simple and beautiful. “But this is a temporary one. I’ll get you a nicer one later,” he promises. “Whatever you want—”
I cut him off by taking his ring out of the box and jamming it onto my wedding ring finger. “No, this one,” I tell him. “And I am never taking it off.”
That night, we all get what we want
with hugs and kisses and congratulations all around.
After our second implosion in Arkansas, I suspected Holt’s and my relationship had been one born of extremes. We were obsessed with each other because we could never fully have each other. And our powerful connection in bed was based on those extremes.
But that night, these suspicions fade away. We make love for hours, from behind, face to face, side by side…like we’re auditioning for the Kama Sutra. Not because we’re desperate to hang on to each other, but because we’re finally at peace and know the other won’t leave.
We have seen the worst of each other, and we love each other despite it. Just as Holt vowed to be the father he wished he’d had to our sons, he vows to be the husband he wished his mother had to me. And in return, I promise to build a life with him, a family with him, one I’ll never ever fail to fight for again.
Holt Calson wants me. And so Holt Calson has me. I belong to him. So, that—I am deliriously happy to proclaim that night—is how it will be.
Want to see more of Holt’s and Sylvie’s happy ever after? Keep swiping for a very special preview of the next extremely hot story in the Ruthless Tycoons series, ZAHIR: Her Ruthless Sheikh, which features a wedding for Holt and Sylvie.
Did you know the Ruthless Tycoons series is a spin-off of my Very Bad Fairgoods series? If you loved this book, make sure to check out those deliciously bad southern alphas.
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Dearest Wonder Readers,
Deep breath… I nearly scrapped my back of the novel letter this time, because it was so difficult to write. Just like this story. Holt and Sylvie are probably my hardest couple to date, because they had so many real—like for real REAL problems. Many of which they didn’t fully understand themselves, until with each other’s help they finally did.
When this couple first presented to me as a story, all I knew was that he overdosed and that she didn’t think he had any business being interested in her in the first place. Exploring what happened both before and after they fell apart has been both heart-wrenching and instructive.
My own mother died when I was 19, so writing another character who lost a parent around the same age felt very close to home. What would have been my mother’s 70th birthday also happened during the writing of this book and wow… let’s just say telling this story helped me more than you can ever know. So thank you for receiving it.
But in the end, I’m so glad Holt and Sylvie discovered the power we all have within ourselves… to forgive … to parent… to fight back and for… to love each other… and to happily ever after, knowing that we’ve become the people we needed to be to deserve this big love from family, friends, and partners alike.
Such tights hugs,
Theodora Taylor
ZAHIR
Her Ruthless Sheikh
Dude, it was just one kiss. ONE kiss. But kissing in public isn't allowed in Jahwar. And now I've been compelled to give the King of Jahwar my hand in marriage. He's so cold. So polite. But not behind closed doors.
"I'm very much going to enjoy breaking you," he says, just moments after we become temporary husband and wife.
And now I'm about to find out the very, very sexy way...
Revenge is best served WIFE.
I
HIS TO DENY
Chapter One
“Do you even want this job, Ms. Jones?” the woman on the other side of the phone asks. Her voice is so reedy with anger, you’d think I just told her I couldn’t come into the office to defuse a bomb instead of attend an all-hands-on-deck filing.
I try not to sigh audibly as I glance out the taxi’s window at Jahwar’s ultra-modern skyline. According to the internet, Jahwar is the largest and most populous city state in the United Arab Kingdoms. But I’m only getting brief glimpses of it as I talk to the associates manager from Liederman-Frankel, the intellectual property law firm I’ve been working at as a first-year associate since I finished law school last December. I’ve only been there for two months, not even long enough for my benefits to kick in, and from the sound of the associates manager’s deeply annoyed tone, I may not make it to that special three-month mark.
Do I want this job? Real talk…not really. Anyone who tries to tell you intellectual property law isn’t boring AF is probably spending most of their paycheck on drugs.
But do I need this job? Yes. Yes, I do. The money Asir and I made during the heyday of our His Majesty appearances was either embezzled by my father or got swallowed up in the estate case after his death. The grace period for the student loans I took out to finish school will end in less than four months. And let’s not even talk about the property taxes on the Alpine mansion in Northern Jersey, which is the only thing from my father’s hip-hop “empire” I’ve managed to hang on to.
