She twists her fingers together in her lap, looking down at them, shrinking from my touch when I reach for her.
My stomach twists. “Kendra, what’s the matter?”
She presses her lips together and takes another deep breath, her eyes closed as she finally speaks. “This isn’t working.”
The words make no sense. “What isn’t working?”
“Us.”
The single word seems to echo in the silence of the living room. And like an unexpected bullet wound, it takes time to process the grievousness of the injury. My mouth opens, dry, my voice refusing to work.
“Us?” I finally croak out. “What does that mean?”
Her blue eyes finally open, tears tracing their way down her cheeks, none of it making any sense to me. “I can’t do this anymore, Marcus,” she whispers.
My mouth is still hanging open, but no words come to me.
She presses her lips together in what I think is supposed to be a sympathetic look, but it’s ruined by the fact that she can’t stop crying. Her hand lifts, flopping at the end of her wrist, moving back and forth between us. “We don’t work. I have obligations. Expectations to fulfill.”
“So what?” I finally find my voice, and now I’m angry, the words cracking like a slap, so much louder than her broken whispers. “What does that have to do with anything? Your parents expect you to marry a rich guy and be arm candy.”
Her chin trembling, she shakes her head.
I cross my arms, giving her a derisive look. “Please. We both know that’s the truth. You’ve said as much enough times over the years. And even if you hadn’t, I’m not so stupid that I don’t understand the dynamics. If you’d been born a boy, you’d have been groomed to take over the company. But as a girl, you’re expected to land a rich husband. What’s the problem? My money’s not good enough?”
She closes her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing, more tears slipping out. “Marcus …”
“That’s it, isn’t it? My money’s not good enough. I made it with music instead of being born with a trust fund and a guaranteed position with Daddy’s company. Working class instead of with a silver spoon. I always knew we came from different backgrounds, Kendra, but you’ve never treated me as less than. What happened? Did your parents threaten to cut you off?”
Her eyes slide open again, finding mine, pain filling their sapphire depths. “Let them. You don’t need their money. I can buy your condo and put it in your name. Or we can find a place together.” Reaching for her hands, I grip them tightly with my own, hoping to infuse her with my strength, my certainty. “I can take care of you. You know I can. Money isn’t an issue.”
But her fingers remain limp in mine as she shakes her head. “That’s not …” She shakes her head again and sucks in a long breath.
“I know it’s hard, Kendra, but you can’t just give in to whatever they want. You have to live your own life.”
She finally squeezes my hands with hers, but only for a second. Then she’s extracting them, her pained gaze steady as it meets mine. “It was never supposed to be real,” she whispers.
That stops me in my tracks, all the arguments in my head stopping in a screech like feedback from a speaker tower. “What?”
“This was only supposed to be a cover. And it’s time for me to stop trying to hide behind you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kendra
It’s killing me to say these words, to push Marcus away. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it’s even harder than I imagined.
When he urged me to let my parents cut me off, that being the only scenario he could come up with that would make me break things off, I wanted to throw myself in his arms and tell him everything.
But the only way to keep my dad safe, to buy time to get to the bottom of Mitchell’s claims of fraud, is to go along with him. To break up with Marcus and agree to marry Mitchell.
I have no intention of actually marrying that asshole, but I can’t let him ruin my father, either. Maybe even get him sent to prison.
I spent the afternoon with my mom, trying to see if they’ve been having financial problems I don’t know about, as unlikely as that seemed. And of course I couldn’t just ask her directly. Because number one, if they were hiding financial difficulties from me, she wouldn’t answer a direct question truthfully, number two, she might have no idea, and number three, I don’t want to let on that I know anything’s going on if, in fact, there is anything going on. She had cocktails planned with some of her friends, so I didn’t get to talk to her for long, but I waited until she left and poked around my dad’s home office to see if there’s any proof of fraud there. I just can’t see him doing something like that.
Whether he did or didn’t, I need to get Mitchell’s proof and destroy it before I get walked down the aisle.
