by L.J. Shen
It was Emilia’s father’s turn to join the conversation, and my heart stopped when I watched him walking over to me. I’d never cared what any girl’s parents thought about me. Ever. But there was something about this guy that made me want to beg him to give me a second chance.
His brows were furrowed and his eyes twitched. “I never liked you,” he said simply.
I nodded. “Can’t blame you.”
“I don’t want you near my daughter, Baron. You’re not good for her.”
“See, this is where I beg to differ.” I strode deeper into their living room and picked up two of the big suitcases. Moving back to the door, I motioned with my head for them to follow me. “I’m going to sort out the Jo situation and secure you two another job, but in the meantime, you’ll have to respect her wishes and vacate the premises.”
It was an order they didn’t have much choice except to obey. They followed me across the pebbled walkway in the front garden to the taxi waiting outside the gate. I tipped the driver two hundred bucks to check them in, because the LeBlanc couple had never checked into a hotel before, which was again, a painful reminder of how humble Emilia’s upbringing was, and how she still didn’t give a fuck about my wealth.
After I made sure the LeBlancs were on their way to The Vineyard, Todos Santos’s best five-star hotel, I strolled into the mansion that used to be mine like I still owned the place. The house was open, meaning Josephine was there. I went straight to the kitchen, and when I didn’t find her there, I checked the pool.
She was tanning, lying on a sunbed, wearing a huge pair of designer shades and a skimpy bikini that screamed I’m still young. And lied.
I paced quietly in her direction and took a seat next to her. I was still wearing my suit. It was early morning and the sun was not even fully out, not to mention that it was mid-March, but I remembered Jo talking with her society friends about how a natural tan always beats the machines and tanning creams. She’d freeze her ass outside for a glimpse of a sunray.
“You think this is going to defrost your cold heart?” I asked evenly.
I guess her eyes were closed because the minute I started speaking, she jumped and almost hit the sunshade behind us. She scooted to a sitting position, yanking the shades from her face and scowling at me. “What are you doing here? I’m calling the police!”
She could call the police, but really? On her stepson? It wasn’t breaking and entering. And I wasn’t aggressive in any way.
Yet.
I leaned back on my sunbed and crossed my legs, staring at the kidney-shaped pool. Jo loved swimming in it. I wondered if she would still be keen on using it if she knew how many teenagers fucked in it during my badass high school parties for four years in a row.
“I thought you said you wanted to do dinners and wine more often,” I said, my tone still calm.
Water mattresses floated on the surface of the massive pool like weightless ballerinas, different colors, shapes and sizes, and it all reminded me of a Bret Easton Ellis book. The rich assholes. The bitchy stepmom. It was all so fucked up to the core. Not that I was making excuses, but I really did have a miniscule chance at turning out differently than I had.
“You didn’t come here to spend time with me, and no matter what you have to ask, the answer is no. I don’t want them on my property anymore. They’re too old for the job, anyway.” Josephine lifted a glass of ice water and brought the straw to her lips, her movements ladylike and gentle.
It was funny hearing this from her. Emilia’s parents were the exact same age as Jo. The only difference was the LeBlancs actually worked for a living. They weren’t the useless ones. She was.
“That’s fine. Charlene is going to cook for me in LA, and Paul needed to retire two years ago.” I still needed to find a place for them to live, but otherwise, I doubted Dean would have a problem. “I actually came here to let you in on a secret.” I offered her a smile.
She stopped sucking on her straw and arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I know what you and Daryl did. I know what my dad agreed to do. Know how my mother died. I. Know. Everything.”
It was beautiful to see her face whitening and her teeth chattering when the weather and my cold words finally caught up with her body. The glass shattered on the tiles, tiny ice cubes flying everywhere. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to deny the accusation—
“Please, Josephine. No more bullshit. The only reason I spared you from justice all this time was because I didn’t deserve to get dragged through all this shit along with you.” Besides, the plan was always to make sure Josephine would be left with nothing to live for, too.
And it almost happened.
No husband.
No brother.
No family.
No nothing.
Except money.
“I was weighing my options in New York, trying to figure out what I want to do about the whole situation. Well, I think I finally made up my mind.” My voice was so light, but her expression darkened.
Everything was strained and wrinkled. She stared at me in complete horror and shock, clutching the tough canvas of the sunbed. “Baron…” Her Botoxed lips quivered. “I don’t know what makes you think I had anything to do with your mother’s death—”
“Don’t lie to me.” I blinked once, watching her intently, then shook my head. “I heard your conversation with my dad. Heard the little heart-to-heart you had with him. You’re pretty convincing, aren’t you? Well, you’ve never fooled me. It was a matter of when to strike, not if.”
“You misunderstood. I promise you I will rehire the LeBlancs, and you and I should talk about the will. It wasn’t fair that you father left everything to me. We can reach a financial settlement. I can…”
I tuned her out. She thought it was about the money. How sad was her life? I leaned forward, taking her face in my hands. Gentle. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. I was close to her. Leaning into her. Our knees brushing together. Bile bubbled up my throat when I smiled at her serenely. Sickly. Acting like the psychopath she always thought I was.
