PHANTOM: Her Ruthless Fiancé: 50 Loving States, Kentucky

By Theodora Taylor

Pro-Tip: Don’t agree to a fake engagement with a ruthless mafia crimelord like me after you catch your real fiancé cheating. I just might keep you.
The final and most anticipated book in the Ruthless Triad series is almost here!
She agreed to be mine for as long as it takes for a business deal to go through. She thinks this is a game. One she’ll win if she plays by the rules.
Here’s what she doesn’t understand. When it comes to me, there are no rules.
Scruples? Integrity? Playing fair? Nah.
Our engagement might be fake, but she’s about to find out….I’m for real obsessed.
There’s nothing I won’t do to make her mine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodra Taylor
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942167501

Book preview

Prologue

PHANTOM

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It was time to deal with the doctor who wouldn’t stop asking questions about Dawn.

A couple of weeks ago, Phantom’s cousin, Victor, had decided to install his ex-girlfriend Dawn into a prison disguised as a house in Rhode Island. Okay, fine. Phantom had a few questions about how this whole kidnap and imprison your ex-girlfriend thing would end. But this was his cousin, plus one of his literal partners in crime, so yeah, sure, he’d agreed to helped him blow up her life.

He’d not only snatched her from her college dorm room, but he’d also hacked into Dawn’s school account and sent the email himself that she was quitting the internship she landed at the Women with Disabilities Clinic in Manhattan before it even started.

I changed my mind about taking the internship. Replace me with someone else.

Blunt and clear. It hadn’t been nice, but it had done the job. After a few hours, Olivia had sent a polite but terse email back:

Dear Dawn,

Thank you for letting us know you wouldn’t be joining us for the summer internship.

Though your message was brief and received only three days before you were due to start, I’ll assume this must have been a hard decision for you to make.

Fortunately, we have a long waiting list for this incredibly prestigious internship, and I’ve already filled your spot.

Best of luck with your future endeavors.

Dr. Olivia Glendaver.

Great. She’d basically said that Dawn was an easily replaceable asshole in the politest possible way. That should have been the end of it.

But a few days later, the doctor appeared to have a change of heart. A new email popped up in Dawn’s inbox, which Phantom was still monitoring.

Dawn,

This is Olivia again. That last email didn’t sound like you.

Are you okay?

Are you safe?

I know we never received the chance to work together and get to know each other, but I’m here for you if you need me. And if you’re in any kind of trouble, I’d like to help. Just let me know.

We need more doctors like you.

Your friend,

Olivia

Dammit. He supposed he should have known that a bourbon heiress who worked as a pregnant lady doctor at a clinic for women with disabilities wouldn’t be the cold-hearted type. Ah, well…

He deleted the message, figuring that would be the real end of it. But a few days later, a new email popped up in Dawn’s inbox.

Olivia again, I haven’t heard from you. I’ll keep on emailing until you answer one way or another. I’m not going to give up on you.

He’d heaved a huge sigh and typed back as Dawn: I’m fine.

They weren’t texting, but her reply had popped into Dawn’s inbox less than a minute later.

I don’t mean to be rude, Dawn, but you don’t sound fine. I’m a pretty good judge of character. And the woman I met wouldn’t have sent that first email. Or answered my two concerned emails with I’m fine.

Well, shit.

That was when Phantom decided to pay her a visit. Obviously, some intimidation would be required to get the doctor to back off.

It had been an easy meeting to arrange. The clinic was understaffed, and though he wasn’t a woman with disabilities, it had been easy enough to slip past the over-worked front office clerk and walk down the hallway until he found the door with a Dr. Olivia Glendaver, MD plaque beside it.

Even better, she wasn’t there when he walked into the simple room, which housed only a desk, two guest chairs, and a bookshelf filled with medical texts. That meant he could use the good ol’ Bad Guy Waiting In Your Office When You Walk In intimidation routine.

Classic.

While Phantom bided his time like the villain he was, he checked out the two framed pictures sitting on top of her desk. One was of an older trim man in a pastel suit flanked by a pair of thin blonds in equally bright dresses and large hats.

Their colorful outfits, along with the horses trotting around in the background, told Phantom that they must be attending the Kentucky Derby. The blonds looked alike with smiles frozen in place by Botox. But they weren’t twins.

