Page 35 of Manic

I ignored it and guided her to the rooftop terrace, clad with a pool, a covered patio, and a full bar. I hardly used the space, but it was nice to look at.

The quiet stretched as she stared off, far into the distance. A brisk chill swept through, the pinks of early sunset blanketing all of Vancouver and reminding me why I encouraged the previous owner to bet on his penthouse during poker.

Even though I liked the penthouse, I had no plans on sticking around once this contract was over and I left the Crowes for good. Perhaps I could give it to Grave, or I could sell it back to the previous owner. But the thought of leaving Sutton in the throes of my father sent an unwelcome pang beneath my ribs.

He’d ruin every good thing about her.

Fifteen minutes and a thorough tour of the terrace later, my phone finally buzzed with a text from Axell. He left our food on the island.

I opened the door and ushered Sutton inside.

An hour of eating went by, and I extended a second glass of wine. Sutton sat at the dining table. I was unsure of what to think as she reached for the glass, so I sat across from her with my own drink, crossing a leg over my knee. I fought the urge to reach for a cigarette out of habit and held her gaze instead.

Eyes I could get lost in.

Sutton pushed her empty plate aside and studied me as if she were trying to decipher something difficult. The entire time we ate, she remained pensive and quiet—nothing like the frightened doe from earlier.

After a full stomach and a couple of drinks, I was hoping her tongue was loose enough to prod for answers. Sutton sipped from her drink, eyes narrowing over the rim.

Leaning back with a sharp exhale, she asked, “What? You clearly have something to say.”

She toyed with the stem of her glass.

I let out a quiet laugh, already knowing she wouldn't break that easily. She was going to make me work for it. I leaned forward on my elbows and clasped my hands.

“What does my father have on you?”

Her eyes shot to my lips, face paling, as if the question spewing from me was nothing but poison. Did she really think I wouldn’t ask?

She sipped from her drink again. Wine sloshed as she shakily set it on the table, but a slow smirk tugged at her mouth. She feigned confidence.

“Did Daddy not tell you?” she asked, not bothering to hide the mocking lilt to her tone.

I fisted my hands and forced myself to remain seated—forced myself not to choke the life out of her until she spilled her fucking secrets at my feet. I knew how that would end, though.

I wouldn’t choke her, I’d end up fucking her. Hard.

“Tell me,” I demanded, voice low. “I’ll force it out of you if I have to, or I’ll dig it up myself. Your choice.”

“Something tells me that you already tried⁠—”

“Hale!” I snapped.

She only blinked, frozen in her chair.

Another minute of tense silence and she rose, abandoning her drink to walk toward the long windows. Her scent drifted by, and I instinctively inhaled as if I could bottle it up. With a deliberate huff, I followed, stopping near her back as my patience wore thin.

“Answer me,” I demanded.

“Your father is lying.”

“Then why did you agree to his terms?”

She chuckled, the sound laced with a hint of disbelief before facing me. Although her breathing stalled at the proximity, she tipped her head back to hold my gaze.

“To get him to leave,” she explained carefully. “I’m not working with you. I’ll happily wait for my father if that’s what it takes for me to leave this place. You want me to be your whore? Fine, whatever. But I won’t be working with you, and I won’t be telling you anything.”

As much as her whore comment delighted me, I lowered my brows and said, “You won’t be leaving, and you’ll learn it all. You have no choice.”