And maybe I was a psychopath. Maybe she was the person who made me one.
“Jo?” I asked, my voice soft. “Do yourself a favor. Leave this house tonight. I would also advise against sharing this conversation with anyone. You were brave, Jo. So brave to tell my father that Marie was better off dead than alive in her condition. I’d like to see how brave you are if I go to the police. It’s true you might even still get away with having her murdered. But are you willing to take that chance?
“Now, get back to your precious tan,” I patted her cheek, getting up from my seat. “Who knows? It just might be your last.”
Ever since I was a kid, I’d had dreams, vivid dreams, about burning down my father’s mansion. I just knew it had to be done. I knew it would soothe the pain, make it go away. Not all of it, but enough for me to live. After I grew up, I even believed that it was the root of my sleeping problems. I just wanted the place to cease to exist, along with my memories of Daryl hitting me, Jo and Dad’s conversation, and everything else.
But the Spencer mansion sprawled over 12,000 square feet. It was huge and made of bricks, not exactly the easiest thing to set on fire.
Still—you never know until you tried, right?
The servant’s apartment was only about a hundred feet from the main house, not too far away, and while Jo came in and out of the main kitchen several times a day, she’d never even knocked on the LeBlancs’ door once. So, after I said goodbye to a shocked Jo, I went back there.
I walked into Emilia’s room, nonchalant as ever. I hummed Kravinsky’s “Nightcall” because it finally dawned on me, albeit out of nowhere, that Emilia liked the song because it was about me. I collected everything I thought she’d miss. Framed pictures. Mementos from high school. Her favorite boots. Tucking everything that wasn’t already packed by her parents and shoving it into a box.
I spent the next three hours carrying all of the LeBlancs
boxes to an SUV in the garage and making three trips to the storage warehouse outside of town.
Emilia’s box, though, I kept for myself.
All that time, I saw Jo through the vast French doors of the mansion’s kitchen. Pacing, tossing back glass after glass of wine, and losing her shit. Then, when I was finally done, I turned on the gas burners of the stove in the pool house—all four of them—and left.
I wouldn’t do the burning down myself. I needed an alibi. But it was going to happen. Finally.
If Jo decided to stay in the house and burn down with it, that was her problem, not mine.
I’d warned her.
Now I had one more mission before I went back to New York—win the LeBlanc couple over.
“HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS?” Rosie flopped on our small sofa beside me. The couch came with the place. It was small, but it was fun to sit on an actual seat when watching TV. Rosie clicked on buttons until she reached a news channel. A mansion we knew all too well was on fire, the roof collapsing into the dancing flames. I stared at it for a long time, knowing exactly what it meant.
Vicious.
When we were seniors, he’d set fire to La Belle, the yacht that was also a restaurant that belonged to another football player who’d become an enemy of the four HotHoles. Vicious liked fire. Maybe because he was so cold, he liked the warmth twirling in his palm. It had his signature all over it.
I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and jumped to my feet, dialing his number. I wanted to make sure my parents were okay. That he was okay. He answered on the fourth ring.
I stopped whatever it was I was going to say, because I heard he was somewhere noisy. A party? A restaurant? I heard women giggling and men shouting. My heart sank to my stomach.
“Hey,” I croaked. “Is everyone all right? I saw there was a huge fire in your old neighborhood.” I kept it vague because I knew there was no way he was going to tell me the whole story over the phone. Or maybe even ever. Tucking a lock of my lavender hair behind my ear, I clasped one hand behind my neck and paced the apartment.
“Your parents are at The Vineyard.” He was curt, as always, even when he was chasing me every day. I made a memo to thank him for the taxi that had waited for me today, when he wasn’t able to walk me home. “I’m taking them to LA tomorrow. I need someone to be in charge of the catering at the Los Angeles branch, and your mom’s perfect for the job.”
I closed my eyes, breathing hard. The last thing I wanted was his charity, but my parents weren’t proud people. They just wanted to work and earn their way. I pinched my nose with my fingers, hating that I needed his help and was going to accept it, even after everything we’d been through.
“Thanks,” I said. “Well, I’ll let you go back to your party.”
“Bye,” he said, as if nothing had happened. As if he didn’t save my butt…again.
“Wait,” I hurried out before he hung up. The line was still there, but he didn’t say anything. I rubbed a hand against my thighs. “When will you be back in New York?”
“Can you just admit you miss me? It’s not that fucking hard.” I heard the smile in his voice.
I cringed. I did. I missed him. I hated that he wasn’t here today.
“I’m willing to give you your five minutes.” I dodged his accusation.
“Ten,” he argued. Even after all this time.
“Eight,” I retorted. It was all a game. I’d have given him as many hours as he needed to explain everything to me.
“Terrible negotiator,” he said in a tsking tone. “I would’ve taken five in a heartbeat. Good night, Em.”
Em. A tentative smile curved my lips. I knew it would stay there for long hours afterward.
He called me Em.
