by T L Swan
“Check.”
“Ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns, deep in concentration.
“Hair dryer?”
“Yes.”
“Got it.”
“Dresses.”
I puff air into my cheeks and look in my wardrobe. “Hmm, what dresses do I have?” I flick through my clothes on the hangers. “I only have going-out kinds of dresses. These aren’t really work-conference outfits. Hmm . . .” I pull out a black one and hold it up against my body and look in the mirror.
“That’s a pretty dress. Where did you wear that with Dad?”
“Well.” I frown. I have no idea, but I have to make something up like I always do. “Um, we went for pizza, and then we went dancing.”
He smiles goofily, and I know he’s imagining what I’ve just told him. “What kind of pizza did you eat?”
“Pepperoni.”
His eyes widen. “Can we have pizza tonight?”
“If you want.”
“Yes.” He punches the air. “We can have pizza tonight,” he screams to his brothers as he runs from the room. “I’m having pepperoni, like Dad.”
I smile sadly. He would be sorely disappointed if he knew Wade would have had extra-chili-and-anchovy pizza, but I’ll let him have his pepperoni pizza with a huge smile on his face.
I take a few of the dresses and throw them into my suitcase; they’ll have to do. I don’t have time to buy anything else.
I stare down at my packed suitcase and put my hands on my hips. “Okay, I think that’s it. Conference, here I come.”
The car pulls into the grand entrance of the Château de Makua. “Wow,” I whisper as I peer out the window. I’ve flown almost eight hours, and then my driver picked me up, and it took us another three hours to drive here. I’m dead tired after my early start but suddenly filled with nerves.
The driver takes my suitcase from the trunk, and I tip him and stare up at the big building in front of me.
MIND MASTERS
Even the name of this conference is ridiculous. I wheel my suitcase in and wait in the line at reception.
The building is lovely, old fashioned, and otherworldly. It’s luxurious and opulent and feels like I have stepped back in time. The foyer is grand, and a huge circular staircase is the center feature.
“Next?” the concierge asks as everyone shuffles forward. I look around at the people in front of me in the line. I wonder if they are attending the conference.
There are two girls who look like Barbie dolls. Huge silicone lips—and how do they think those ridiculous huge eyelashes look good? Don’t their eyes hurt with something that heavy on their lids like that?
One has waist-length bleached-blonde hair with extensions that you can see at the roots. Ugh . . . so tacky. The other one has a dark, curly, thick mane. They’re both wearing next to nothing and are done up to the nines. I tighten my ponytail and pull down my linen shirt, feeling extraordinarily uncool. Damn it, I should have worn something a bit swankier.
The blonde notices me standing behind her. “Oh, hi. Are you attending Mind Masters?”
“Yes.” I give an awkward smile. “Are you?”
“Yes,” she shrieks. “Oh my God, I’m so excited. I’m Ellie. What do you do?”
“Um.” I shrug, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “I’m Claire. I work for a company.”
“I’m running my own empire,” Ellie says as she widens her eyes in excitement.
“Empire,” I repeat, amused. “In what?” I ask.
“I’m an influencer.”
I stare at her as my brain tries to keep up. Oh God no . . . one of those twits who gets paid for posting fake crap. “Really? Great.”
“I travel the world and model bikinis.” She smiles. “If I post an image of myself, the world goes into meltdown.”
I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. Is she for real? “I . . . bet they do.”
The dark-haired girl in front of her turns toward us and laughs. “Snap, girlfriend.”
“Oh my God . . . you too?” Ellie gasps.
They both burst into laughter. “I’m Angel,” the dark-haired girl introduces herself. “I’m going to be an influencer too.”
“You haven’t started yet?” Ellie asks in a condescending tone.
“Well.” Angel shrugs. “Not technically. I still have a few movies left on my contract, but as soon as I finish those, I’m totally into it—all systems go.”
“Movies?” Ellie gasps. “What kind of movies?”
“I’m a porn actress. You may have seen my latest, Anal Mistress with Johnny Rocket Cock.”
Ellie’s eyes widen, “Oh. My. God.” She gasps. “I totally recognize you.” They begin to laugh and bounce on the spot in excitement.
Oh hell.
I wonder what Johnny Rocket Cock does to her ass.
Or what anyone does to anyone’s ass, actually. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched that I’ve completely forgotten everything, and even when I was, it was never hard-and-fast porn-style sex. It was loving and tender. The kind of sex that married people have.
Safe and real, a world away from being an anal mistress.
What the actual fuck has Marley gotten me into here?
I turn toward the man behind me. Has he heard any of this?
“Hi.” He smiles.
“Hello.”
He’s blond and normal looking. He seems nice. “Are you here for the conference?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Me too.” He holds out his hand to shake mine. “I’m Nelson Barrett.”
“I’m Claire Anderson.” I smile.
“I’m a computer scientist.” He looks around at our surroundings. “I’m so out of my comfort zone here it’s not even funny.”