One had much more triangular and feline features, a sure sign of some face lifting underneath all those fillers. The other just looked like she’d decided that her thirties was the exact right time to start cutting off access to her facial muscles. Mother and daughter, Phantom figured, and one of them had to be Dr. Olivia Glendaver. They both looked like former southern belles, born and bred.

The other photo featured a Ken Doll in a suit, leaning against a bar with a glass of whiskey in one hand. I-banker. Phantom might call Rhode Island home now, but he could still spot an investment banker from a mile away after growing up in Queens. No matter their color or weight, they all somehow managed to look like entitled douches with their shellacked hair and fake smiles.

So that meant the daughter was Dr. Glendaver. Douchebag and Early Botox Girl looked like a perfect match.

Yeah, it shouldn’t be too hard to intimidate her, Phantom decided, sitting back in her office chair.

What are you doing here?

The question brought his eyes up from the pictures of her loved ones. Dr. Olivia Glendaver’s voice was soft petals falling off a flower that could only grow in the lush southern heat. It sounded exactly like he’d figured it would, given her old money Kentucky background.

But the woman…

She stopped his heart.

Tall and ebony and beautiful beyond compare. She was the exact opposite of the blonde in the photo. Yet, he knew who she was in an instant. This, not Early Botox Girl, was Olivia Glendaver.

An ebony goddess statue disguised as a doctor in a white coat.

Adoptee, his brain told him, answering the question before he could ask it out loud. But that only brought up another question.

Why? He stood and picked up the photo of the white family. His brain had gone all fuzzy, and later he would think about the risk he’d taken in leaving fingerprints behind after he broke into her office. But at that moment, he had to know, Why aren’t you in any of these photos?

Because I took them, she answered with a careful tilt of her head. Is this…is this about my family? Are you…?

She didn’t finish the question, but she didn’t have to. Phantom knew what he looked like. Knew what anybody with half a brain would assume when they found a goon like him waiting in their office.

And usually, that assumption would be one hundred percent on lock. But in this case, he put down the photo and raised both hands to assure her, No, I’m not here to hurt you. I…

New problem. Words. He’d never had any trouble coming up with them before, but this woman—she made all his what to say next disappear. The mean-ass things that made a habit of hanging out on his tongue had scattered like cockroaches when she appeared.

And even if they hadn’t. He didn’t want to say all the usual shit to her. Didn’t want to threaten her or do that thing where he pretended he’d ever really lay a hand on a woman in order to inspire them to do what he said.

She already looked scared enough, and he suddenly had no desire to terrify her out of asking too many questions as he normally would.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He stuttered—actually stuttered when he answered, I’m…I’m a friend of Dawn Kingston’s. She...she asked me to come up here to see you.

Phantom had no idea where these words came from. They were the opposite of the truth, even though he prided himself on telling it like it is.

A friend… she repeated.

Her voice shook, and she eyed him distrustfully. Plus, her hand was in her expensive Hermes bag, probably poised to call 9-1-1 if he made any sudden moves. But she stayed put even though she was obviously scared.

And that made Phantom admire her all that much more, even as he lied, Yeah, she told me you were worried about her decision not to go the doctor route and move to Rhode Island with her guy.

He gave the doctor just enough details to sell the story. And since I was coming into the city, I offered to stop by to let you know she’s all right.

Dr. Glendaver considered his words. Then she considered him and asked, So you and Dawn are together?

Phantom let out a laugh, sharp and barking because hell no. Even if Dawn didn’t belong to his cousin, she was the opposite of his type.

Weird and girly—not to mention the daughter of the man who’d brought their old Red Diamond Triad down.

You’d have to pay him to sleep with Dawn, and even then, there probably wouldn’t be an amount big enough.

But this woman—he’d pay. He’d pay to be able to…

Stop staring, man. Be cool.

He made himself avert his eyes for a couple of beats. No, we’re not together. She just got married to my cousin.

Oh, so this is a marriage thing. She looked to the side. In that case, I suppose I understand, even if I wish she’d made different choices. She was very bright. She would have made a good doctor.

No, she wouldn’t have. Dawn was pretty much at the bottom of Phantom’s list for people he thought would make a good doctor. But he suspected Olivia Glendaver was one of those women who saw the best in everybody.

Case in point, she brought her hand out of her expensive purse as if the information he’d given her meant he could be trusted.

Which he absolutely could not.

He glanced toward the picture of the i-banker on her desk. He could practically see the silver spoon hanging out of that douchebag’s mouth.

