by Noree Kahika
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath.
When I turned to Roman, I noted he was pouring himself another drink. “Do you have a charger I could borrow? My phone’s dead.”
I held up my cell and Roman’s gaze flickered to me. “Yeah, in my study. Top drawer of my desk.” He took another swallow of his Scotch.
I stared blankly at his handsome face for several long moments and then walked down the hall and into the study. Jerk.
Like the rest of the penthouse, Roman’s study was huge, with floor-to-ceiling glass that showcased the beauty and splendor of the city’s famous park.
Opening the top drawer, I rummaged around but couldn’t see a phone charger anywhere, just numerous manila folders. Sighing, I glanced around. My eyes paused on Roman’s iPad—a charging cord attached—on the other side of the desk. I lowered myself into the leather chair and unplugged the charger from the iPad and into my phone. The movement caused the screen of the iPad to light. The in-box to Roman’s emails were open on the screen and I immediately reached out to turn off the device; however, as my fingers hovered over the button, an email addressed from Mr. Stern—the principal at Whitfield Academy and my boss—and with the subject heading “Miss Gilmore’s employment” caught my attention. I bit my bottom lip as I tapped the screen to open the email and read the contents. The email was an acknowledgment, thanking Roman for his generous contribution to the school and as inducement for the donation, the recently vacated teaching position would be conferred to Miss Gilmore posthaste. The email was dated exactly one week after I arrived home from Italy.
I felt sick to my stomach. My breathing increased to shallow, rapid breaths and my vision blurred. Bile rose in my throat like acid and my hand flung to my mouth. Blinking slowly three times, I refocused my vision and examined the email again. Disbelief seized my thoughts as I carefully read each word. Basically, Roman bribed them with a hefty donation in exchange for them awarding me the teaching position. My dream job wasn’t offered to me based on the merit of my teaching degree, the value of my skills, or competency to perform the role—it was solely based on Roman’s fucking money.
That mother-fucking asshole!
I cradled my head in my palms and rocked back and forth, trying desperately to process the tumultuous maelstrom of my emotions. Steadily my resolve formed and I reached for the iPad, determined to confront Roman with the evidence of his betrayal when my bracelet snagged on the drawer I’d opened earlier in my search for a phone charger. After I carefully disengaged the chain, I started to close the drawer. The sight of a small and familiar booklet halted my movements.
“Did you find the charger?”
The sound of Roman’s voice from the entrance of the study startled me.
“Charli,” he called.
Instantly, my eyes swung to his.
Vaguely, I noted a small frown marred his features. His eyes locked on the object in my hand. A plume of white-hot rage coursed through my body, blurring my sight, and I gritted my teeth from its severity. “Recognize this, Roman?”
His frown morphed into an intense scowl but I didn’t wait for his answer.
Words shot from my mouth like bullets fired from a gun. “I did. I recognized it immediately. I recognized it because it’s my fucking passport.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Waves of searing anger crested over every fiber of my being, cruelly colliding with my chaotic thoughts. At that moment, I didn’t know which of my feelings was the more dominant: doubt, betrayal, hurt, fury—like battle-crazed warriors, they all warred for control of my emotions. I’d never been so enraged in my entire life.
“Let me explain, Charlotte.”
A maniacal laugh erupted from my throat. “Explain? Oh, this should be good! I can’t wait to hear your reasons for having my passport stolen.” Tearing my eyes off the passport clasped in my hand, I threw a withering stare at Roman. “Or your explanation for bribing Mr. Stern with a hefty contribution to Whitfield Academy in return for him offering me the teaching position.”
Confusion briefly clouded his face so I pushed the iPad toward him. “This isn’t what you think it is,” he said in a carefully neutral tone as he glared down at the screen of the device.