On Thursday, I wore a white and gold floor-length dress to the exhibition, letting my thick wavy hair fall against my bare back. Brent rented me this dress—rented!—knowing how important the exhibition was for me. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking about it. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be a big deal if no one bought my painting. It was going to be the first time a painting of mine would be on display and for sale in a gallery—a prestigious one too—and I was with some of the best artists in New York. I should’ve just been happy with the fact that my painting was there.
On the pristine white wall.
Looking at me. Smiling at me. Demanding my attention.
I couldn’t focus on anything but that painting.
This afternoon, I’d spoken to my parents on the phone. They were already in Los Angeles and were living in an apartment in the same building as Vicious’s penthouse in Los Feliz. I didn’t want to know how many apartments the HotHoles had purchased over the years.
Mama was still upset about what happened at the Spencer mansion. “The worst part”—her voice shook again—“was that they think what caused the fire was our stove. I never leave my stove on. You know that. I check it three times before I go to bed every night. I’m telling you, Millie, it wasn’t us.”
“I know,” I said, brushing my hair in front of the mirror, minutes before Brent picked me up. “It wasn’t you. I know that. But who knows? Maybe Josephine came in? Maybe one of the other people who worked for her?”
I left Vicious’s name out for obvious reasons.
Mama sighed. “What if they think we left it on purpose because she fired us?”
“Well, does anyone actually know that she fired you?”
“No.”
“Let’s try and keep it that way,” I said.
“Your boyfriend said the same thing.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I was getting a little tired of repeating this to everybody, mainly because I wanted the opposite to be true.
“Well, I have to go, Millie. Dean is taking us to buy some things for our apartment. It’s really nice. Big. But all the neighbors are so young. It’s really weird to live here.”
Dean was helping them out? I bit my inner cheek but didn’t say a word. That was the main thing about the HotHoles. They were such assholes, but deep down, they had great hearts.
“Enjoy, Mama.”
And now, here I was, living my dream, or what was supposed to be my dream. I stared at my painting again, clutching a tall glass of champagne and taking a deep breath. Rosie should’ve been here, but she’d taken a double shift at the café. She didn’t want to do it, but she was covering for a sick co-worker, and Rosie knew how it felt to get screwed over by illness. She didn’t want the girl, Elle, to get in trouble.
It was fine. I didn’t need anyone to celebrate with me. Besides, I had Brent.
A tall, beautiful woman in her early fifties approached me, wearing a black cocktail dress, a pearl necklace, and red lipstick. She smiled as she studied my painting on the wall.
“Nature or love?” she mused. She just wanted to start a conversation and had no idea I was the ELB who’d signed the bottom of the painting. Emilia LeBlanc.
“Definitely love. I mean, isn’t it obvious?” I quirked an eyebrow.
She laughed breathlessly, like what I’d said was utterly funny, and took a sip of her wine. “To you, maybe. Why do you think it’s love?”
“Because the person who painted it is obviously in love with the subject.”
“Why not the other way around?” She turned to me with a cunning smile. “See his face.” She trailed her manicured finger close to the canvas. “He looks happy. Content. Maybe he is the one who’s in love with the person who painted him. Or maybe they’re in love with each other.”
I blushed. “Perhaps.”
“I’m Sandy Richards.” She extended her hand to me, and I shook it.
Sandy looked like a rich woman, and not necessarily because of her outfit. There was an air about her. In that sense, she reminded me of the man in my painting.
“Emilia LeBlanc.”
“I knew it.” Then she pointed at the initials at the bottom of the painting.
There was no point denying it. Besides, I was pr
oud of this painting. It was the canvas I painted on Christmas Eve. I’d thought about keeping it and making something else for the exhibition, but the truth was, I didn’t want Vicious’s face staring back at me every day. Every time I closed my eyes, he was there. I didn’t need another reminder of my obsession with him.
“Are you sure you want to sell it?” Sandy pressed the cold glass against her cheek, her eyes moving to the painting again.
I nodded. “Never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“All beautiful things pass on,” I said. My own personal cherry blossom.
“I’ll buy it, then,” she said, hitching one shoulder up.
My mouth dried, and I blinked away my shock. “You will?”
“Sure. There’s something about him. Not in a model type of way. Just…interesting looking. But what I really like about this is that you captured the storm in his eyes. He’s smiling happily, but his eyes…they look tortured. So troubled. I love this. I bet this guy has a good story.”
“Nah, he’s an asshole.”
I heard the voice behind me and twisted immediately. Vicious was standing there, in one of his navy blue suits that made my heart thump and sparked a nagging ache between my thighs.
Disbelief washed through me. He’d made it to my exhibition. And…what on earth was he holding in his hand? It looked like some sort of a ticket.
I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to jump on him, to kiss him hard, to thank him for being there, but that’s not who we were. Not at this point, and maybe not ever. I reminded myself that last time I’d asked him what he wanted from me, his answer was to fuck me. I needed to be cautious with my heart this time.
Vicious walked over to us, ignoring Sandy, pushing his hand into my styled lavender hair, his lips ridiculously close to mine. The chatter around us stopped. I felt Brent’s eyes on us. Sandy’s eyes on us. Everyone’s eyes on us.
So this is what he had planned for Thursday. He knew. He wanted to be here all along.
“Ask me what I want,” Vicious murmured into my face.