But Marcus wouldn’t be on board with my plan, so I stick to the breakup, forcing myself to say it was never supposed to be real. I can’t manage to get out what I’d intended to say, that it was fake all along. It’s too big of a lie. Marcus wouldn’t believe me, even if I could force out the words.
So I stick to the literal truth. “We were never supposed to be real.” Because I never dreamed that he had actual feelings for me when I asked him to be my fake boyfriend. That putting us in the position of pretending to be together would offer the opportunity to explore the real feelings we’ve both apparently been harboring for years.
He takes it the way I intend for him to.
His withdrawal is a physical thing, sucking all the warmth out of the room. I have to suppress a shiver at the look on his face.
I thought the pity, the gentle way he let down our friend who confessed her crush in the middle of campus was the worst. Something I couldn’t bear. But this …
This is so much worse.
Carefully, ever so controlled, he stands, one hand running through his hair and rasping over his stubbly beard, the only giveaway of his inner turmoil. It’s certainly not evident in the hard glint in his eyes, the firm set to his jaw, the evenness of his voice when he speaks. “Well. That’s all there is to say, then, I guess. It was never supposed to be real.”
His eyes bore into mine, a flash of anger quickly banked. He opens his mouth, closes it and looks away, shaking his head. “Glad I could be there to help you out when you wanted it. Thanks for tossing me aside when you were done using me. I’ll just grab the essentials and see myself out.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t stomp or slam doors or throw things. No, he takes purposeful strides across the room, and I listen to him moving around in the bedroom.
Minutes later, he reappears with a small rolling suitcase, dragging it to the entryway where he puts on his coat. “Feel free to send the rest of my stuff to my old address. Or do whatever you want with it. I don’t really care.”
And then he’s gone.
I finally come out of my trance, rising and moving to the door, but when I open it, he’s not in the hallway.
He’s gone.
Really gone.
For good.
Softly closing the door, I turn the deadbolt and walk to my bedroom, my soft footsteps in the empty apartment seeming louder than normal. Climbing into my bed, I pull the pillow Marcus used into my arms and cry myself to sleep.
At first I go about my life in something like a trance. Eating, going to the gym, looking at my course catalogues, helping my mother with the benefit, all the while feeling numb and disconnected from all of it. Showing up and answering questions, but still stuck on that night when I broke up with Marcus.
My mom notices something’s wrong, of course. It doesn’t help that she has to repeat my name several times to get my attention. “Kendra!”
I finally snap out of my umpteenth reliving of the look on Marcus’s face when I said it was never supposed to be real. The shock, the hurt, the anger. The careful detachment.
Mom snaps her fingers by my face. “What has gotten into you? I’ve asked you five times if you’ve go
tten the confirmation from Marcus and the rest of the band on matching our ticket sales. Where are you today?”
Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I give my head a little shake. “I’m sorry, Mother. Marcus and I broke up a few days ago. I don’t think I can ask him that.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her face blank. Then she softens, reaching over to pat my hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Did you have a fight?”
I close my eyes and decide to go with it. “Yeah.” I can’t exactly explain to her what’s really going on.
With one last little squeeze, she pulls her hand back. “You guys have been close for so long, I’m sure you’ll work it out. Give him some time to cool down and give him a call.”
Shaking my head, I clear my throat a few times before answering in a choked whisper, “I don’t think so, Mom. But thanks anyway.”
She wisely ends our planning session early. I’m sure she kept working on it, but she told me to head home. I wasn’t helpful at all, so I can’t blame her.
Mitchell’s call two days later is what snaps me out of my unfocused drifting.
“Kendra,” he says when I answer. “We’re going to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll have my assistant send over appropriate attire. I hope you’ve been sticking to your diet and exercise plan because I still have on file that you’re a size six. That’s the size dress you’ll be getting.”
I suppress the urge to scream at him. “Why thank you, Mitchell, I’m doing swell. It’s so kind of you to ask.”