“Oh no? The email seems pretty straightforward to me. But you know what—I don’t give a shit. I’m done. I’m done with all your bullshit lies and deceit. I trusted you and you betrayed me, Roman—you manipulated me from the very beginning.” He visibly winced as I said the word manipulation, but other than that one little wince, his face was shuttered. The son-of-a-bitch wore a damn impassive, expressionless mask. Once again, he appeared to be shutting me out. This was Venice all over again.
“Why—why did you do that to me, Roman?” My voice cracked on the last word. My chin wobbled and tears gathered in my eyes.
“Princess—” he began, his tone soft, almost pleading and hands held out beseechingly.
I swiped furiously at the tears, now flowing freely down my cheeks, and waited for him to explain, to at least defend some of his actions. His hands dropped loosely to his sides, and his eyes moved to a point somewhere over my shoulder. His body language told me all I needed to know. He didn’t love me like I loved him. I’d become enchanted with him in Paris, enamored with him in Venice, but I’d fallen head over heels in love with Roman Knight in New York City.
“I’m tired and I just want to go home.”
I gathered my phone, stood and started to walk out of the study. As I reached the doorway, Roman grabbed my arm. “Charli, don’t leave. Please.” This time his voice wasn’t soft or pleading; it sounded desperate and demanding.
“How can I not leave, Roman? What could you say that could possibly make all of this better?” I implored him with my gaze to say something—anything—but his lips thinned and his jaw firmed.
Tearing my arm from his grasp, I closed my eyes. “Please don’t,” I begged. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go.” I didn’t wait for his response; instead, I sprinted to the living room, grabbed my purse and hightailed it to the elevator, only to stop abruptly when I literally ran into Seth. My heartbeat nearly pounded out of my chest.
“Miss Gilmore,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. His big meaty hands reached out and grabbed my shoulders to steady me. “Mr. Knight had requested that I escort you home.”
Eleven missed calls and seven text messages—all from Roman—all within a span of thirteen hours. After the first five, I switched my phone on silent mode, so I wouldn’t have to hear it ring one more time. Just seeing his name displayed on the caller ID was more than enough torture. However, I did eventually cave and read all seven messages when the school bell finally rang at three p.m. to signal the end of the school day. Basically, all seven of Roman’s messages were varying themes of the same thing: We need to talk, Charlotte or Answer your phone, I need to speak with you and my personal favorite—Tell me you’re okay. Please let me explain.
Well, first off, I was not okay: I was so far from being okay, okay had another zip code. And second, Explain, my ass: Roman had plenty of opportunities to explain last night or my first day at Whitfield’s when he surprised me by showing up out of the blue. Instead of lying by telling me he’d only recommended me to a board member when the subject of a new teaching position came up over dinner, he could have told me the truth. The truth being, Roman Knight had bought my dream tenure by gifting a considerable donation in exchange.
All day at school, I felt like a fraud and impostor. I wasn’t appointed this teaching position based on the merits of my teaching qualification, my experience and personality. I was awarded this position—my dream job—based on the size of Roman’s bank account. Roman’s wealth bought me a job and I felt sick to my stomach.
Then there was the matter of my passport. What person in their right mind would orchestrate such a deliberate, deceitful, devious plan to have another person’s passport stolen in a foreign country, all with the pretext of coercing that person into stayin
g with them? That night in Paris when I discovered my hotel room ransacked, I’d never been so scared, so afraid, felt so violated as I did then—not to mention all the anxiety I’d gone through just to get the frigging thing replaced.
Since leaving Roman’s last night, I’d tried to recall every word he’d ever spoken to me, every action in attempt to see whether there were other hidden deceptions he’d devised, but in the end my head ached so much I could barely think. Thank God, Sam was working a late shift and wasn’t home when Seth dropped me off. I’d stripped off my clothes, slid into bed without taking my make-up off or even brushing my teeth. And when I couldn’t think anymore, I cried. I cried and I sobbed—huge, soul retching, chest heaving, blotchy faced sobs until I finally fell asleep.
