Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “You could stop,” I tell him, one last attempt.

  A protest may be a voice, but it’s up to him whether he listens. Up to him whether he lets her strength wrap around him. Up to him whether he looks down at me with admiration in his eyes and kisses me like the world could end around us.

  He turns and speaks to the men in the construction crew. Take the day off, he could be telling them. Instead one man gets into the big yellow vehicle with a crane and a wrecking ball that’s taller than me attached. Part of me despairs that Sutton isn’t here with me.

  That was him choosing you over money, in case the grand gesture wasn’t clear.

  He should be standing beside me, holding me. It’s too personal, my relationship with this library. My relationship with Christopher. As if he’s going to plunge that wrecking ball through my heart, instead of the freshly painted face of an ancient Egyptian ruler.

  The construction workers move the crowd back, clearing space for them to work.

  It’s a random construction worker who climbs into the yellow machinery as the crowd boos and shouts. A mover of levers and knobs. It’s Christopher who gestures with his hand. Begin, says that hand. From the moment he was bent over his textbook in that cabin, it’s been leading to this moment. This moment when he would destroy everything.

  A crane extends higher and higher, beyond anything else in sight. Taller than any of the buildings around us, including the library. It brushes up against gray clouds.

  My stomach pitches forward. The crowd falls silent as the crane pivots and pulls the ball away from the library. Cleopatra’s eyes watch it swing toward her, steady, steady, steady.

  The crash might as well be a physical blow. It crushes my lungs and slams into my gut. I’m left reeling, unable to breathe or think or feel anything but pain. Concrete and metal buckle around the ball, which suspends for a moment inside. As it moves away, it leaves a crater so much bigger than its size. Broken wood and brick. Shards of glass.

  Cleopatra is gone. Only the shell of her is left—only the outer edges of her sleek black hair, the bottom of her chin. A work that took a whole night to create, gone in a second. It took longer than one night to paint like that. It took my whole life to dream of something more than business and money and power.

  It’s only by slow degrees that I realize hands hold my arms. They’re keeping me back, behind the barricade, which means I must have tried to run forward. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t conscious thought. Survival. That’s what it felt like.

  The crane pulls back and swings again. Only a little more destruction this time.

  It will take much longer to reach the inner sanctum with the wood counter and the carved wall and the bookshelves. I’m not sure I can watch that long.

  The wrecking ball breaks me a little bit every time it swings.

  A car pulls up at the perimeter, noticeable only because it’s sleek and black and long. A limo, like the kind Daddy used. For a wild second, made uncertain from lack of sleep, I expect to see him step out. He would stop this. Except I’m not sure the real Daddy would have. He probably would have invested with Christopher. Only in my daydreams would he help save it.

  It’s not Daddy who steps out of the limo, of course. Sunlight limns golden hair. Wrinkles shadow a white dress shirt. The crowd parts for Sutton Mayfair as easily as breathing. He has a way of commanding the world without having to say a word.

  Even the man in the crane hits the lever to stop the wrecking ball from a third run.

  Somehow Christopher is beside me when Sutton approaches.

  He holds up a piece of folded paper. “An injunction.”

  “Let’s see it,” Christopher says, his words crisp. He doesn’t sound particularly surprised, nor does he sound particularly angry. This could be a discussion over the weather. He reads the length of the paper with an impassive expression.

  “Turns out the Tanglewood Historical Society had teeth, after all.”

  Christopher folds the paper. “This won’t hold up on appeal.”

  “Maybe not,” Sutton says, accepting the possibility. “But we’re done here for today.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “You’re too late.”

  Sutton looks at the library where there’s no hint a painting had ever stood. Through the heavy dust and wreckage you can see the beautiful carved wall, still standing. “We can repair what’s happened here. There wasn’t any load on those glass turnstiles. Nothing permanent.”

  It feels like something permanent has cracked inside me, but I force myself to focus on what he’s saying. We can fix the front of the library. It’s saved, at least for now.

  “You did this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  Sutton shakes his head, slow. “It was Mrs. Rosemont who filed with the court. I gave information in testimony, but it was her connections that made this happen.”

  “But why… why would you help stop this? Why did you resign?”

  Those blue eyes could reach across the entire city, that’s how far he lets me look. This man I doubted. This man I desired. He lets me see the deepest parts of him. “For you,” he says, simply.

  My throat clenches hard. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do this. I couldn’t—”

  “You didn’t have to ask. I couldn’t be a part of this once I saw how much it meant to you.”

  “But your investment.”

  He gives me a small smile. “This one wasn’t business. It’s personal.”

  And then there’s no way I can hold myself back.

  I launch myself at him, feeling every square inch of muscle on him, made tired from whatever he did this long night. He folds me up in his arms. There’s relief and gratitude—and love, in a form more pure than anything I’ve known before. Love without expectation. Without greed. Without jealousy, which I didn’t think was possible. There’s clapping and hooting in the background, but all I can hear is his murmured words in my ear.

  “For you,” he whispers again, fierce.