With those details in mind, I answer pretty damn truthfully, “Yes, I want this job. And I am sorry I can’t come in this weekend. Believe me, I would if I could. But I’m in Jahwar for my best friend’s wedding—which I mentioned I would be going to in my interview…”
“Yes, you did mention it,” the associates manager concedes, “But I don’t see a formal request for time off in our system…”
I bite down hard to keep from pointing out that since my benefits still haven’t kicked in, I’m technically not eligible for time off or else I certainly would have asked for it. As it was, I’d been forced to leave work on Friday night for Jahwar and would have to leave shortly after the Saturday wedding to make it back in time for work on Monday. Now, if I’d had the choice, I would have preferred to make this expensive 12-hour trip without a one-day turn around and a quick change into my bridesmaid’s dress at the Jahwar airport.
But hey, I have two eighteen-year-old wards, student loans, and astronomical property taxes, so I needed this job more than I needed to yell at the associates manager for getting pissy with me for not coming in on what’s supposed to be my day off.
Also, the taxi has come to a stop in front of the largest set of wrought iron gates I have ever seen in real life. They have to be at least twenty feet tall with what look like solid gold versions of the UAK’s coat of arms attached to each gate.
“This is as far as I can take you,” the taxi driver, who’s dressed in a white button-up shirt and black tie, tells me. And as two guards in black jumpsuits and black berets approach the car, I tell the manager, “I’m sorry. I’ll be 100% there on Monday. And I won’t ever let you down again…”
Little do I know, that turns out to be a promise I can’t possibly keep.
Technically, I arrive at the Jahwar palace right on time for the wedding. But no less than five security check points and one pat down by a female guard in a dark black jump suit later, I’m running through the palace front doors nearly forty minutes late…
Only to stop short when I’m greeted by two escalators with an elevator in-between.
Who the hell needs two escalators and an elevator for their crib? I wonder. I’m about to ask the guards flanking the inside of the front doors where the wedding is, when two voices call out, “Prin! Prin!”
I spot Sasha and Kasha, my biracial twin sisters, waving frantically at the top of the left-side escalator. They’re wearing full makeup making them look a good ten years older than their recently-turned-eighteen years. But instead of the bodycon dresses they usually wear for their performances, the twins are rocking silky long-sleeved blouses with African print pencil skirts that reach past their knees. And the silky curls they usually wear down, have been pulled back into stylish buns.
“I like this look on you!” I squee when the escalator deposits me in front of them. Then I gather them up into a double hug because it’s been nearly ten days since I let them skip out on school and put them on a plane to complete all the pre-wedding work I should have been doing as Sylvie’s maid of honor.
“I missed you!” I say, squeezing them extra tigh
t.
“We missed you, too,” Kasha answers, squeezing me back just as tightly.
Sasha also gives me a squeeze, but it’s super brief and she soon pulls away with an abrupt, “You’re late. Everybody’s waiting for you.”
This is why, despite having different mothers, and me leaving for Beaumont when they were only four, it’s always been so easy for me to tell my identical twin sisters apart. While Kasha keeps it bubblier than a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Sasha always seems to be focused on an internal clock only she can see. Proving why my father named their act Perfect Sync, Sasha leads us down several hallways right to where Sylvie and the rest of the wedding party are waiting for us outside a huge set of double doors…only to pull back to the rear as we approach the group.
“She’s here!” Kasha sings in a dramatic falsetto, as if my late arrival had been the plan all along.
Almost everyone standing at the double doors laughs at Kasha’s theatrics, including the two guards hovering discreetly in the background. They’re not dressed in jumpsuits like the other palace guards, but in fully-tailored business suits. So I’m assuming they must be part of a special security detail specifically assigned to Zahir…the only person in the wedding party who didn’t laugh at my heralded late arrival.
But unfortunately for me, Zahir is the one person whose opinion I have to care about the most today.
How is it possible he’s become even more intimidating? I wonder as the twins pass between us, so they can take their seats with the rest of the waiting guests on the other side of the double doors. Zahir stands a good foot above my sisters and the other women in the party, so despite my height in heels, I have to tilt my head back to take him in. He’s rocking a full beard now. And he’s dressed in a western tuxedo, same as Luca, the groom’s other tall best friend—who also happens to be a major Jersey mafia don and the ex of my former boss, Amber. However, unlike his mafia friend who could be easily mistaken for a male model, Zahir still manages to exude a “yeah, I’m the king of all this shit” vibe, despite the matching tuxedo.
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