Page 110 of Faking Cinderella
Honored for who I am, what I want, and where my principles lie.
Don’t do it, a voice whispers in my head. Don’t trust her. Don’t fall for this again. You know it’ll hurt.
But she’s right.
I do want Xavier and Colt and Hayden—and Felice too—to pay for what they did.
For the way they cut me out.
The way they used what my mom built—used me too—until they set me up to fail so that they could force me out.
And she’s the first person I’ve met who gets it.
Who understands.
Who can see the pain and help me get the justice.
“My mom and grandfather founded the company.” Shit, I’m hoarse, and I can’t fix that.
“I know,” she says softly.
“Grandpa died when I was twelve. Mom when I was fourteen. I think she’d just started realizing my stepfather was a narcissist in sheep’s clothing when she got sick, and since he could see what he stood to gain when she was gone, and how fast she was going downhill, he stepped up and played the part of the perfect husband. Fooled her again. As soon as she was gone though—I was a problem to be dealt with.”
“People aren’t problems.” She rolls her eyes. “Until they make themselves problems. But you were fourteen.”
“I joined the Marines the day I turned eighteen. Had to get away. Grow up some on my own. But I still owned part of the company. It was in my mom’s trust. So when I met Felice—my ex—and she wanted me to get out and settle somewhere, I thought I could handle as an adult what I was moody about as a teenager, and I went back. Claimed my place in a business I still half owned. Four years ago now.”
“But it was a different business then,” Margot guesses.
“He changed everything. Mom was picky about clients. Xavier wasn’t. Mom had procedures. Xavier didn’t.”
“Was it profitable?”
I snort. “Of course not. Then he would’ve had to cut me a check.”
She makes a low, aggravated hum.
“Yeah.”
“You still own half?”
“No.”
She lifts a brow, and I realize she dyed them too. Her real eyebrows are lighter in the pictures.
“I’m assuming you didn’t voluntarily sell to him,” she murmurs.
“He set me up. He knew Imogen Carter didn’t like bulky guys on her security squad, so when I had to more or less manhandle her into the car when she got rushed by some nutjob when we left dinner?—”
“Imogen Cartergot rushed by a nutjob?”
God, I like this woman.
She’s smart and sexy and multi-faceted.
I nod. “Called her name and came running directly for her with something in his hand that I couldn’t see clearly but knew wasn’t good.”
“She’s pissed a few people off over her decades in the business, but she’s not exactly relevant in the industry now. That’s…unexpected.”
