We leave lunch at the food court and return to our shopping adventures. When we’re finished, Georgia’s car is full, so she calls Archer to come meet us and to fill his car with her purchases.

“We’ll drop off the stuff, and you can surprise Lincoln,” she says on our drive over.

Too bad I’m in for a surprise from hell when I get there.

Chapter Seventeen

Lincoln

She’s the last person I expect to see when I answer the door.

The last person I want to see.

If I had a choice to see her or Satan, I’d choose the Devil.

I grind my teeth while asking, “How the fuck do you know where I live?”

She stands in the doorway, a Chanel bag draped over her shoulder—a bag I bought her—and her blond hair is cut shorter than before. She winces at my greeting before straightening her stance. “Everyone knows where Archer lives. It’s no secret.”

With how I’ve ignored her phone calls and the last words I said to her, she’d be dumb if she expected me to talk to her.

“Better yet,” I growl out, “why are you here?”

She pulls on the strap of her bag. “Can we talk?”

Leaning against the doorframe, I release a huff. “What do you want, Isla?” I shoot her a venomous glare. “Can’t you put two and two together and realize that me ignoring your calls means I don’t want to talk to you?”

She releases a humph before shoving her way into the penthouse. I might be an ass, might tell her to get fucked, but I can’t push her back. I don’t put my hands on women. At the same time she enters the living room and I’m about to slam the door shut, I hear voices coming down the hall.

Recognizable voices.

Just as I’m gripping Isla’s hand to pull her into my bedroom, the door swings open. My heart sinks into my stomach when Georgia, Archer, and Cassidy walk in.

You’ve got to be shitting me.

I have to be the chairman of bad timing.

The three of them halt in their steps, their eyes shooting from Isla to me. Archer, the only one who knows Isla, glares at me without blinking. His hands knot into fists, and I gulp, waiting for him to kick her out of his place. My gaze swings from him to Cassidy. Her hand is pressed against her throat as she anchors her attention on Isla before shifting to stare at me, pain and anger in her eyes.

“Who are you?” Cassidy asks. “His mom?”

Georgia snorts.

The fact that Cassidy can say that with a straight face is impressive, considering she’s met my mother and she knows Isla clearly isn’t her.

“No, I’m not his mother,” Isla snarls.