by Kyra Davis
He opened the door for that deliveryman, he touched me and played with me, all the while knowing it was a game I relished.
No, I have never had any desire for the Gable man who belongs to Jessica. Hurting Travis will be fun. But hurting Lander? That might end up killing me.
“Mrs. Gable,” I say soothingly, “I didn’t sleep with—”
“Then you will!” she snaps. “Travis always gets what he wants. He and his brother, they’re not so different as they seem. Everybody thinks Lander is the charming ladies’ man. They think that women fall for him because of his smile and his . . . his presence, while Travis’s mistresses are just with him for his money. But with Travis, it’s never about money. Not in his business, not in his personal relationships, not even in his parenting. It’s about power. And power gets you what you want.” She sits back in her chair and shakes her head. “If he wants you, he’ll have you. Power gets you everything.”
“Right, well, power can come in different forms,” I say dismissively. “And you have power too. The secrets you keep for him, that’s power, Jessica.”
She glares at me from across the table, her hands clenched into fists. “You’re right, Bell. I have power. And I will never share that power with you.”
The declaration hits me with the force of a slap.
Lander and Travis have both been suspicious of me at times, but they have never been suspicious of me for the right reasons. I’ve long since determined that Jessica is the least intelligent of the three . . .
. . . and yet she’s the only one who seems to have perfectly pegged me.
I underestimated her. I didn’t bother with any real finesse while trying to draw her out. And now she knows what I want. Which means she will not give it to me.
For a full minute we sit in silence as I desperately try to come up with a way to undo the damage, to backtrack, to make her see me as less of a threat. But there’s no wavering in Jessica’s glare. Finally her eyes move away from mine. She opens her purse and pulls out a tube of forty-eight-dollar lipstick and a heart-shaped Tiffany pocket mirror.
“So,” she says as she carefully drags the color across her lips. “Shall we go dress shopping now?”
A few hours later we’re in Saks and I’m carrying three different shopping bags, all of them filled with things that Jessica has bought for herself. I have tried everything to endear myself to her again. I’ve complimented her style and her figure. I apologized for getting in her way when she “accidentally” bumped into me and spilled some of her Fiji water down my shirt. I’ve zipped her in and out of countless garments. But she’s barely talking to me. And when she does it’s only to issue an order or an insult. She’s moderately more polite to the commissioned saleswomen, who are falling all over themselves in an attempt to please her.
“I do love retail therapy,” Jessica says with a sigh as she hands the saleswoman another thirteen-hundred-dollar scarf. The young, raven-haired, conservatively dressed saleswoman smiles enthusiastically, politely ignoring the fact that Jessica is having a hard time standing or enunciating. I had hoped that she would be sobering up by now, but she popped a pill less than a half hour ago and appears as plastered as ever. She turns to me with a lopsided smile. “I guess we’ll have to get you that dress now. Fifteen hundred dollars isn’t much to work with, but I suppose we can find something.
“Can you find her something?” she asks the saleswoman. “She needs a dress for a black-tie dinner. My brother-in-law would like to fuck her, so he’s paying.” She laughs at her own joke as the other woman and I exchange uncomfortable looks. The statement isn’t just insulting, it’s ridiculous. She’s known Lander for years now, so she should know that when Lander wants to sleep with a woman, all he has to give her is an invitation.
“No more than fifteen hundred, and that includes the shoes and any other accessories,” Jessica continues, now leaning on the counter for support.
“Of course.” The saleswoman turns to me. “Do you have a favorite designer?”
Jessica laughs again. “How odd that you would think she knows a thing about designers. Well, maybe she knows Carolina Herrera. She’s a Mexican too, isn’t she? Anyway, just find her something decent.” She looks around the room. “Is there somewhere I can sit? I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”
I raise my eyebrows in mild surprise as Jessica is led to a small love seat placed strategically by the restrooms. Jessica’s so rarely sober I had sort of assumed that dizzy was her new normal. Then again, I probably shouldn’t complain. My best hope is that she gets so wasted that she doesn’t remember our conversation at brunch. Hell, maybe she won’t even remember that she was with me today. Still, I’d prefer not to leave her now. If she does end up remembering, I’m going to have a lot of making up to do.
“Shall I stay with you?” I ask, but Jessica shoots me a look so venomous I actually take a step back.
“I think we should look at Nicole Miller and Badgley Mischka first,” the saleswoman says, tacitly leading me toward the escalator. “They have many lovely dresses within your price range.”
I smile and nod, trying to quell my nerves. I’ll just buy any ole dress and get back to Jessica. Surely it won’t take too long. It’s not like it needs to be perfect.
But it’ll be nice, having Lander see me in a formal dress. I’m always dressed so casually with him. Will my wearing a floor-length gown cause him to see me differently? Will he tell me I’m lovely as he escorts me through the crowd?
I give my head a little shake. These are useless thoughts. I can’t indulge in them.
“I’m Tanya, by the way,” the saleswoman says, her posture regally straight as she demurely clasps her hands in front of her.
“I’m Bell,” I say as we begin our ascent.