And although he knew the answer, he had to ask, This your boyfriend?

Is he protecting you? he added silently. Fucking you right? Like I would if you were mine?

She had the smarts to start looking afraid again and the even better instinct not to answer his question.

Good. That meant she wasn’t an idiot.

Thank you for letting me know about Dawn, Mr.… she trailed off, obviously waiting for his name.

Phantom wondered what it would be like to hear his name—his real name covered in her flowers and molasses voice. But he wasn’t an idiot either.

Instead of answering her question, he simply stood up and left. He walked past the goddess doctor without another word and figured he’d never see her again.

But yeah, no.

This story is about how he couldn’t have been more wrong about that. So turn the page to find out what happens next!

1

OLIVIA

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Happy Birthday!

I looked up to find my best friend, Eric, standing in my office doorway along with our front desk receptionist, Bernice, and her cutie pie daughter.

What’s all this? I asked, taking off my computer glasses.

They burst into a round of Happy Birthday to You in answer. And I came around the desk with my hands clasped to my completely touched heart.

Eric’s voice sounded a little reedy and strained. But Bernice put her foot in it, as Minerva, her aunt and my former nanny/housekeeper back in Kentucky, would have said. And her little daughter sang with a voice more robust and pitch-perfect than I would have ever expected from a three-year-old. Even if she hadn’t been raised in a black church choir in Tennessee like her mother, it was clear that apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

Happy Birthday, Aunt Olivia! she cheered when they finished. Then she handed me a mylar balloon with the same sentiment minus the Aunt Olivia written across its front.

Thank you, O2, I answered. O2 is what we all called the little girl since she was also named Olivia. Bernice had been extremely grateful that I was willing to take her on as a front office clerk at the Women with Disabilities clinic, even though she was visibly pregnant—simply because she was a relation to Minerva.

I picked O2 up for a huge hug to thank her for the balloon and song.

Big mistake. O2’s sweet coconut hair product and little kid scent scratched at my heart and filled it with longing for a child of my own.

I buried my nose in her curls, and my namesake pretty much had to pry herself away to tell me, I wanted to get you a birthday cake, but Uncle Eric said no because you were about to go to the gym.

My fellow OB/GYN Eric wasn’t really her uncle, just like I wasn’t really her aunt—despite her move to the Big Apple, Bernice remained the kind of southern that couldn’t bear to hear a child call an adult by their first name without some sort of title attached.

But the handsome Korean-American and I had been best friends ever since we met at orientation for Manhattan University’s six-year BS/MD dual degree program. And he’d even left his job at Chelsea Sinai to come work with me at the clinic when our patient roster became more than one OB/GYN could handle by herself. So it truly felt like I was addressing my actual brother when I said, Uncle Eric, seriously?

First of all, you are a straight-up snitch, Eric declared, pointing his finger at the darling little girl in my arms. And, second of all, sugar is evil. And third of all, we need to head out, like, five minutes ago, if we don’t want to miss the spin class that will get you into wedding shape!

Wedding shape for the ceremony she still hasn’t picked a date for, Bernice edited out of the side of her mouth. And it’s obvious from the way she’s hugging on my daughter that she’s way more interested in babies than weddings right now.

I guiltily set O2 down but let Bernice know, This is all your daughter’s fault. You should tell her to stop being so dang cute.

You want me to change my face? O2 asked with a crushed look. But I can’t! I don’t know how!

And there went my heart again, sending all types of messages to my now thirty-six-year-old ovaries. I’d gone off the pill back when Garrett proposed, but the few times since then that we’d manage to coordinate our busy schedules for sex, I’d made him use a condom with the idea that we should wait for official baby-making until after the wedding. Maybe Bernice was right, and I should just get to that part sooner than later.

Meanwhile, I picked O2 right back up and gave her hugs and kisses as I told her, No, sweetie-bug, of course not. I was just joking. There is not a thing in the world I would change about you.

Then just to make sure she knew how much her Aunt Olivia adored her, I pretended I didn’t see Eric motioning that we had to go and asked O2 all about her day at Manhattan Mercy’s daycare center.

Another mistake. I ended up having to apologize to Eric an hour later when we missed the cut-off time for our favorite spin class.

I’m so sorry, I said, as we took the stairs back down to the gym’s main floor where I’d just have to settle for a regular old workout, even though I’d come all the way to Eric’s Lower East Side gym to attend this spin class specifically.

