Ivy clicked through more of Lola’s profile photos, and there were images of her in her kitchen, and her office, and even in her pool. Every image seemed like one out of a magazine. So, this woman was pretty and rich? That pissed Ivy off even more.
To her surprise, Ivy got a notification that her friend request had been accepted. She grinned and refreshed the page to look through Lola’s profile.
Ivy scrolled down until she caught a photo of Lola arm in arm with a man. He was a very handsome man, with perfect teeth too, and a faded, wavy haircut. This woman was married! Happily married too, from the looks of it. How was it that she got to be pretty, happy, and in love, while Ivy suffered for years because of her?
Ivy didn’t trust being in relationships. She was in one before and it didn’t end well, and now she blamed Lola for it. The relationship only ended badly because Ivy’s ex couldn’t accept the fact that she needed to see a therapist every week. He didn’t want to have a “crazy girlfriend,” so she made it easy for him and dumped his ass. He called her names, told her she was no good. Used and abused her.
Ivy gritted her teeth as she pressed down harder on her mouse pad, clicking through Lola’s photos.
How could Lola just live like she’d done nothing wrong in her life? Lola had a big, fancy home with a handsome husband and wore expensive clothes and jewelry. She didn’t deserve any of what she had.
Ivy continued scrolling, but couldn’t help noticing that even though Lola smiled brightly in every photo, there was something about her eyes. Her eyes told Ivy everything she needed to know. She’d gone through something tragic. Lola was definitely responsible for destroying her life.
Ivy saw an Instagram post on Lola’s page. She clicked it, and it took her to the photo. It was a blue-and-white graphic for a charity named Ladies with Passion. It was for volunteer jobs for a charity Lola had founded in 2008. A year after the incident. Yeah, that wasn’t a coincidence at all. Put up a charity to cover up the guilt.
Lola had just posted the graphic two days before. Everyone was welcome to apply for the charity if they wanted to work as a volunteer, but background checks were required and spaces were limited, which meant they would be picky about who became one. There was a link to apply in her biography on Instagram.
Ivy stared at the link for a fleeting moment, tapping the pad of her finger on the edge of her laptop. The last thing she wanted was for the perfect Mrs. Maxwell to run a background check on her; then again, she could always use her mother’s maiden name on the application and have Alexa’s boyfriend make her a fake ID.
She clicked the link to apply, filled it out diligently, and sent it off. With all Lola had going on, she figured the woman wouldn’t even know who she was or give her first name a second thought, if she was aware of it.
It seemed she’d already forgotten about the incident, with her handsome husband, fancy home, and amazing life. For all Ivy knew, she didn’t even exist to the rich bitch.
But who’d given her therapist the name? Why would Lola jeopardize all she had just to feed her name to Ivy now? Did she know Ivy? Know what she looked like? How did she even find Marriott?
Lola would know who Ivy was . . . right? She would be waiting for Ivy to come to her someday, confront her about the past. All of it could backfire or even be a trap. Ivy had to be careful, plan her approach wisely.
Ivy sighed as she looked at the confirmation email that let her know her application had been received, then she took a look around her cramped, one-bedroom apartment. The leaky faucet was dripping. The brown stain on her floor was getting darker instead of lighter, no matter how much she scrubbed at it. The AC never worked properly and caused her to break out in a sweat every hot night.
Fury blinded Ivy.
It wasn’t fair that Lola got to live in luxury and style while Ivy struggled day in, day out just to pay her bills. Ivy worked retail and faked smiles all day. She never quite had enough money to buy a new outfit for herself, or new shoes, because all her money went to her rent or recurring bills. Her life would have been so different if it weren’t for Lola Maxwell.
After shutting the lid of the laptop, Ivy poured herself a glass of the red wine she got from a coworker, sat on her dingy brown couch with her iPhone, and scrolled through Lola’s Instagram account, absorbing everything she could about the woman who’d ruined everything good in her life.