  He may show up with a legal document and a casual smile, but it was no small thing. It broke some principles inside him, the same way that wrecking ball broke some old hopes inside me. We aren’t whole people who hold each other. We’re each cracked and bruised, but we have each other. God, we have each other.

  It’s only when Sutton turns again, holding me close, that I see Christopher’s dark form against the jarring yellow of the construction equipment. He speaks to the men in quiet terms, his movements decisive and maybe a little stiff. It must have hurt him, this injunction.

  It must have hurt him, to lose his business partner.

  Did it hurt him any to lose me?

  He speaks to me again only when most of the crowd and the construction crew have left. I’m standing in the large foyer of the library, which is quite a bit brighter now that the whole front wall has turned to rubble. Sutton didn’t want to let me in—not until they’ve had engineers to make sure it’s structurally safe, but he let me in as long as he stands beside me. There’s probably something important about that. He’ll let me do anything as long as he can stand beside me. I don’t plan to stay long, since I’m quite certain he’ll throw himself bodily over me if a brick were to fall down.

  The beautiful panes of art deco glass have shattered completely, leaving only misshapen metal in their wake, a skeleton without any flesh. It makes me shiver, looking up at that.

  Rocks shift as Christopher steps into the space. He leaves several yards between us. Does he despise me now? My stomach clenches. I care about him more than I want to, even now.

  “You’ve won,” he says. “For now. The crew decided to start another job.”

  Sutton was the good-old boy who convinced them to wait for this project. For all his money and power and determination, even Christopher couldn’t make them wait any longer.

  It strikes me again that he doesn’t seem angry. Remote, is how I’d describe it. That makes me worry for him even more, like maybe he’s going through shock. A million dollars is a huge
amount of money. Is it gone? Bile rises in my throat. It can’t be gone.

  “I’ll buy the library from you,” I say, impulsive.

  Before I can realize that Christopher would never accept that, any more than he would dip into my trust fund all these years. That would be unethical. For a man I don’t trust, he’s remarkably trustworthy.

  “No,” he says, his voice hard. “Thank you, but no.”

  Then he turns and walks away, leaving the two of us in the rubble.

  There’s a sense of loss so wide and so deep, my legs feel weak. My eyes close. Sutton is there to catch me this time, his embrace warm and understanding. I’m not the only one who lost someone. “You were friends,” I say, looking back at him. Sutton’s eyes are shadowed to a dark sapphire, his brow furrowed.

  “We were.” There’s finality there. “He’s the past. You’re the future.”

  And I know he isn’t only talking about his friendship with Christopher. He’s talking about my relationship with Christopher, which has always been too complicated to define. Maybe it doesn’t need to bother me anymore, the amorphous shape of us. It’s over now.

  I turn around in Sutton’s strong arms, tilting my head up. “You’re my future.”

  He pulls me flush against him, and I feel him harden. His lids lower. Electricity runs from the center of his body to mine, making me ache and flush everywhere. “Christ, I want to take you back to that counter and finish what we started.”

  My cheeks turn warm. “There are still people outside. And no doors.”

  A low growl vibrates over my skin as he nuzzles my neck. “And strictly speaking I don’t own the library anymore, the company does, and I don’t work for it. We’re trespassing right now.”

  Something spears my stomach. We don’t have a right to know what happens to this old library anymore. We gave that up, along with Christopher. Ironic, because he’s the one who wanted to destroy it. There’s nothing here but history and potential.

  There’s nothing here for us right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PILE OF RUBBLE

  In the days that follow I’m alternately called a vandal and a grass roots activist by the local media. The Tanglewood Historical Society invites me to speak at their meeting, which I find ironic enough that I decide to go. Besides, Sutton lives here. We’ve gone out every night the past week—to Thai restaurants and burlesque clubs. There’s no part of the city we don’t want to explore, so I might as well put down some roots.

  My speech is short and sweet and encourages change through art. There’s a small reception afterward with tea and bourbon croissants, which makes me think I might come back to another meeting. If nothing else I’d like to show them we aren’t all fist-fights at theatres.

  Mrs. Rosemont doesn’t seem to hold it against me. She greets me warmly and thanks me for my work in helping save the library. “We thought it was hopeless, near the end.”

  “I’m glad you had the idea for the injunction,” I tell her, sipping the English breakfast tea. It soothes my throat, which feels a little worse for the wear after my speech.

  She pauses, looking uncertain. “It wasn’t my idea, dear.”

  “Oh.” Sutton must have been modest when he said she filed the paperwork. “Someone suggested that you file the injunction?”

  That makes her laugh. “Suggested? No, he wrote it himself. Had the society’s name on the paperwork. All we had to do was bring it to the courthouse.”

  “Sutton can be efficient when he wants to be.”

  There’s a long pause, where Mrs. Rosemont studies her cup of tea as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’m not sure I should tell you this.”

  Unease moves through me. “Tell me what?”

  Her gray eyes are soft. “It wasn’t Sutton who wrote that injunction and gave it to me.”

