RAMON
I slammed the door behind me harder than I meant to.
The echo bounced off the cold marble walls of the house I used to admire as a kid. Now it just made me sick.
I headed straight for the study. I didn’t bother knocking.
He was there. Sitting behind that stupid glass desk. Calm. Smiling. Whiskey in hand. Like everything was fine.
“Well?” Richard asked, raising his glass.
I stared at him. “You got what you wanted.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Do tell.”
“She’s done with me,” I muttered. “Phoebe. She wants nothing to do with me.”
His lips curled into a slow, satisfied grin. “Finally. I was starting to worry. Thought you were losing your touch.”
“You’re sick,” I snapped.
He chuckled. “Don’t be dramatic. You think I didn’t see it? The way you were getting soft. Like she was going to change you.”
“She didn’t change me,” I said. “She opened my eyes.”
Richard scoffed and stood up, adjusting his cufflinks like we weren’t having a conversation about destroying someone’s
