Chapter 1 · Deadly Kindness: The Price of His Infidelity

For Javier Snider, being a gentleman was an instinct.

If a female colleague had to walk to her car late at night, he would insist on escorting her. If a tipsy sorority sister stumbled into his arms at a mixer, he never pushed her away.

And when Sophie Taylor, the underprivileged student I had personally sponsored through college, told him she was feeling down, his gentleness allowed him to slide right into her bed to comfort her.

He texted me: [Baby, I'm almost home. I grabbed a slice of your favorite cake.]

The notification popped up at the exact moment I was watching their sex tape. However, Sophie had just been diagnosed with HIV last month.

The very gentleness that defined him was the very thing that would destroy him.

*****

The video looped automatically on my screen.

Sophie's syrupy moans mixed with Javier's familiar, suppressed groans. They tore through my ears like jagged glass.

I gripped my phone so hard, my nails sinking into my palms until the blood pooled in crescent-shaped scars.

But I didn't feel the pain. I only felt cold, a paralyzing chill seeping out from my bones.

The star of the video, Sophie, was the girl I had pulled out of a dead-end rural town with my own two hands.

The silk pajamas she was wearing were a birthday present I had given her last year. I remembered her hugging me, saying, "Nevaeh, this fabric is so soft."

Now, that same fabric was bunched up in Javier's fists as he pushed her against the mattress.

The door clicked open.

I froze on the sofa, staring blankly ahead.

Javier walked in, bringing the biting chill of the winter night with him.

When he saw me sitting in the dark, his eyes instantly softened. Smiling, he reached for the cashmere throw I usually kept draped over the armchair.

"Why are you waiting out here in the dark? The living room is freezing. Next time, wait for me in bed. I'll make sure it's nice and warm for you."

His voice was as soothing as ever, laced with that slightly exhausted, husky undertone that made him sound so incredibly sexy.

I used to be absolutely obsessed with that tone.

I didn't say a word. My gaze was deadlocked on the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. Right there, on the edge of the fabric, was a vivid red lipstick stain.

Following my stare, he looked down. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he casually brushed at the stain, as if flicking away a piece of lint.

"Oh, this? We had the department dinner tonight. The team wanted to play Truth or Dare, and I lost. The dare was a kiss on the collar. You know how it is. I couldn't exactly reject the junior associate in front of the whole team and humiliate her, right?"

His excuse was bulletproof. It was delivered with that perfect hint of helpless indulgence he always used when "forced" to be the nice guy.

As he spoke, he set an elegant little bakery box on the coffee table, expertly untying the silk ribbon. "Here, eat up. I managed to snag the very last slice of the matcha crepe cake."

I stared at the green box.

Five years passed, and every Friday was exactly the same.

This matcha cake was the first gift Javier gave to me. It started as a romantic gesture, but it ended as a weekly reminder of his supposedly perfect love.

"Five years of this," he teased affectionately, reaching out to tap the tip of my nose. "How is it my girl never gets sick of it?"

I jerked my head away.

His hand hovered in midair, his warm smile freezing on his face.

"I am sick of it," I said. My voice sounded like sandpaper.

He blinked, clearly taken aback, before letting out a soft laugh. He leaned in closer, the faint smell of expensive bourbon and a sickeningly sweet floral perfume invading my space.

"Really? You're finally over it? Then we'll try a different bakery next time. Or," he murmured as his voice dropped an octave, dripping with implication, "are you in the mood to try a different 'flavor' tonight?"

It was his signature move, the seductive whisper he always used when he wanted to pull me into the bedroom.

My stomach twisted.

In the video, Sophie had her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He had used that exact same low, hypnotic voice when he whispered to her, "Don't be scared. Just let me take care of you."

"Don't touch me." I sprang off the sofa as if I had been electrocuted. My voice was so shrill that it scared even me.

Javier was stunned. His brow furrowed in genuine concern as he studied my pale face. "What's wrong? Are you actually upset about the lipstick? Nevaeh, I promise I won't play those stupid games anymore, okay?"

His conduct was cloaked in that same gentle surrender that always softened my heart.

This was his pattern.

Whenever his "kindness" to other women crossed a line and I got upset, he would respond with such overwhelming patience. In the end, he was the saint, and I was the one acting like a fool.

