do whatever the hell he wished. There were no consequences, none that he cared about any longer. Let her go back uptown to her boring parties and banal suitors.
If she didn’t like it here, then he didn’t want her.
She was gone. Gone. She thought him poison and she’d left for good—even after he’d fucking begged her to stay. Begged her, like a lovesick fool.
And now he was alone.
Rage poured through his veins, scalding him from the inside out. His ears buzzed with it, every part of him aflame, his limbs trembling. He couldn’t control it. The feelings built and expanded, doubled and tripled, pain exploding in his skull . . . until he grabbed the edge of his desk, lifted the heavy oak piece off the ground and, with a roar, he tipped it over onto the floor. Papers and glass flew everywhere, the thump shaking the entire building.
Seconds later, Rye appeared. “What in the ever lovin’ hell?”
Jack stabbed a finger toward his second-in-command. “She is banned from both Bond Street and the club. No one lets her in—not the boys at the front or the kitchen staff. If she crawls in through a goddamn mousehole, heads are going to roll. Do you understand me?”
“Aye, I’d say that I do. What happened between you two?”
“Never mind that. Just know that as far as I am concerned, Justine Greene never existed.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The door opened but Justine didn’t bother looking up from her spot by the window.
“Justine, have you seen that necklace that . . .” Florence’s voice trailed off. “Are you still knitting? Do you plan on making sweaters for the entire city?”
Yes, she was still knitting. So far, she had three blankets finished. Sleep had eluded her, and she hadn’t done much of anything except knit since leaving Jack’s club. It was pathetic, really. But she refused to cry. After all, she was the one who’d left. There was no reason for melancholy. It had been her decision to end things. And, in her heart, she knew it was the right decision. Everything she’d said to him was true.
I’ll do everything in my power to forget about you.
Goodness, that hurt—far worse than the time she’d been thrown from a horse. This pain was like she’d been stabbed in the heart. With something dull and thick. Like a knitting needle.
“Justine? Did you hear me?” Florence appeared in Justine’s eyeline. Her sister’s gaze went wide. “Sweet Mary. What on earth has happened to you?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice cracked from disuse. She cleared her throat. “Go away, Florence.”
“You’re not fine.” Florence set her palm on Justine’s forehead. “No fever. Are you suffering from chills or dyspepsia?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She knocked Florence’s hand away. “I am not a child. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
Why wouldn’t her sister leave? All Justine wanted was to be left alone to knit until the awful ache receded. Then she could resume her life as it had been before Jack Mulligan turned everything upside down.
You are killing me. Say you’ll stay.
“Come on.” Florence bent and got a shoulder under Justine’s arm, dragging her to her feet. “I’m putting you in the bath.”
“I do not need a bath. I need to knit.” For a hundred years. Then she would have forgotten all about Jack and his bright blue eyes and handsome face. And the way his breath hitched when she trailed kisses over his throat. How he’d stared at her as if she were the only person on earth.
She burst into tears.
Florence nearly stumbled as they moved toward the washroom. “You’re scaring me. Please, tell me what is wrong.”
“I can’t.” Her sisters had warned her about Jack, and the last thing Justine could tolerate at the moment was any smug righteousness over her misery.
Florence said nothing else, thankfully, and Justine sat, numb, while her sister drew a bath. When Justine sank in the warm water, she was grateful for Florence’s bossiness. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed to get clean.
The problem with the bath, however, was it allowed her to think. Which led to more sadness. She hated this feeling. If there had been any other way, she would have stayed with him. But she was a perpetual do-gooder, as he liked to call her, and he was the criminal kingpin of Manhattan. There was no path forward where one of them didn’t compromise their beliefs. Where one of them didn’t bend. He certainly wouldn’t, and it would destroy her to