Dr. Ellis mentions that she's hopeful, and Dante takes me out to celebrate. He ended up booking a suite at the Marriott and with its floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the pool and the hot tub, as well as the outdoor bar, it’s quite an upgrade.
One morning, I wake up early. I leave Dante in the bedroom and decide to do a little yoga following a YouTube routine.
I haven't stretched out or done much in terms of exercise in a while and it feels good to engage my body.
But I had forgotten to charge my computer and, when I try to put it in the middle of the floor, the plug doesn't reach. I see Dante’s laptop on the dining room table. I know the code from last night when he was busy chopping up vegetables and asked me to check his email.
When I log in, the windows that were open before pop up. I’m about to close them when I see my mother’s name in the subject line.
My mouth drops open.
Dear Mr. Dante Langston,
Thank you for paying for Elizabeth Archer's treatment.
Unfortunately, the payment you submitted was for the surgery only.
If you're unable or unwilling to pay for the rest of the treatment, we will have to be in touch with the patient’s next of kin in order to make the proper arrangements.
I stare at the screen, reading the email over and over again, trying to understand how and why he is involved with any of this.
Thank you for reading DARK INTENTIONS! I hope you enjoyed Jacqueline and Dante’s love story. Their story continues with DARK REDEMPTION…
He saved my mother’s life. Now, I owe him a debt. But I don’t even know who he is.
Dante Langston is man of extreme wealth and privilege and just as much darkness.
What I don’t yet know is that he already knows me.
He has been watching and waiting. He needs to stay away to protect his secrets but he can’t.
What happens when I find out the debt I owe is to him?
What happens when I find out the other secrets that he is much more desperate to keep?
1-Click DARK REDEMPTION now!
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“Here it is! Here it is!” my roommate Caroline yells at the top of her lungs as she runs into my room.
We were friends all through Yale and we moved to New York together after graduation.
Even though I’ve known Caroline for what feels like a million years, I am still shocked by the exuberance of her voice. It’s quite loud given the smallness of her body.
Caroline is one of those super skinny girls who can eat pretty much anything without gaining a pound.
Unfortunately, I am not that talented. In fact, my body seems to have the opposite gift. I can eat nothing but vegetables for a week straight, eat one slice of pizza, and gain a pound.
“What is it?” I ask, forcing myself to sit up.
It’s noon and I’m still in bed.
My mother thinks I’m depressed and wants me to see her shrink.
She might be right, but I can’t fathom the strength.
“The invitation!” Caroline says jumping in bed next to me.
I stare at her blankly.
And then suddenly it hits me.
This must be the invitation.
“You mean…it’s…”
“Yes!” she screams and hugs me with excitement.
“Oh my God!” She gasps for air and pulls away from me almost as quickly.
“Hey, you know I didn’t brush my teeth yet,” I say turning my face away from hers.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go brush them,” she instructs.
Begrudgingly, I make my way to the bathroom.
We have been waiting for this invitation for some time now.
And by we, I mean Caroline.
I’ve just been playing along, pretending to care, not really expecting it to show up.
Without being able to contain her excitement, Caroline bursts through the door when my mouth is still full of toothpaste.
She’s jumping up and down, holding a box in her hand.
“Wait, what’s that?” I mumble and wash my mouth out with water.
“This is it!” Caroline screeches and pulls me into the living room before I have a chance to wipe my mouth with a towel.
“But it’s a box,” I say staring at her.
“Okay, okay,” Caroline takes a couple of deep yoga breaths, exhaling loudly.
She puts the box carefully on our dining room table. There’s no address on it.
It looks something like a fancy gift box with a big monogrammed C in the middle.
Is the C for Caroline?
“Is this how it came? There’s no address on it?” I ask.
“It was hand-delivered,” Caroline whispers.
I hold my breath as she carefully removes the top part, revealing the satin and silk covered wood box inside.
The top of it is gold plated with whimsical twirls all around the edges, and the mirrored area is engraved with her full name.
Caroline Elizabeth Kennedy Spruce.
Underneath her name is a date, one week in the future. 8 PM.
We stare at it for a few moments until Caroline reaches for the elegant knob to open the box.