In the morning, I quietly—so as not to awaken Sam—showered and dressed for work. All day, I’d gone through the motions, pretending to be cheerful and cognizant for the sake of my students. We’d conducted our first spelling bee today and I was extremely proud of how all my students performed. But now that they’d gone home for the day, I was determined to confront at least one of my problems head on.
Lifting my hand to the polished wood-paneled door, I knocked, hoping the tap sounded confident because gaging by the swarm of butterflies currently performing the rumba in my stomach, I was not.
The sound of Mrs. Henderson’s voice filtered through from her office. “Come in.”
With a deep breath, I strolled in. “Hi, Mrs. Henderson. I was wondering if you have a few moments?”
She looked up from her desk, slid her reading glasses down her nose and gestured with a hand to one of two chairs placed before her desk. “Of course, Miss Gilmore. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” I sat, folded my hands in my lap and willed my breathing under control.
“What can I do for you?”
My lips pursed while I tried to think of a tactful way to broach the subject. After several long moments, I sighed in frustration and blurted out my thoughts. “Mrs. Henderson, I’ve recently learned the only reason I was given the teaching tenure here at Whitfield’s was in exchange for a large donation gifted to the school by Roman Knight.”
Mrs. Henderson’s brows shot up and over the rim of her glasses; her eyes widened in surprise. I could tell by her expression she hadn’t expected my bluntness.
“Hmm,” she murmured as she reclined back in her leather chair. Gracefully, she plucked off her glasses, placed them on the desk and narrowed her eyes at me in contemplation.
“I see,” she finally said after thoroughly examining my features. “Charli…” she began. It didn’t escape me that she seldom addressed any of the teaching staff by the given names. “You’re correct in saying that Mr. Stern initially offered you the position here because of an incentive proffered to the school by Mr. Knight.”
My stomach lurched at her words.
“However,” she clasped her hands together on the desk, “I’d like to point out to you the difference between offer and given. Mr. Stern had asked me to offer you the position on the provision your qualifications, along with your disposition, met our criteria. Above all else, Miss Gilmore, we here at Whitfield Academy put the welfare and education of our students first and foremost, and that includes above any monetary contribution.”
Instantly, I felt schooled, taken to task by the stern reproach of her tone and words. My fingers toyed nervously with the gold charm bracelet I wore on my wrist as I held her disapproving gaze. She continued to study me and an awkward silence ensued but then her eyes softened and she gave me a sympathetic smile.
“Charli, we may have offered you an interview for the position; however, I gave you the position based solely on your merits. You had an impressive grade average in college, graduating summa cum laude. The references from schools where you worked as a substitute teacher since graduation were nothing short of glowing. And combined with your many years of volunteer service—teaching young children gymnastics—you were the perfect candidate for the role. You, my dear, were given the teaching tenure because I like you and I believe in you. I admire your passion for teaching and I respect your dedication to our profession.”
My eyelids squeezed shut for a brief moment as I tried to hold back the tears. When I finally had them under control, I opened my eyes and smiled gratefully at Mrs. Henderson. In that moment, I felt overwhelmed by her words, by her honesty, humbled for her belief in me and so damn relieved that I’d earned my place in this school. I’d been awarded the teaching position based on me and not on Roman’s money. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” I said softly.
She smiled warmly. “You’re most welcome, Charli.”
It was dark when I finally arrived home. I’d stayed back at school to prepare some of the lesson plans for the week ahead and around six thirty, I’d caught the subway home. Richard had been waiting downstairs at the entrance of my apartment to escort me to work that morning; however, this evening he wasn’t around when I’d left Whitfield’s. Roman must have decided I wasn’t in need of his driver/bodyguard anymore now that we’d broken up. Just the thought of us being over sent a stabbing pain through my chest.
Fumbling with the keys, I managed to insert them into the lock, only to discover the door was already unlocked. Knowing Sam was on night shifts this week at the Roasted Nectar, the coffee shop where she worked, I frowned and made a mental note to speak with her about remembering to lock the front door before she left.
