The Art Of Revenge (Thalia Nash and Brandon) novel Chapter 38

Brandon’s Pov

“Your space?” she exclaimed loudly. “Please don’t say you own the bridge,” she inquired.

“I now own it, having purchased it just yesterday,” I replied.

In disbelief, she came to a halt and paused for a moment. “Is there anything that you do not own?”

“Thalia, that’s our secret memorial,” I explained, “and no one should tres pass it.”

As we continued to dance, she responded, “Rich jerk.”

Yes, I was a rich jerk who always purchased anything I wanted, whenever I felt like it, I chuckled. I wasn’t sure about Thalia, but the bridge was important to me, and I didn’t want any idiot tres passing or destroying it.

Purchasing an ancient abandoned bridge was neither a rush nor something difficult. The city council mistook me for some wealthy individual wanting to develop the region, but instead, I was busy erecting a fence around the property and issuing threatening notice to anyone who dared to tres pass.

I suddenly felt my chest heavy and came to a halt; I’d had enough fun for the day and was free of discomfort. I needed a nudge to get me back on track. In my condemned life, spending a whole day of fun was never on the agenda whether I wanted it or not.

“Are you all OK, Brandon?” She inquired.

“I’m OK,” I answered, gripping my chest, but with Thalia’s support, I walked to a nearby counter. She was running about getting a glass of water and passing it to me.

“Can you please take a seat?” I requested her, holding her hand. She, on the other hand, was terrified and overthinking everything.

I came to a halt and began laughing as I glanced at her. She came to a halt and glanced at me, perplexed. “ “Brandon?”

“Can we just sit by the pool and relax?” I asked as I walked to the pool, removed my shoes, sat by the pool and placed my feet in the water. She remained still facing the floor. I coughed when she sat down next to me.

“Are you certain you’re fine?” she inquired.

“Thalia, I’m perfectly fine!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. With her continual probing and pestering, she was beginning to anger me. I knew she just cared about me and was only making sure I was okay.

I was not supposed to be angry at her but the horrible disease that was spoiling our ideal night, a night I had hoped to spend with her. She strolled up to where I was seated, removed her shoes, and sat down.

“I  think we should call Nestor?” she requested.