It was no one’s fault but my own, and I had to admit, Bernice might be right about me being baby crazy. I just can’t think straight when it comes to O2.

I can’t blame you, Eric said, letting me off the hook with a grin. I don’t even have ovaries, and she makes mine explode—oh, but that reminds me.

Even though we were in the stairwell and at least six boroughs away from where Bernice lived in Harlem, he lowered his voice to tell me, "I’ve got possible tea. Get this, I had my car at work the other day, so I gave Bernice and O2 a ride home. This G-Latham song came on, and she was all like, ‘Turn it off’ even though it was the Pure Pop radio edit, so no curse words. Then O2 was like, ‘I love this song!’ And Bernice gets into this weird argument with her, asking her where she heard it, telling her she didn’t want her listening to ‘his’ music. Then she flat-out yells at me to turn it off—so do you think G-Latham is O2’s secret father?"

I squinted, and though I tried my best always to be polite, I had to tell him, The only thing crazier than you insisting on hanging on to that car in this city is the idea that some country singer is the father of her daughter.

"Okay, first of all, I am a Californian—that means I need a car. It’s in my blood. And second of all, he was a country trap artist—so hitting all the markets, including people who like hip-hop."

You’ve been living on the East Coast for eighteen years, I answered. And maybe Bernice just really hates country music, even if there’s a trap beat underneath it.

"I will never give my car up, Eric insisted, his voice righteous and resolute. And she’s cousins with Colin Fairgood. How can she hate country music?"

She’s his cousin-in-law, I edited. Just because her favorite cousin married a country superstar, doesn’t mean she—

Plus, O2 is obviously biracial, Eric pointed out before I could finish my sensible argument. And I’ve never seen Bernice date a white guy.

"Half of New York is multiracial, and we’ve never seen Bernice date anybody," I retorted.

We were both doctors, but sometimes it felt like I was the only one who believed in reason and logic. It could be anybody.

Yeah, anybody. Eric opened the first floor’s heavy metal door for me. "But if it were a famous somebody, that would explain why she won’t tell me who it is. Or you—you know, the woman she named her whole baby after?"

Of course, Eric was wrong about G-Latham. But I had to admit he had a point about Bernice’s secretiveness on the subject of Olivia 2’s father. Still…

It’s her business, I reminded Eric as I walked through the door he was holding open for me. And we have no right to pressure her to tell us who it is or to gossip about her behind her back. Now can we please change the subject?

Fine! Eric answered with a dramatic roll of his eyes. But he perked up to ask, So, where’s your future baby daddy taking you for your birthday?

Oh, well, he asked me to wear an evening gown tonight because….

Eric’s eyes widened. "Ooh, is he taking you to the new production of Chrysanthemum with that one autistic opera singer? I hear it’s spectacular, but I couldn’t even get tickets!"

"…we’re going to a charity gala to celebrate Chrysanthemum’s upcoming opening night at his parent’s place," I finished with an apologetic wince.

Eric deflated—then jerked his head. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me he’s making you go to some charity gala? On your birthday?"

No, I answer, rushing to Garrett’s defense, the same way I still cheered for the Louisville Cardinals, even though I had serious reservations about the long-term effects of concussions.

But then I had to admit. I’m pretty sure Garrett didn’t remember it was my birthday when he told me I needed to be there.

What? Eric caught my arm to stop us walking. And what did he say when you reminded him?

I silently sighed. Um…

Eric’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at me for a long disbelieving second before guessing correctly, You didn’t tell him!

He threw up his hands. Why are you like this? Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself?

Garrett’s been crazy stressed at work lately, I rushed to explain.

Eric jerked his head back. "Bitch, so are you. You founded, run, and work at an accessible clinic for women with disabilities. And you still managed to find the time to throw him a surprise party on his last birthday."

True. But… I don’t need anybody making a huge fuss about my birthday anyway. And reminding Garrett would have just made him feel guilty when he already has so much stuff on his plate—ooh, isn’t that the construction worker you were flirting with last week?

I pointed at the tattooed honey brown man standing in line for the Smith machine.

Eric followed my finger and let out a frustrated growly sound when he saw who I was pointing at. Yes, that’s him. And I know I shouldn’t let you change the subject, but those tattoos….

Eric fanned himself. You know I’m powerless when it comes to racially ambiguous bad boys.