Inside, Caroline finds a custom monogram made of foil in gold on silk emblazoned on the inside of the flap cover.
There’s also a folio covered in silk. Caroline carefully opens the folio and finds another foil monogram and the invitation.
The inside invitation is one layer, shimmer white, with gold writing.
“Is this for real? How many layers of invitation are there?” I ask.
But the presentation is definitely doing its job. We are both duly impressed.
“There’s another knob,” I say, pointing to the knob in front of the box.
I’m not sure how we had missed it before.
Caroline carefully pulls on this knob, revealing a drawer that holds the inserts (a card with directions and a response card).
“Oh my God, I can’t go to this alone,” Caroline mumbles, turning to me.
I stare blankly at her.
Getting invited to this party has been her dream ever since she found out about it from someone in the Cicada 17, a super-secret society at Yale.
“Look, here, it says that I can bring a friend,” she yells out even though I’m standing right next to her.
“It probably says a date. A plus one?” I say.
“No, a friend. Girl preferred,” Caroline reads off the invitation card.
That part of the invitation is in very small ink, as if someone made the person stick it on, without their express permission.
“I don’t want to crash,” I say.
Frankly, I don’t really want to go.
These kind of upper-class events always make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.
“Eh, I took a day off,” Caroline says waving her arm. “I knew that the invitation would come today and I just couldn’t deal with work. You know how it is.”
I nod. Sort of.
Caroline and I seem like we come from the same world.
We both graduated from private school, we both went to Yale, and our parents belong to the same exclusive country club in Greenwich, Connecticut.
But we’re not really that alike.
Caroline
’s family has had money for many generations going back to the railroads.
My parents were an average middle class family from Connecticut.
They were both teachers and our idea of summering was renting a 1-bedroom bungalow near Clearwater, FL for a week.
But then my parents got divorced when I was 8, and my mother started tutoring kids to make extra money.
The pay was the best in Greenwich, where parents paid more than $100 an hour.
And that’s how she met, Mitch Willoughby, my stepfather.
He was a widower with a five-year old daughter who was not doing well after her mom’s untimely death.
Even though Mom didn’t usually tutor anyone younger than 12, she agreed to take a meeting with Mitch and his daughter because $200 an hour was too much to turn down.
Three months later, they were in love and six months later, he asked her to marry him on top of the Eiffel Tower.
They got married, when I was 11, in a huge 450-person ceremony in Nantucket.
So even though Caroline and I run in the same circles, we’re not really from the same circle.
It has nothing to do with her, she’s totally accepting, it’s me.
I don’t always feel like I belong.
Caroline majored in art-history at Yale, and she now works at an exclusive contemporary art gallery in Soho.
It’s chic and tiny, featuring only 3 pieces of art at a time.
Ash, the owner - I’m not sure if that’s her first or last name - mainly keeps the space as a showcase. What the gallery really specializes in is going to wealthy people’s homes and choosing their art for them.
They’re basically interior designers, but only for art.
None of the pieces sell for anything less than $200 grand, but Caroline’s take home salary is about $21,000.
Clearly, not enough to pay for our 2 bedroom apartment in Chelsea.
Her parents cover her part of the rent and pay all of her other expenses.
Mine do too, of course.
Well, Mitch does.
I only make about $27,000 at my writer’s assistant job and that’s obviously not covering my half of our $6,000 per month apartment.
So, what’s the difference between me and Caroline?
I guess the only difference is that I feel bad about taking the money.
I have a $150,000 school loan from Yale that I don't want Mitch to pay for.
It’s my loan and I’m going to pay for it myself, dammit.
Plus, unlike Caroline, I know that real people don’t really live like this.
Real people like my dad, who is being pressured to sell the house for more than a million dollars that he and my mom bought back in the late 80’s (the neighborhood has gone up in price and teachers now have to make way for tech entrepreneurs and real estate moguls).
“How can you just not go to work like that? Didn’t you use all of your sick days flying to Costa Rica last month?” I ask.
“Eh, who cares? Ash totally understands. Besides, she totally owes me. If it weren’t for me, she would’ve never closed that geek millionaire who had the hots for me and ended up buying close to a million dollars’ worth of art for his new mansion.”
