“What do you want?” The question ran out of my mouth.
I signaled for the maid to leave, not wanting her to hear anything linked to our conversation. She nodded and scurried away.
“It seems like Mr. Beaumont failed to accurately deliver my message,” he said, more to himself than he did to me.
Mr. Reynolds' tone was as acidic as the feeling he sent through my spine. I couldn't shake off the eerie feeling I got whenever we spoke. His voice sounded like that of an animated villain character on a kid's TV show. How appropriate?
Annoyed, I asked him again, “What do you want?”
“I want you to help me ruin Jacob,” he said like it was nothing but a simple request.
As if on cue, memories of the day I offered to give myself to Jacob flashed in my head. I remembered how much my father begged him