“Me too.” Relief fills me. Someone normal. “I work in media.”
“Lovely to meet you, Claire.”
“You too.”
We both turn to the front and watch the antics of the girls. They are loud and animated and so excited to be here. I smile as I watch them; their enthusiasm is childlike and lovely to watch.
I make an idle observation that enthusiasm like that seems to dissipate around the age of twenty-eight. I predict they have five good years left before life begins to really fuck them up the ass. Relationship breakdowns and debt—that’s if they can find a decent person to fall in love with.
I shake my head in disgust.
Look at me being a downer . . . maybe I really do need to be here.
I’ve never been a negative person before. I hate this part of my personality that has surfaced in recent times.
I don’t even know myself anymore.
The line moves forward, and people begin to pile into the foyer behind us. Men and women, all excited entrepreneurs. Apart from Nelson, I think I’m the oldest here.
“Oh my God, we have to go out tonight,” Angel says.
“Yes,” Ellie says as she jumps up and down. “Oh my God, I’m so pumped.” She turns to me and Nelson. “Clara, you have to come out tonight.” I smile at her botching my name.
“I couldn’t keep up tonight.” I smile. “Next time, for sure.”
“Okay.” She turns back to Angel. “Where will we go?”
I turn and force a smile at Nelson.
“I wonder how many films they make tonight for free,” he whispers.
I giggle. “I know. Lucky boys. They might not survive it.”
“I know for certain that I wouldn’t,” Nelson mutters under his breath.
We both chuckle and shuffle up the line, and Ellie begins to check in.
Another four men walk in behind me, all older and quite distinguished looking.
Hmm, maybe this is okay after all.
We all chat in the line for a while. Turns out the guys behind us who just arrived are app developers. I don’t feel so silly now. Normal people seem to be here too.
A woman walks in, and all the men’s heads turn. She’s blonde and beautiful. Stylish an
d trendy and aged around late twenties, at a guess. “Hello, is this the line to check in?” she asks me.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Are you here for the conference?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“Me too.” She holds her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Melissa.”
“Hi, Melissa. I’m Claire.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The line shuffles forward again, and then another two staff members come to reception, so we all veer into different lines.
Nelson comes up behind me. “See you later. We’re having dinner in the restaurant downstairs at seven if you want to come, Claire.”
“Oh.” I turn to him, startled. “Thank you, but I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes, for sure.” He smiles. “Have a good night.”
I turn back to the concierge with a smile. I feel more comfortable than I thought I would. I think this may actually be okay.
I sit in the swanky conference room with 120 other people. The room is abuzz with electricity. They’re all chattering and have their notepads and other papers with them.
Everyone here is so pumped to try to better themselves.
Me . . . well, I’m just here for the champagne and to have an excuse to take a holiday by myself. But anyway, yay for the pumped ones, I guess.
A man comes onto the stage, and everyone claps and cheers. He holds his hands out and smiles broadly. Hmm . . . I wonder who he is.
He waits for the cheering to die down, and he smiles broadly again. “Welcome,” he says. He has a small microphone attached to his shirt. “Welcome to Mind Masters. A place where you will find a better version of yourself.” His voice is loud and echoing, as if he’s giving a sermon or something. “Are you ready?” he cries.
Everyone cheers.
Oh God . . . so over the top. I clap along with the room as they all lose their shit. They are all standing and laughing as they clap. I frown as I look around at them . . . honestly, calm down, everyone.
This is like a fucking cult.
I glance down at my phone as I contemplate filming this shit for Marley. Even she wouldn’t believe it.
“And now, I would like to introduce our opening speaker. Someone that I know a lot of you follow on the circuit. A rock star in the motivational-speaking circuit and the developer of workshops that are changing the lives of people from all walks of life. He’s here for one day only, so please, without further ado—with his cutting-edge strategy, How to get what you want—welcome to the stage Tristan Miles.”
The air leaves my lungs as the crowd goes wild.
Tristan Miles walks out in a navy designer suit and his just-fucked dark wavy hair. He smiles broadly, holds his hands in the air, claps with the audience, and then takes a bow. Everyone is going crazy and yelling and clapping.
My eyes nearly bulge from their sockets . . . what the fuck?
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears as everyone else in the room disappears.
My fury begins to pump. I can’t even stand the sight of him—well, that’s not completely true. Damn asshole is a double-edged sword: gorgeous to look at, impossible to tolerate.
“Hello, everyone,” he says in the same echoing voice. “Congratulations.” He smiles as he waits for silence. Goose bumps scatter across my skin at the sound of his deep voice. He has a slight twang of an accent, a little upper-crust English mixed in with New Yorker. He sounds distinguished and intelligent—I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s sexy as fuck.
Ugh . . . I hate everything about him.
“Welcome, and thank you for coming. You have taken a very valuable step in your personal development.” He looks around the room at everyone as he speaks. “I, for one . . .” Our eyes meet, and he stops speaking as he stares at me and then blinks.
