Hildegarde was utterly furious.
Back then, the Dickersons had arranged the marriage with the Pruitts to ride their coattails, and over the years, the Pruitts had certainly taken care of them. Without the Pruitts, the Dickersons would be nothing.
"Wilfred, do you have any idea? One word from me, and I can drag your entire family into the abyss."
"I'm giving you one last chance. Get over here and apologize. For the sake of all those years you slaved away for the Pruitts, I might forgive you this once. Otherwise—"
"Hildegarde!"
Before she could finish, Wilfred cut her off coldly. "Don't threaten me with the Dickersons. I've done more than enough for that family over the years. I don't owe them anything."
"If you want to drag them into the abyss, then do it."
He hung up.
"Wilfred, you bastard!"
Her hysterical scream echoed through her office.
...
Wilfred got back in the car.
He released the parking brake, shifted into drive, and floored it.
The SUV shot forward like a wild horse, an arrow loosed from its bowstring, merging into the flow of traffic.
Behind him, a red Maserati quietly followed.
Wilfred's speed was staggering.
In the blink of an eye, the speedometer hit ninety and kept climbing.
The scenery on both sides blurred into streaks. The black Range Rover cut through the road like a dark hurricane.
Inside, Wilfred's face was expressionless, his eyes bright and fixed ahead. Adrenaline surged through him, peaking with every mile per hour.
It had been so long since he'd driven like this.
In that moment, a trace of who he used to be flickered back to life.
"Holy shit, who the hell is that? That car's practically flying!"
"Damn! Did you see that drift? Absolutely insane!"
In a sports car Wilfred had just blown past, a group of trust-fund kids gawked at the Range Rover's taillights, whooping in disbelief.
One of them—a girl with yellow hair and a nose ring—was trembling with excitement. "Find out who that is! I haven't seen anyone that cool in years!"
"I want to race him!"
A voice crackled through her wireless earpiece: "No need to look it up. That plate's easy to spot—it's Lawrence Dickerson's car."
"Lawrence?"
"What the hell? Since when did Lawrence drive like that? When we raced him on Mount Akina, he was nowhere near this fast!"
"That little bastard was holding back on us."
...
The black Range Rover tore along the mountain road, winding through curve after curve. Only the red Maserati managed to keep the taillights in sight.
Inside the Maserati, Margery Finch sat behind the wheel—red coat, black sunglasses, devastatingly beautiful. A slow smile curved her lips.
Her golden waves of hair danced in the wind, a strand caught playfully between her lips.
Effortlessly sensual.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
The Wilfred she knew was back.
Years ago, he'd been hailed as a prodigy. At twelve, he'd entered Seabrook Tech University's gifted program. Four consecutive years, he'd won gold at the International Fermat Mathematics Competition.
At eighteen, he'd earned a top-tier FIA racing license.
For three years after that, he'd competed in the Bramblebrook World Rally Championship, posting impressive results.
Before twenty-two, Wilfred's life had been dazzling—flowers and applause at every turn.
Then, at twenty-three, instead of pursuing his PhD abroad as planned, he'd suddenly chosen to marry into the Pruitt family.
He'd abandoned his studies. Abandoned his career. Devoted himself entirely to being a husband and father.
He'd vanished from the public eye.
A rising star, extinguished without a sound.
Screech!
Tires shrieked against asphalt. White smoke billowed as the Range Rover lurched to a stop at the roadside.
Margery's Maserati shot past, barely missing it.
Why had he stopped so suddenly?
She pulled over too, parking just ahead of his hood.
Inside the Range Rover, Wilfred's phone was ringing.
"Hello, is this Mr. Dickerson? I'm the homeroom teacher at your daughter's preschool." A sweet, gentle voice came through the speaker.
Wilfred recognized Ms. Perry.
"Yes, Ms. Perry. What's going on?"
"Mr. Dickerson, I'm so glad I reached you. Here's the situation: your older daughter Hilary brought a bag of honey buns to school this morning. She shared them with her classmates, and now several children have food poisoning—vomiting, diarrhea, the works. The parents are all here demanding an explanation."
Honey buns?
Wilfred recalled that morning, when he'd dropped Penelope off. Hilary had been carrying a paper bag.
If he had to guess, Patrick had prepared it for her.
"Ms. Perry, here's the thing. I've divorced Hilary's mother. She has custody, so anything that happens with Hilary at school isn't my responsibility. You should call her mother. Or contact her new dad."
"What??"
On the other end, Lola Perry was stunned.
She hadn't expected him to say that.
But even after a divorce, shouldn't a parent still handle their child's problems?
"Um, Mr. Dickerson, Hilary said the honey buns were prepared by you. So technically, you'd be the one responsible."
Angry voices erupted in the background.
"Ms. Perry, have you reached that kid's parents yet? My child is practically dehydrated from all the diarrhea! Someone needs to take responsibility!"
"Exactly! What kind of parent lets their kid bring street food to school?"
"Get the parents here now, or I'm calling the police!"
Ms. Perry pleaded and cajoled, barely managing to quiet the crowd.
"Mr. Dickerson, you can see how complicated this is. If you don't come, I can't resolve this."
Wilfred frowned, hesitating for a moment. "Ms. Perry, could you put my younger daughter on the phone?"
"Of course."
A second later, Penelope's soft little voice came through: "Daddy."
Wilfred's tone gentled. "Penelope, did you eat any of the honey buns your sister brought?"
"No. She said her other daddy made them for her to share with her classmates. She wouldn't let me have any." A note of hurt lingered in her voice.
Wilfred exhaled in relief.
As long as Penelope was okay.
"How's Hilary doing?"
"She's crying."