As I entered the dark apartment, I switched on the light and threw my bag onto the kitchen counter, careful to avoid the opened wine bottle and half-filled glass that sat by the sink. This time, I frowned at the bottle of wine and half-drunken glass as I took off my coat. Surely Sam hadn’t been drinking mid-afternoon before going off to work.
“It’s times like these that definitely call for something stronger than wine—don’t you agree, Charli? However, seeing as wine is all you have in the apartment, then I guess it will have to do.”
The familiar voice that resonated from the small living room startled me; I jumped and released a terrified yelp. My heart violently lurched into my throat and my pulse sped as I turned toward the voice. “Jonathan?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“W-what are y-you doing h-here?” My voice came out strangled; my hand flew to my chest. I could feel my heart pound in my chest, beating in double time.
He stalked slowly toward me. A malevolent smirk played across his mouth as he gestured to the wine glass he held in his hand. “I’d thought I drop by, share a drink or two. Get to know you a little better.”
His head inclined toward the kitchen sink, where the other glass of wine sat. “I already took the liberty of pouring you one, Charli. Please, have a drink.”
Fear saturated every pore of my body; the hairs of my arms and neck rose in terror and bile climbed up my throat. “I don’t want a drink, Jonathan, and I don’t remember inviting you in to my apartment.”
Squaring my shoulders, I mustered all the courage I could find—which amounted to zero—and cleared my throat, forcing my voice to be firm. “I didn’t invite you here, Jonathan. I want you to leave. Now. Before I call the police.”
His answering chuckle was sinister in its delivery. He casually leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “I’m not going anywhere, Charli, and you’re not going to call the cops.”
My eyes flickered from Jonathan to the bag on the counter where my phone was to the entrance of my bedroom and then to the front door. I could sprint to my bedroom, barricade myself in, but I’d have to run past his vicinity and he’d likely catch me. My best chance was the front door situated behind us. If I could open it fast enough, I could beat him down the stairs. Jonathan looked like a fit man but I had speed and was nimble enough that I could slide down the stair rail.
Decision made, I flew for the door but just as my fingers unlatched the lock and pulled it forward, he caught me by the long braid of my hair.
“Fuck!” He yanked viciously
on my braid with one hand as his other slammed the door closed and flicked the lock.
And for the first time in my life, I cursed at having long hair. I winced from the sharp sting of pain to my scalp.
“That was really fucking stupid of you, Charli,” he growled. He released his hold on my hair and gripped both my shoulders. His fingers dug painfully into the tops of both arms—the strength of his grip was so hard, so forceful, I knew it would leave bruises. Jonathan propelled me forward into the living room and roughly pushed me onto the small sofa.
Through a veil of tears, I warily watched him retreat, cursing as he rubbed the back of his neck with a single hand. “W-what are you g-going to do to m-me?” My chin wobbled and I hated how my words had come out stuttered. Instinctively, I rubbed where his hands had been on my shoulders, trying to soothe the pain away.
“I…don’t know. Nothing.” He glared at me. His brown eyes were hard, cold and filled with loathing. He exhaled sharply and shook his head as if he was attempting to clear his thoughts.
“Did you know back in college they called themselves the Alumni of the Phoenix?” He laughed bitterly to himself. “The name was Noah’s idea—he was always into the mythological shit. Then Alex came up with the bright idea of getting tattoos to symbolize their alliance.”
Too terrified to speak or move apart from swiping at the tears streaming down my face, I sat perfectly still and tried to listen carefully to what he was saying. And I noted, despite him staring directly at me, Jonathan’s eyes appeared to be slightly unfocused, as if he was remembering something while he spoke.
If I could only think of a way to distract him, I might be able to make a break for it again. “And you’re jealous because they wouldn’t let you be a part of their…group in college?”
