Chapter 37
[ 464 words ]
Chapter 37:
The heavy cloth hit his delicate, gold-rimmed bone china dinner plate.
CRACK.
The priceless porcelain shattered under the force, the sharp, violent sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.
Harper screamed, covering her ears. Cornelia gasped, stumbling backward.
Jarrod didn’t even blink. He turned on his heel and began to walk toward the dining room doors, his heavy leather shoes thudding against the floorboards.
“Stop right there!” Augustus bellowed, his voice cracking with rage.
Jarrod didn’t stop. He pushed the double doors open.
“Next Saturday!” Augustus screamed after him, his voice echoing down the hallway. “The Romero Centennial Gala and my eightieth birthday! You will attend, Jarrod! And you will bring a woman who is fit to stand beside the Romero name! If you walk through those doors alone, consider yourself permanently erased from this family!”
Jarrod paused in the doorway. He didn’t turn around. His broad back was rigid, the muscles tight beneath his suit jacket.
Jarrod let out a low, dark chuckle that scraped against the walls of the corridor. He tilted his head slightly, a vicious smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t worry, old man. You’ll meet her. And I promise you, you will absolutely hate her,” Jarrod said, his voice cold and hollow.
𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻𝘭оа𝗱𝖺𝗯𝘭е 𝘗𝖣𝘍𝘴 𝗼𝗻 ga𝗹𝗻o𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝘤𝘰𝗆
He stepped out into the hallway and let the heavy doors swing shut behind him, cutting off the toxic air of the dining room.
He strode down the long corridor. Elsa was waiting near the front door, her hands trembling slightly as she held out his black overcoat. Jarrod snatched it from her grasp without a word. He shoved his left arm into the sleeve, pushed the heavy front door open, and stepped out into the freezing night.
The wind hit him like a physical blow, biting through his thin suit shirt. He took a deep, ragged breath, letting the freezing air fill his lungs, trying to extinguish the violent fire raging in his chest.
He walked rapidly down the marble steps toward the gravel driveway.
K.C. Bell, seeing his boss emerge, instantly fired up the engine of the Escalade. The headlights cut through the darkness.
Jarrod reached the vehicle, yanked the heavy back door open, and threw himself onto the leather seat. He slammed the door shut with enough force to rock the entire three-ton SUV.
Bell glanced in the rearview mirror. Jarrod’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated murder. The veins in his neck were bulging.
“Pentagon, sir? Or the penthouse?” Bell asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Jarrod leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His chest heaved. The smell of the estate’s perfume and the stench of their greed still clung to the inside of his nose. He felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of disgust and exhaustion.
He needed to breathe. He needed something real.
Instantly, an image flashed behind his closed eyelids.
Caroline.
.
.
.
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