“Oh, I love that name!” she replies. “I . . . um . . .” She turns her head to make sure no one else is in hearing distance. “Will your friend be okay?”
“She’s my employer, and she’ll be fine,” I say tersely. Tanya immediately seems to regret asking and I feel a little guilty for my attitude. It’s not her fault that Jessica is . . . well, Jessica. “She’s just had a bad day,” I explain as we step onto the next floor. “So she started happy hour a little early.”
Tanya doesn’t say anything, but I see her eyes dart quickly to the wall clock. It’s not even two.
“I’m her personal assistant,” I explain. Obviously I’m not required to start up a conversation with this woman, but I’m feeling anxious and chatty.
“Oh,” she says, pleasantly enough. “That sounds like . . . challenging work.”
I giggle and Tanya tries to suppress a smile before giggling too. “We all have to start somewhere,” she reasons as she walks me past the featureless white-faced mannequins to a collection of dresses. She stands back, waiting for me to make a selection.
But I can’t. I thought I could just grab a dress and be done with this, but now, staring at rows and rows of all these elegant, expensive gowns . . . I can’t even get myself to touch them. It’s one thing to help Jessica shop, but now that I’m confronted with the idea of getting something for myself—something from Saks—it’s just sort of intimidating.
It’s funny if you think about it. I brazenly went after one of the most powerful families in New York, but now I’m standing here, overawed by a bunch of dresses on a rack.
Tanya’s watching me and I can see the flash of understanding when I meet her eyes. “Why don’t I pick a few things out for you and we’ll go from there.”
I nod, grateful for the rescue. As Tanya steps forward, I feel my phone buzzing in my purse. I reach in and see that I have a text from Travis: Where are you?
I step away from Tanya as she goes through the gowns and text back: Jessica wanted to go shopping. She insisted.
I could lie, but what’s the point? My phone buzzes again.
I did not give you permission.
I suppose the point would have been to avoid this conversation.
She
wouldn’t take no for an answer. Most of the shopping is for Mrs. Gable. I’m just here to carry her bags.
Ten seconds after sending that text I get a call.
“I told you—” he begins, but I interrupt.
“I have the phone records.” I walk a little farther from the dress section to an area where there’s no one around to overhear me.
“Then why don’t I have them?” he snaps.
“I’ll stop by your office after dropping off Jessica,” I assure him. “I’m doing everything you’ve asked me to do, Mr. Gable. I just have to do what your wife asks too . . . at least to a degree.”
“Did you find out about Talebi?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know how Lander first heard the name, but he thinks Talebi might be a big investor that you’re bringing to the bank. I think he wants to surpass you at HGVB, maybe even push you out. Are you maybe about to make some kind of big deal he might want to subvert, or beat you to the punch on?”
Another long pause on the other end of the phone.
“Mr. Gable, are you there?”
“Are you serious?” Travis asks. “He thinks he can outdo me in business?”
“Well, yes. That’s essentially what he said. He thinks it’s time for a new Gable to take his place on the top floor.”
“Just bring me those records,” Travis says, his tone dripping with disgust and disbelief. And then he hangs up.
It’s the disbelief that worries me.
“Bell, are you ready?”
I look up to see that Tanya is standing several feet outside the dressing rooms. “I’ve selected some dresses for you.”
I smile sheepishly and follow her to the room.
When she opens the door I literally gasp. I haven’t made a noise like this outside of a sexual encounter in years. But these dresses are stunningly beautiful. White, purple, pink, red, and green. There are edgy gowns made of leather and chiffon, while others are made of silk and lace.
“I’ll come check on you in a moment.” She exits quietly, closing the door behind her.
I reach for a silk chiffon dress in the palest of pinks with delicate little beaded shoulder straps. It’s so insanely romantic . . . probably too romantic. I’m a seductress, not an ingenue.
I hold the dress up to me. I absolutely do not have time for this right now. I came so close to getting Jessica to spill her secrets. Would another cocktail make her more talkative or more hostile? Or would it just kill her?
I’m not ready for that yet.
The dress probably weighs half an ounce. It’s so light and airy, almost whimsical. When I was a little girl I dreamed about gowns like this.
I hang it on the peg and pull off my shoes before taking off my shirt and skirt. I should have found a way to mention Micah’s and Javier’s names to Lander. Micah made it sound like he might know both brothers. And I still have to find a way to get Micah to trust me a little more. The last thing I need is for him to blame me when Jessica disappears.
I take the first item off the hanger and carefully step into it. I’ve never tried on a new designer dress before. It’s incredibly soft against my skin, almost like a caress.
Is Jessica really onto me? Is it possible that she knows more than she pretends?
I slip my arm under each strap and pull it up just as I hear a knock on the door.
“May I assist you with the zipper?”
I step back and open the door. Tanya is standing there with a shoebox in her hand and a big smile on her face.
“Oh, you did try the Mischka on first! Good!” She immediately puts the box down and zips me up as I stare at my image in the mirror. Artfully draped ruffles enhance the gentle V neckline of the finely tailored gown. It gathers softly on the right side of my waist, which marks the beginning of another delicate cascade of silk-chiffon ruffles that fall along the side of the slender skirt.