CHAPTER TWO
Ivy couldn’t believe it.
Her application for the Ladies with Passion charity had been rejected, the email typed in big, bold, red letters.
THANK YOU FOR APPLYING TO BE A LADIES WITH PASSION VOLUNTEER. AT THIS TIME, WE ARE CONSIDERING OTHER OPTIONS, BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO APPLY AGAIN NEXT YEAR.
WITH LOVE AND GRACE,
LOLA AND TEAM
What a bitch. And here she’d worked so hard on the application to make it sound believable. Lola opened volunteer applications every year, though, so it was fine. She could wait. She needed time to plan anyway, and perhaps Lola would forget about Ivy completely after another year.
As badly as she wanted to see this woman face-to-face as soon as possible, it had to be at the right time and the right moment.
Ladies with Passion was an organization for pregnant teen girls and women who needed financial support for prenatal and postnatal care. It was thoughtful, but a load of shit. She should have put all that energy into owning up to what she’d done instead.
It was obvious to Ivy that the charity was created so Lola could avoid the truth . . . which still left the question: Who gave Marriott Lola’s name? Was Lola waiting for Ivy to show up and planning on paying her off to keep her quiet while clearing her conscience? Because, hell, she would have loved that. Perhaps she should have emailed her and gotten it over with, or even met her for lunch somewhere to discuss money . . . but that was too easy for her. Money alone wasn’t going to cut it. Ivy needed more.
Opening her laptop with a weak cup of coffee beside it, Ivy typed in the name of Lola’s charity organization in the Search bar. She then went to the website and absorbed as much knowledge as she could about it. Just because her application wasn’t approved didn’t mean she couldn’t show up for the events.
She clicked through the photos of all the pregnant women who’d been helped or given large checks, and then clicked through the volunteer images, all of them in their sky-blue shirts with “Ladies with Passion” in swirly pink font. Lola was in several photos, smiling like an angel . . . which she was not.
Ivy abandoned the website and picked up her phone, going to Instagram and finding Lola again. She’d done this many times since discovering Lola had an account.
Her Instagram account was where she posted the most. She wouldn’t follow her just in case Lola noticed her name. Not yet at least. She only needed to see Lola, and because Lola’s profile was public, it made things a lot easier.
She scrolled until she found an image of Lola slathered in sweat, with a pair of pink boxing gloves on her hands. She was flexing her toned arms, her honey hair hanging down in a low ponytail, wisps clinging to her wet face.
“Kickboxing? Seriously?” Ivy muttered, then rolled her eyes. Lola had tagged her location with the photo. Best Rounds Kickboxing was the place, and the address was even attached. How foolish could Lola be? Ivy wondered. She made her life so . . . accessible.
Did she really think the world cared about her latest workout or charity sponsor? Then again, according to the twenty-to-fifty-thousand likes and hundreds of comments, many people did care what Lola was up to.
Ivy chewed the flesh on the inside of her cheek, tapping on the next photo. It was an image of Lola and her husband. Ivy lingered on that photo—on the husband.
He wore a black tuxedo, and Lola was in a platinum dress, her hair pulled up into a tight bun. Her skin was glowing and flawless. They were attending a fundraising dance.
Ivy’s eyes shifted back over to Lola’s husband. She tapped the photo, and a username popped up where he was tagged.
That took her to a profile for a man named Corey Maxwell.
So that was his name. Corey Maxwell. Corey was divine, really, and that said a lot coming from Ivy, seeing that she didn’t care much for men in general after her ex. She never felt normal with that fucker, and she hadn’t trusted many people afterward, especially men.
There was something about Corey Maxwell that drew Ivy in, though. He had deep brown eyes and a beautiful, boyish smile. He even had dimples that sank into his brown skin when he revealed his teeth. She could tell, despite only seeing him in photos, that he was tall—she guessed six feet or taller.