Caroline does have a way with men.
She’s fun and outgoing and perky.
The trick, she once told me, is to figure out exactly what the guy wants to hear.
Because a geek millionaire, as she calls anyone who has made money in tech, does not want to hear the same thing that a football player wants to hear.
And neither of them want to hear what a trust fund playboy wants to hear.
But Caroline isn’t a gold digger.
Not at all.
Her family owns half the East Coast.
And when it comes to men, she just likes to have fun.
I look at the time.
It’s my day off, but that doesn’t mean that I want to spend it in bed in my pajamas, listening to Caroline obsessing over what she’s going to wear.
No, today, is my day to actually get some writing done.
I’m going to Starbucks, getting a table in the back, near the bathroom, and am actually going to finish this short story that I’ve been working on for a month.
Or maybe start a new one.
I go to my room and start getting dressed.
I have to wear something comfortable, but something that’s not exactly work clothes.
I hate how all of my clothes have suddenly become work clothes. It’s like they’ve been tainted.
They remind me of work and I can’t wear them out anymore on any other occasion. I’m not a big fan of my work, if you can’t tell.
Caroline follows me into my room and plops down on my bed.
I take off my pajamas and pull on a pair of leggings.
Ever since these have become the trend, I find myself struggling to force myself into a pair of jeans.
They’re just so comfortable!
“Okay, I’ve come to a decision,” Caroline says. “You have to come with me!”
“Oh, I have to come with you?” I ask, incredulously. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”
“Oh c’mon! Please! Pretty please! It will be so much fun!”
“Actually, you can’t make any of those promises. You have no idea what it will be,” I say, putting on a long sleeve shirt and a sweater with a zipper in the front.
Layers are important during this time of year.
The leaves are changing colors, winds are picking up, and you never know if it’s going to be one of those gorgeous warm, crisp New York days they like to feature in all those romantic comedies or a soggy, overcast dreary day that only shows up in one scene at the end when the two main characters fight or break up (but before they get back together again).
“Okay, yes, I see your point,” Caroline says, sitting up and crossing her legs. “But here is what we do know. We do know that it’s going to be amazing. I mean, look at the invitation. It’s a freakin’ box with engravings and everything!”
Usually, Caroline is much more eloquent and better at expressing herself.
“Okay, yes, the invitation is impressive,” I admit.
“And as you know, the invitation is everything. I mean, it really sets the mood for the party. The event! And not just the mood. It establishes a certain expectation. And this box…”
“Yes, the invitation definitely sets up a certain expectation,” I agree.
“So?”
“So?” I ask her back.
“Don’t you want to find out what that expectation is?”
“No.” I shake my head categorically.
“Okay. So what else do we know?” Caroline asks rhetorically as I pack away my Mac into my bag.
“I have to go, Caroline,” I say.
“No, listen. The yacht. Of course, the yacht. How could I bury the lead like that?” She jumps up and down with excitement again.
“We also know that it’s going to be this super exclusive event on a yacht! And not just some small 100 footer, but a mega-yacht.”
I stare at her blankly, pretending to not be impressed.
When Caroline first found out about this party, through her ex-boyfriend, we spent days trying to figure out what made this event so special.
But given that neither of us have been on a yacht before, at least not a mega-yacht – we couldn’t quite get it.
“You know the yacht is going to be amazing!”
“Yes, of course,” I give in. “But that’s why I’m sure that you’re going to have a wonderful time by yourself. I have to go.”
I grab my keys and toss them into the bag.
“Ellie,” Caroline says.
The tone of her voice suddenly gets very serious, to match the grave expression on her face.
“Ellie, please. I don’t think I can go by myself.”
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About Charlotte Byrd
Charlotte Byrd is the bestselling author of romantic suspense novels. She has sold over 1 Million books and has been translated into five languages.
She lives near Palm Springs, California with her husband, son, a toy Australian Shepherd and a Ragdoll cat. Charlotte is addicted to books and Netflix and she loves hot weather and crystal blue water.
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Dark Intentions Series
Dark Intentions
Dark Intentions, #1 Page 16