Fuck.
He quickly recovers. “I, for one, am excited for you.”
He keeps talking, but I can’t hear him. I can only hear adrenaline screaming through the rapids that are my bloodstream. Last time we spoke, he was intent on stealing Wade’s company from my sons.
I’m not sitting here and listening to this vile bloodsucker give a motivational speech.
He ruins family businesses for fun.
How pathetic.
Of course he’s presenting at a conference called Mind Masters. This is right up his pretentious alley. He thinks he is the mind master . . . what a joke.
I stand. “Excuse me,” I whisper to the person next to me. I begin to shuffle past the people in my row as they sit in their seats.
“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage.
My horrified eyes meet his.
“Sit back down.”
“I . . .” I take another step toward the exit.
“Claire,” he warns.
I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him.
“I said sit. Back. Down.”
Chapter 3
Fuck.
I fake a smile.
Who in the hell does this asshole think he is?
“I said sit. Back. Down.”
Well, I say go fuck yourself, you giant condescending twat. I raise an eyebrow as he glares at me, and I smile sweetly. Then, with deliberation, I walk toward the door.
He narrows his eyes and then recovers and goes back to his speech. “As I was saying,” he continues.
I go into the corridor that leads out of the room, just out of his sight, and listen to his speech.
For ten minutes, I fume in silence, unable to concentrate on anything he’s saying.
Just the sight of this man brings out a temper in me that I never even knew I had.
I peek around the corner and watch him walk back and forth on the stage. His voice is deep and commanding. One hand is in the pocket of his expensive suit trouser pocket; the other he moves around in the air with animation as he talks.
He’s handsome and has this powerful edge to his personality.
He’s comfortable taking center stage; in fact, he’s probably comfortable on every stage.
The crowd is silent as they all hang on his every word. They take notes and laugh on cue. The women all look up at him in awe, wanting him, and the men all want to be him.
Me . . . I just want to punch him in his pretty-boy face.
I hate that everything comes easy for him. He was born into this entitled family. Wealthy beyond measure and charismatic as all hell. It’s just not fair that he is ridiculously handsome to add to the mix.
I get a vision of him and the girls he must have falling at his feet. He must be a real player—probably has five girls on the go at a time.
I go over our last conversation that we had over the phone.
“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night,” he asked.
“You’re asking me out on a date?”
“I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
“You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth. Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
“Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.”
That was so cool.
I find myself smiling goofily into space. He asked me out. Tristan Miles asked me out, and I know it was just so that he could try to schmooze his way under my radar, but damn it felt good knocking him back.
“Claire Anderson.” I hear a voice from the stage.
Huh?
I look up to the stage in horror. Wait . . . did he ask me something?
How can he see me?
He’s moved and is now on another stage and in my line of sight.
Shit.
He holds his hand in the air, palm up. “Please share.”
“I beg your pardon.” I frown. “I didn’t hear th
e question.”
A trace of a smile crosses his face as his eyes hold mine.
“I asked everyone to recall a time when they felt satisfied. A time when they were really proud of themselves.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen.
“And, judging by your grin, I’m assuming you recalled something amazing.”
I stare at him.
“Please.” He rolls his hand out in an overexerted way. “Let us share in your pride.”
Asshole.
I glare at him. Is he for real?
He puts both hands into his suit pockets and begins to pace. “We’re waiting, Claire,” he says in a condescending tone. I feel my underarms heat with perspiration as everyone in the room waits for my answer. Holy shit, this man is infuriating.
“The last time I felt really satisfied was when I refused a date with a cold, soul-sucking bastard. Even if he was the last man on earth,” I announce.
Our eyes lock, and he raises an eyebrow.
Game on, asshole . . . don’t fuck with me.
“Ah . . . but, Claire, how sad that the best thing you recall about your own life experiences is one that revolved around another. I think that says a lot more about you than it does him. I want a real answer this afternoon. Reflect on it until then.”
He smiles out at the audience, completely unfazed.
I step back, infuriated. What in the actual fuck does he think I’m going to learn from reflecting on what kind of person I am? I know who I am, and I’m completely happy with her.
Jerkoff.
This conference is just so typically him.
“And besides.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he continues to pace back and forth across the stage. “You’ll probably be begging that soul-sucking bastard to ask you back out one day . . . not that he ever would.”
The crowd laughs, and he moves on to his next victim. “You, the girl with the long blonde hair. What is your proudest memory? And I want you to really dig deep on the answer.”
I feel my blood pressure rise. Perspiration begins to bead on my forehead, and I want to march down and kick Mr. Fancy Pants straight up the ass and knock him off the stage.
Damn him . . . can I not have one fucking week away from life and forget who I am?
Why the hell is he here?
Over the next hour, Tristan Miles holds the audience captive, and I stare into space as I imagine myself torturing him to a grizzly death.