Corey Maxwell had broad shoulders and his face was cleanshaven in most photos, but when he rocked a five-o’ clock shadow, it made him appear more rugged and handsome. He was eye candy for sure, and something about him made her want to talk to him. Touch him. Hear his voice for the first time.
She scrolled through his profile pictures until she found an image of him in front of a building with his hands in the air, as if he were proud.
Maxwell’s Aesthetics. It was a #throwbackthursday photo, to when he first opened his company in 2003.
Ivy quickly left the Instagram app and went to Google to search for the company.
So, Corey Maxwell was a plastic surgeon? He was the best in South Beach, Florida, according to several articles. He even performed surgery on celebrities. Now that was interesting. No wonder Mrs. Maxwell was so well off.
Ivy was filled with so much knowledge now about the infamous Lola. With a smile on her face, she walked to the kitchen with her phone, going back and forth between Lola’s profile and Corey’s.
Her phone rang. She rolled her eyes and ignored the call.
She prepared a hot turkey sandwich with potato chips and then sat down on her patio to eat it all, letting the seed of an idea plant itself in her mind.
She didn’t have a great view from her studio apartment, and it always smelled like fast food, thanks to the McDonald’s across the street. Music was blasting in the apartment downstairs from Streeter, the punk weed dealer who loved having parties every weekend and playing loud hip-hop music all day long, but she didn’t mind the noise today, or the smell of the greasy burgers.
Normally, she’d go downstairs and bang on Streeter’s door and demand that he cut the music off, but not today. Streeter could have his stupid music because she had something much better to deal with.
A plan.
Ivy munched on a potato chip. Scrolled through her phone.
There was one thing Ivy knew for certain: Lola Maxwell would not live a picture-perfect life for much longer. Ivy would tear it down bit by bit, but she’d have to be patient, make sure it worked in her favor.
She wanted to ruin this woman’s life, just as she’d ruined hers . . . but first she had to sit, think, and devise a plan. Despite the delay it would cause, she was very much looking forward to witnessing Lola Maxwell’s ruin from a front-row seat.
PART ONE
BEFORE THE RUIN
CHAPTER THREE
IVY
Hey, Marriott.
You told me to write to you when I needed someone to talk to, even if I decided never to share what I had to say.
Get the words out, you’d always tell me. Express the way you feel on paper if you don’t want to talk about it out loud. Thoughts come out way clearer when they’re written on paper, Ivy.
Well, I’m taking your advice for once. I’m writing it out. After all, I have nothing but time on my hands.
As you know, I don’t have any friends—at least not many I can confide in. There was Alexa. Remember her? But I can’t trust her with my secrets.
She did more judging than accepting, and there was something off about her. She started asking too many questions and was always popping up when I didn’t even invite her over. So, that leaves me with you.
After all I’ve been through, you will probably never acknowledge these words, but it feels good to know I’m telling this story to you. Someone needs to know my side of things.
When you told me the name of the person who’d ruined my life, I think something inside me snapped. I lost all sense of self-control and became obsessed—way too obsessed for my own good. Maybe you were right about my obsessive behavior before.
If you’re blaming yourself right now for anything, stop. You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened. Really, you shouldn’t. None of this was your fault. You tried to do the right thing with me, but I just didn’t want to listen. Now look at me.
Still, I suppose I needed to know who the person was. I wouldn’t have lived in peace if I never knew, and you know that.
I quickly learned things about Lola Maxwell. I knew things about her husband too. I’d come up with plan after plan, making sure each one had a plan Z. I was finally ready to take the risk—ready to face this woman and see if she’d recognize me as the girl whose life she ruined.
But before I did that, I had to do some legwork. Pay some expenses. Get in good and make my mark. It was cool. It needed to be done to create the outcome I’d originally wanted.
That’s why I started with her handsome husband, Mr. Corey Maxwell. Or Dr. Corey Maxwell, I should say.
I want you to read this slowly. No, really. Digest it all, and then when it’s done, you can form your own opinions of me. I want you to understand my every angle because at the end of the day, you know my mind better than anyone else does. You studied it for over a decade, inhaled my habits, and continuously diagnosed me with disorders I never even knew I had.