“Here,” Tanya says as she bends down by my feet. “Try on the shoes.” She pulls out a pair of high-heeled platforms that are only a slightly darker pink than the dress. “They’re Italian patent leather,” she explains as I sit down in the chair and allow her to fasten the double straps around my ankles. When I stand up again I’m about six inches taller, but I look so completely feminine . . . and innocent . . . and pure.
Tanya stands behind me, admiring my reflection in the mirror. “You look like a princess,” she breathes.
The comment takes me back a little farther than I’d like to go . . .
“You were wonderful,” my mom had gushed as she walked me home after the third-grade performance of Sleeping Beauty. “You know what? I think you really are a princess.”
“Mama!” I had laughed, skipping along the cracked sidewalk, still dressed in the Aurora costume she had made for me. “For me to be a princess you’d have to be a queen!”
My mother looked at me sharply. “Are you kind to people when they talk to you?”
I nodded and played with the ruffles on my dress.
“Are you graceful?”
I had hesitated at that before answering shyly, “I think I dance okay. Does that count as graceful?”
My mother had to wait to answer as a police car drove by, its siren wailing. “Yes,” she said finally. “It counts. Do you try to help those who need it?”
Again I had to think before answering. “Sometimes at recess I help tie Eva’s shoes when nobody’s looking. She’s not so good at it, but she’s too embarrassed to admit it, so I help.”
“That is helpful,” my mother confirmed. “You have grace, kindness, and compassion, and in my book that makes you a princess.” And then she leaned down and whispered in my ear, “And with that you’ve made me into a queen.”
I had giggled in delight and continued to skip as cabs honked their horns and drunk men on the corner shouted obscenities. None of it mattered. I was a princess. And when I grew up I would keep wearing princess dresses just like the Aurora dress my mother made me.
The images of my youth dissipate as I continue to look at my reflection. In the mirror is the image of the woman I wanted to be when I was eight. But I’m only playing dress-up. Inside I’m not a princess. If anything I’m the witch.
In all those fairy tales I once loved, the witch always used spells to make herself beautiful. But before the happily-ever-after ending, the witch’s spell would go wrong and the whole world would see how ugly she really was. That’s how fairy tales work.
And in a fairy tale, Lander would see me cloaked in layers of magical silk chiffon, and he would fall for me because he would mistake me for someone else: an innocent, beautiful princess . . . and then the real princess would step forward and he’d realize that it was all a trick.
And then he would have his minions tear me apart.
It’s so easy to be seduced by royalty. Lander with his perfect smile and gentle hands . . . hands that he keeps clean, just like a real Prince Charming. But when he realizes I’m the witch, he will find a woman who is more pure and less challenging to be his companion. And he will oversee my ruin with that same winning smile.
Because in the real fairy tales, Prince Charming never forgives. When it serves him, he’s ruthless.
I just wish I didn’t find that quality so alluring. But more than that, I wish I could be a princess. I wish there was a way we could be ruthless together, condemning his family to our dungeons while we throw lavish balls in our castle.
But we can’t. Because he doesn’t want to jail Travis.
And even if he did, it wouldn’t work. Because I’m the witch.
I lower my eyes. “It’s a beautiful dress,” I whisper.
“Would you like to try on the Nicole Miller?”
“No, I’ll take this one.” I gesture for her to help me with the zipper again. “Just make sure Mrs. Gable doesn’t slip into a coma before she up-fronts the money.”
Tanya laughs and exits the dressing room.
Slowly and with regret I slip the dress from my shoulders, shedding myself of the pret
ty spell.
chapter thirteen
Upon reuniting with Jessica, I had been initially confused by how she became more, not less, intoxicated while waiting for me. But that was before I found the half-empty flask in her handbag. By the time I get her home she’s barely conscious. The nanny is there with Braden and Mercedes when we walk through the door.
“Mama!” Mercedes giggles, but then she stops when she sees her mother’s uneven steps and glassy eyes. Braden turns his back in disgust and marches off into his room as I pull Jessica into hers.
“They hate me,” she says as she drops down onto her bed. I quietly put down her many shopping bags and place my own by the door. I turn on the lights but use the dimmer switch to keep them low.
I refuse to reassure her about her children. Mercedes may not hate her yet, but if Jessica keeps this up, her daughter will get there.
Jessica is staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, which she pampers with expensive products and body scrubs, appears to have a slightly bluish tint.
“Jessica, you might want to throw up,” I advise.
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
Reluctantly I sit down on the side of the bed and reach to take her arm. She tries to pull away, but she’s so out of it she can’t manage to do it. I press my finger against the inside of her wrist. “Your pulse seems a little weak. I think you might have alcohol poisoning. Really, you should throw up.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she slurs. “You want to see me on my knees, completely helpless and incapacitated while you take him from me.”
“Mrs. Gable,” I say, unable to hide my exasperation, “why on earth would anyone want to take your husband? And why are you so worried about losing him?”
