Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Caleb
“So much for staying away from her, asshole,” I mutter to myself, the taste of her still lingering on my lips, haunting me. She’s driving me fucking insane. I can’t stop thinking about how good she feels, how good she tastes—even though I know I should.
The lawyer wants us back now. He’s convinced we tampered with the apartment to avoid returning. Ethan’s already working on identifying who really messed with the plumbing and caused the damage to the apartments below.
Max passed on some information he got from Charles—Emmersyn’s alleged father. Turns out they found his name on her birth certificate, but it was removed after the divorce. DNA testing confirmed he wasn’t her biological father. But something Zoe mentioned caught my attention. Apparently, Em used to live in Brooklyn while growing up.
She even got some certification to babysit at ten, and everyone in the building loved her—hence, her ability to calm Emma down twice last night.
When I told them she was just putting on an act, Max shot me a glare and said, “If that’s what keeps you happy, then believe the shit you want. But maybe you should stop and smell the roses before you fuck your life up again.”
Again? Like I messed it up the first time? It wasn’t . . . her, not really. It was her grandmother, always messing with my head. I was just working for her granddaughter, a servant nothing more. She would dispose of me—and she did. Then there was some lawyer who appeared out of nowhere, threatening me one minute and offering me a big sum of money the next. And then my parents?—
I can’t keep running this through my head without answers. My frustration bubbles over as I pull out my phone and dial Clarissa.
“Day three, and he calls again. This shit is getting scary,” my sister answers, her voice laced with humor that I’m in no mood for .
“Why me?” I cut through her bad joke, my tone sharp. This is important. I need more than her usual banter.
“What are we asking?” she replies, her tone shifting slightly, sensing my seriousness.
“Why did she offer me the job of becoming her husband?” I ask, though the words don’t quite capture the weight of what I’m really asking. “Why propose the deal to me? She didn’t even know me. There were other much better candidates to fulfill the role of Emmersyn Langley’s husband.”
Okay, the last part came out a little too jaded but that’s exactly what her grandmother said when she met me and when she paid me and . . . every chance she had she would remind me I was a nobody that didn’t deserve someone like her granddaughter.
Clarissa sighs, a long exhale. She starts to explain the timing—how our parents were both unemployed, Dad was in the hospital, and we had no insurance because Mom didn’t want to pay the premium from her severance package.
They thought we’d lose the house. Emmersyn offered to help, but Clarissa knew our parents would never accept it. They’re too proud, and Em wasn’t exactly their favorite person.
Clarissa had used Emmersyn as an excuse for her own bad behavior too many times. Some of those times, Em wasn’t even there, but it was just easier to say, “Emmersyn Langley dragged me into it, made me, gave me . . .” When Em explained that her trust fund wasn’t accessible until she got married—and how she was being pressured to marry one of the trust fund jerks her grandma had picked out—Clarissa thought I was the best candidate .
Emmersyn could dodge the jerks, and she could offer me the money we desperately needed to help our family.
“So, was this all your idea?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around it.
“It took a while to convince her,” she continues. “She didn’t want to marry a stranger. I . . .”
“What are you not telling me, Clarissa?” I demand, lowering my voice in warning.
“She decided to wait until she was twenty-five. Something about moving to the other side of the country, working hard and making it on her own. She didn’t need the money,” she says. “But if she did that, then our parents wouldn’t get the help they needed, so I convinced her to do it. I kind of pushed her, telling her our lives would be over if she didn’t help.”
I remember it right, those nights where we would discuss her future. She was thinking about moving to San Diego or . . . there were other states she could go that were more affordable than New York. She could work and one day go back to college.
“She didn’t need the money,” I say out loud. “She did it for them—for you.”
“Uh-huh,” she admits. “She didn’t buy you. She’s thoughtful you know? I know all the lies I said about her didn’t help. Like that pregnancy test at seventeen—it was mine. I wasn’t holding it for her. She was a virgin until . . . Well, I’m not sure when she lost it, but it was sometime during college, I think.”
It was . . . Fuck. Just the thought of that first time of how innocent but eager she was. We had been fooling around for awhile, some innocent kisses, touching her with clothes, making her ache wanting my hands and my mouth . . . her fingers. I had so much fucking fun teaching her how to touch herself while I told her what to do.
Until that night.