You know me, Marriott. But for now, just read this. Pay attention to the details. And don’t you dare judge me until you’ve read every single last one of my words.
I’ll start from the beginning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Fourteen Months Before the Ruin
The day was May 22, 2019. That was the day when my plans were truly going to kick in. I had just turned twenty-seven and was ready to conquer the world.
It was hot as hell in downtown Miami, the air thick with humidity and the wind blowing with gusts from the salty ocean.
I collected my bag from the passenger seat—a purple handbag I found on the clearance rack at Target. After applying another coat of lip gloss while looking in my visor mirror, I fingered through my hair to loosen my soft, natural curls and then climbed out of my two-door Honda Civic.
I dressed as flashily as my budget would allow. I’d found a black dress that hugged my waist on the clearance rack at my job at Banana Republic and a pair of open-toed heels from Target. The dress was strapless, and because I had a follow-up appointment, I didn’t need a bra.
I walked up to the door of Maxwell Aesthetics and swung it open. A woman with twists in her hair greeted me behind the counter. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Maxwell at ten.”
“And what is your name?” the woman asked, already typing on the keyboard in front of her.
“Ivy Elliot.” My last name wasn’t Elliot, but you know that. That’s my mother’s maiden name.
The woman typed my name on the keyboard and then nodded. “Okay. I’ve got you signed in, Miss. Elliot. Dr. Maxwell will be with you shortly. Would you like a cool beverage while you wait?”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.” I took a seat in the waiting area. It had a man’s touch. Upholstered black leather sofas, glass tables with sharp silver corners, and square mirrors on the white walls.
As I waited, I bunched my breasts together and looked down, focusing on my cleavage. I had to get used to that. Dr. Maxwell had done a wonderful job with my breast implants, but it had cost me a pretty damn penny.
I’d saved up all last year to get them specifically from Dr. Maxwell, and also dug into the money I had been saving when I was receiving my government assistance checks to kick-start the fund myself.
You would say this was a waste of money, but . . . well, I considered it necessary for everything I had in stor
e. A little over the top? Yes. But I needed it for many reasons.
My surgery was six weeks before. My breasts were now two sizes bigger and I even had to go up a shirt size. The healing process was a bitch and I had to take off work the first week, but I didn’t mind it. I was tired of being an A-cup anyway.
I’m pretty sure I’ve told you about how annoyed I was with my tiny breasts a time or two. You always told me to love my body. Well, Marriott, no one loved a boy’s body, and now that I knew who Lola was, I found myself regretting the sleeve of tattoos on my left arm that I’d gotten while in college. Ink drawings on my skin of geometric shapes, leaves, roses, and crescent moons. My sleeve took me a year to complete. I was proud of it at one point because it was made of some of my favorite things. Now? Not so much. Rich people—the type in Lola’s world—didn’t have sleeves of tattoos, but perhaps mine would make me stand out more.
“Ivy Elliot.” A deep voice carried through the waiting area, and I picked up my head, spotting the ever-so-handsome Corey Maxwell standing near his office door.
I smiled and stood as elegantly as possible. My chin was raised and my eyes were locked right on his. He smiled at me as I approached.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ivy.” His smile was warm. Infectious. Dimples creased his cheeks. I loved a man with dimples. Did you know dimples are a genetic defect? And yet people with them are much, much cuter than those without. To me, at least.
“Thank you for fitting me into your schedule,” I said, entering his office. “I know how busy you are.”
“It does get busy around here, but you are my client.” He glanced at my chest. “I trust you are enjoying your new luxuries?”
I did the laugh I had practiced in the mirror—the flirtatious giggle that would make him feel good and stroke his ego. I’d once read about flirtatious laughter in a magazine. Men loved when pretty women laughed at their jokes, no matter how corny the jokes were.
The Perfect Ruin Page 2
