Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
ALEX
Walking down the curving staircase, Alex thought, Phil has to die. Tonight.
Seconds ago, he’d left the room he and Mia shared, then strode down the hallway, thinking of what he needed to do. What he had to do to save his business.
Kill Phil Richart.
Because of those damn notes.
Who the fuck had sent them?
He didn’t know but suspected the anonymous sender hadn’t done so because of guilt or some self-righteous moral reason. Sending the notes to Phil was an act of violence, a betrayal of the agreement the six of them made to keep their fucking mouths shut. Fifteen years ago, they’d vowed never to reveal the truth to Phil.
Alex couldn’t help feeling that whoever sent the notes wanted to attack him personally. Sending the notes was an act of outright defiance. Someone trying to show Alex that he wasn’t the boss of them. And yet, at the same time, the person was a fucking coward. The anonymous sender wasn’t trying to keep their identity from Phil. Whoever it was didn’t want Alex to discover what they’d done. Didn’t want him to know they’d betrayed his trust.
Alex reached the bottom of the stairway.
His stomach churned.
Had Mia sent Phil those fucking notes?
Tell him you know who sent those notes. Tell him … that it was me.
Alex cursed under his breath. Had Mia used misdirection against him, telling him the truth while knowing he wouldn’t believe her?
The corners of his mouth lifted. He was almost impressed. Almost, but not quite.
Alex had chosen Mia as his wife because he’d wanted a woman who would be submissive, willing to defer to his dictates and whims without protest. He’d wanted a woman like his mother, who knew her place within the framework of patriarchy and was not prone to feminist ideas. A woman who wouldn’t make demands of him, and in exchange for her subservience, would be protected and provided for. Basically, a woman who would do what the fuck he said, no questions asked.
Continuing down the long, dim hallway, Alex turned into the spacious kitchen. Crossing behind the island, he walked to one of the cabinet drawers and opened it. Glancing down, he scanned the utensils, looking for what he needed.
A knife.
A blade to slice open Phil’s throat.
Because Phil knew the truth. But that wasn’t the only reason why Alex wanted him dead, though the truth was certainly a good enough reason to kill him. Even more than that, Alex despised Phil. Always had. Hated Phil because he was wealthy and privileged. Because Phil had access and connections to a world Alex would never be part of, or accepted by, no matter how successful he was …
Alex recalled the first time he’d seen Phil, sitting a few rows away in the large auditorium where they took an economics class. Alex had known who Phil was. He’d known most of the wealthy oil and gas scions who attended the school … well, he’d known of them. None of them knew him. None of them wanted to know him, despite his attempts to make acquaintances. Nothing he did to garner their attention, or interest, worked. The trust fund bastards never bothered to interact with anyone beneath them, even out of pity. Not even by mistake. They were going to rule and run the world one day. Alex was a peasant. A cog. A worker bee.
He knew his place.
But he refused to accept it.
To succeed at WBU, Alex needed a sponsor. Some rich idiot who would take him under his wing, as a pet. He would be a foil, the butt of the joke, the jester when they held court. But Alex didn’t care. He wasn’t aiming to be friends with those assholes .
He needed to exploit their connections.
As he stared at Phil day after day in Econ 101, Alex decided Phil would be the guy he could use for clout. Though he was wealthy, Phil was ridiculed for his shabby looks and sloppy demeanor. Among his ilk, Phil was a chump, ignored and marginalized. Guys didn’t want to be him. Girls didn’t like him.
Phil tried to be like the other scions, tall, hyper-masculine guys who looked like they’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, but his attitude and attire were always just a bit off, too slightly out of place. Phil was tolerated, if not outright accepted, because of his powerful family, but rarely included.
Alex saw him floundering, struggling to fit in, but failing miserably, spectacularly.
He desperately needed something to elevate himself above his peers.
Phil needed a sycophant, Alex decided.
Alex presented himself as someone willing to do Phil’s bidding while at the same time encouraging Phil to use his money to raise his social status. With a gentle prod from Alex, who was always careful to give Phil credit for his ideas, Phil began procuring women, and finagling access to the hottest clubs, where he slipped money to promoters and DJs to shout out his presence at the venue.
Soon, Phil Richart was the guy at WBU everyone wanted to be associated with. And Alex installed himself as someone close to Phil. Someone with unfettered access to him. Not a best friend, but an associate who played the part of a confidante. A guy Phil liked and trusted.
Alex cursed. He didn’t like thinking about Western Baptist University, where he was considered a nobody with no money or social connections.
He hated himself for bellyaching about being born so fucking poor.
But he couldn’t deny the shame and inadequacy that churned in his gut when he thought about his childhood, growing up broke, relying on government handouts and the kindness of people who only helped the destitute because it made them feel better about themselves. The food banks and churches and women’s charity clubs didn’t really care. They gave their disingenuous donations out of pity and relief, thankful that they would never have to experience the crushing indignity of poverty.
Prickly heat rose up Alex’s neck, a stinging, suffocating feeling like fire spreading across his skin.
He’d found what he needed.
Reaching into the drawer, Alex picked up the butcher’s knife, staring at the moonlight glinting on the razor-sharp edge.