"No," I lied, taking a shaky breath to swallow the metallic taste of bile in my throat. "I'm just exhausted today. I'm going to bed."

I turned and started walking toward the stairs.

His phone rang.

It was a bright, peppy ringtone, a custom alert he had specifically set for the various ladies in his life who constantly needed his help.

Chapter 1

For Javier Snider, being a gentleman was an instinct.

If a female colleague had to walk to her car late at night, he would insist on escorting her. If a tipsy sorority sister stumbled into his arms at a mixer, he never pushed her away.

And when Sophie Taylor, the underprivileged student I had personally sponsored through college, told him she was feeling down, his gentleness allowed him to slide right into her bed to comfort her.

He texted me: [Baby, I'm almost home. I grabbed a slice of your favorite cake.]

The notification popped up at the exact moment I was watching their sex tape. However, Sophie had just been diagnosed with HIV last month.

The very gentleness that defined him was the very thing that would destroy him.

*****

The video looped automatically on my screen.

Sophie's syrupy moans mixed with Javier's familiar, suppressed groans. They tore through my ears like jagged glass.

I gripped my phone so hard, my nails sinking into my palms until the blood pooled in crescent-shaped scars.

But I didn't feel the pain. I only felt cold, a paralyzing chill seeping out from my bones.

The star of the video, Sophie, was the girl I had pulled out of a dead-end rural town with my own two hands.

The silk pajamas she was wearing were a birthday present I had given her last year. I remembered her hugging me, saying, "Nevaeh, this fabric is so soft."

Now, that same fabric was bunched up in Javier's fists as he pushed her against the mattress.

The door clicked open.

I froze on the sofa, staring blankly ahead.

Javier walked in, bringing the biting chill of the winter night with him.

When he saw me sitting in the dark, his eyes instantly softened. Smiling, he reached for the cashmere throw I usually kept draped over the armchair.

"Why are you waiting out here in the dark? The living room is freezing. Next time, wait for me in bed. I'll make sure it's nice and warm for you."

His voice was as soothing as ever, laced with that slightly exhausted, husky undertone that made him sound so incredibly sexy.

I used to be absolutely obsessed with that tone.

I didn't say a word. My gaze was deadlocked on the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. Right there, on the edge of the fabric, was a vivid red lipstick stain.

Following my stare, he looked down. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he casually brushed at the stain, as if flicking away a piece of lint.

His excuse was bulletproof. It was delivered with that perfect hint of helpless indulgence he always used when "forced" to be the nice guy.

As he spoke, he set an elegant little bakery box on the coffee table, expertly untying the silk ribbon. "Here, eat up. I managed to snag the very last slice of the matcha crepe cake."

I stared at the green box.

Five years passed, and every Friday was exactly the same.

This matcha cake was the first gift Javier gave to me. It started as a romantic gesture, but it ended as a weekly reminder of his supposedly perfect love.

"Five years of this," he teased affectionately, reaching out to tap the tip of my nose. "How is it my girl never gets sick of it?"

I jerked my head away.

His hand hovered in midair, his warm smile freezing on his face.

"I am sick of it," I said. My voice sounded like sandpaper.

He blinked, clearly taken aback, before letting out a soft laugh. He leaned in closer, the faint smell of expensive bourbon and a sickeningly sweet floral perfume invading my space.

It was his signature move, the seductive whisper he always used when he wanted to pull me into the bedroom.

My stomach twisted.

In the video, Sophie had her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He had used that exact same low, hypnotic voice when he whispered to her, "Don't be scared. Just let me take care of you."

"Don't touch me." I sprang off the sofa as if I had been electrocuted. My voice was so shrill that it scared even me.

His conduct was cloaked in that same gentle surrender that always softened my heart.

This was his pattern.

Whenever his "kindness" to other women crossed a line and I got upset, he would respond with such overwhelming patience. In the end, he was the saint, and I was the one acting like a fool.

"No," I lied, taking a shaky breath to swallow the metallic taste of bile in my throat. "I'm just exhausted today. I'm going to bed."

I turned and started walking toward the stairs.

His phone rang.

It was a bright, peppy ringtone, a custom alert he had specifically set for the various ladies in his life who constantly needed his help.