  “Then who?” Except I already know. There’s only one person who would figure out the exact method of stopping construction. Only one person who didn’t seem at all surprised that it happened. “Christopher.”

  She nods. “Mr. Bardot called me that night. We had to wake up a judge, which was something I helped with. There were other things we needed—the testimony of the partner, for one thing. Sutton Mayfair was called in for that.”

  My hands feel cold. And then numb. “I don’t understand.”

  “I asked him why,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “He didn’t explain himself. I don’t think a man like that explains himself very often.”

  Why had Christopher stopped his own construction?

  And why had he hidden that fact? Why signal the construction crew to begin when he knew it would end at any minute? Was he hoping to finish quickly? No, that’s not possible. It would have taken too long. And he didn’t have to file that injunction. The library would be a pile of rubble and dirt right now if he hadn’t done that.

  * * *

  It feels like a betrayal to even stand outside his condo.

  Some part of me knows I shouldn’t ask this question. This is the railing of the yacht. And beneath me, black water and sharks. Even being here means I might fall.

  My arms don’t move when I tell them to knock. My legs don’t move when I tell them to leave. My body is in full rebellion, keeping me rooted to this spot. I’m the one turned to stone.

  The door swings open, and dark eyes widen. Christopher.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” I say, hiding my nerves behind a flippant smile. Oh yes, I’m used to this. Brushing past him is easy, even with the big box he’s holding. Maybe because of it. He can’t put it down quick enough to stop me. I push myself up on his granite bar top, swinging my legs.

  He follows me more slowly, setting down the box he’s carrying beside a stack of others. “If you’re here about the trust fund—”

  “I talked to the hospital. They told me you approved the funds for the butterfly garden. I told them to name it after Daddy, because it’s his money.”

  Those dark eyes give away nothing. “Your mother’s in the trial?”

  “We discussed it, but she doesn’t want to do it. And I’m okay with that.”

  He swings away from me, toward the bank of windows. “I have a lot to do today.”

  “Are you moving?” The boxes already say the answer is yes. Not that many boxes for a nice big condo, but he isn’t a man with that many things. That’s strange for someone who wants money, who’s earned a fair amount of it. It makes me wonder why he wants money, if not to spend it.

  He sighs. “I suppose I can tell you, since you’re here. I’m leaving Tanglewood.”

  The news hits me like a wrecking ball to the stomach. “Why?”

  A short laugh. “That’s a question I’ve been asking myself frequently.”

  “And the answer is…”

  “The answer is that you’ll be more at ease knowing you won’t see me around the corner. There’s nothing here for me if I’m not going to build a shiny new mall.”

  “I thought you said the injunction would lose on appeal.”

  “It will, but by then the construction company will be knee-deep in a real estate development on the other side of the city. That’s how these things are played. Timing is everything.”

  “Timing,” I say, tasting the word.

  He waves a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

  “Are you going to build your mall somewhere else?”

  “Maybe,” he says, noncommittal, but I read the answer in the hard set of his jaw. Not right away, because his money is tied up in a building that he can’t touch.

  “Mrs. Rosemont told me you were the one who wrote that injunction.” The words spill out of me like a dam has opened. I’m shaking with relief to have them out. “Why would you do that, Christopher? You’re the one who wanted that place torn down.”

  “I didn’t want it torn down.”

  “Um, excuse me. I think I would remember if you said, ‘Ha
rper, let’s leave the library up and save all the books and priceless architectural details.’”

  “I wanted something new built. That’s not the same thing as wanting it torn down.”

  “It is when there’s a wrecking ball involved.”

  His eyes dance with something like humor. “Fair enough. So it’s not going to be torn down. That’s what you wanted. So why are you here?”

  “I’m here because you lied to me.”

  One eyebrow rises. “I didn’t lie.”

  “You should have told me you filed that injunction. Instead you told the construction people to start tearing it down, knowing, knowing it would be stopped.”

  His voice is mild. “Like I said, timing is everything.”

  “You wanted me to think Sutton had saved the library.”

  He turns away, and I know I’ve guessed right. “Does it matter? He did help.”

  I cross the room and stand in front of Christopher. It hurts to look at those dark eyes, knowing what he’s done. Somehow it hurts worse to know he saved the library. “Why?”

  “Hell,” he says roughly. “You know why.”

  I don’t want to hear this, but I can’t make myself walk away. It’s everything I ever wanted from him. Too late, too late. “Spell it out for me.”

  “The only reason I was in this city was for you. Because you loved it here, with Avery. Because I thought you belonged here. Turns out you do belong here—with someone else.”

  “Why would that matter to you?”

  An uneven laugh. “Because I’ve loved you every day since that goddamned will reading. Every day since I dived into the water after you. Probably from the moment I saw you walking up that dock the first day.”

  My stomach pitches. “Then why didn’t you fight for me?”

  “Oh, there’s a million answers to that one. Stubbornness. Stupidity.”

  “And at the end?”

  “At the end, you wanted Sutton to be the one to save the library.”

  “So you gave it to me,” I whisper, my heart fracturing.