The sound of his controlled breathing carries over the phone, and I imagine the way his nostrils flare when I succeed in irritating him. “I don’t have time for your games. You will wear what you’re told, and you’ll behave appropriately.”
“Or what, Mitchell?”
“Do I really have to spell it out?”
It’s my turn to heave a breath. “So this is how it’s going to be? Every time I express an opinion or expect you to behave with something like common courtesy, you’ll threaten my family again?”
“If you play your part, I can be as accommodating as you like. But if you insist on needling me and behaving like a low-class slut, then yes. This is how things will be.”
Gritting my teeth, I hold back my litany of scathing retorts. For now, at least, I need to go along with him. For my parents’ sake. Because Mom will be devastated if anything happens to Dad. “Fine. See you tomorrow.” And because I can’t help myself, I hang up. I don’t even know what time he’s planning on picking me up.
It turns out, I don’t have to worry. When the dress is sent over, there’s a note with it that simply says, “A car will pick you up at seven.” No greeting, no signature. Just the one spare line.
I crumple the note and throw it across the room with as much force as I can muster with a tiny paper ball. It’s unsatisfying. But my fresh wave of anger galvanizes me.
I have a purpose. I’ll find the original documents that Mitchell has and destroy them. Then I can be free of the little jackass, and my family will be safe.
Maybe I can call Marcus and beg him to take me back. Explain everything and throw myself on his mercy.
Swallowing down a wave of tears, I open the box from Mitchell to find a dove gray sheath dress inside. It’s boring and tasteful. Just what he likes.
Marcus would like it better if it were blue or red. Something with color. But I push that thought aside for now. Whether Marcus will give me another chance is a problem for another day. For now, it’s one thing at a time.
One night a week I go on a date with Mitchell. Each week he sends me a new dress with tasteful and appropriate jewelry and shoes. We pretend to be polite in public, making small talk and not glaring daggers at each other. In the car, we sit on opposite ends of the back seat, not speaking on the way to and from the restaurants and symphony performances he takes me to.
I haven’t managed to get into his condo. Or his office. Our relationship is fake. Faker than anything ever was with Marcus. And we both know it.
He doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him. Which means getting the proof from his end is impossible.
And even though I’ve managed to poke around my dad’s home office a few times, I haven’t found anything. No emails. No journals or notes where he confesses all his crimes.
Like anyone leaves something like that lying around anyway.
I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to find the proof myself so I could destroy it.
Every week I go out with Mitchell is another week closer to ending up in a sham marriage with him.
But it’s also another week that my father isn’t investigated for fraud.
Mitchell only dines at Michelin-starred restaurants. At least for our dates. Our fourth date doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary at first. We arrive at some fancy restaurant with a snooty sounding French name—Le Cochon. But the maître d’ himself shows us to our table, giving me an unctuous smile and sending Mitchell a conspiratorial wink as he hands us our menus. “Let us know if you need anything, anything at all, to make your time here more enjoyable.”
I watch him walk away before returning my attention to Mitchell. “What was that all about?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll find out after dinner.”
My raised eyebrow is met with silence as he peruses his menu. Deciding that I don’t really care, because this is Mitchell and I’m only here to play along with our charade, I scan the menu for the most expensive thing. It’s petty, and it doesn’t hurt him in the slightest, but it’s the only thing I can manage. Ordering the most expensive dish and the most expensive wine. I’ve done it for all our dates so far. Even if they don’t pair well together or I don’t like them at all. In fact, I almost prefer it when I don’t like them, because then Mitchell pays obscene prices for food I don’t even eat.
Dinner proceeds as usual. Mitchell drones on about work, a smattering of golf talk starting to get worked in now that spring is upon us. I nod and smile at appropriate intervals, making the odd comment like “oh dear,” and “how nice,” and “wow,” to make it seem like I’m paying attention.
After we finish our meals, our waiter removes our plates, mine with half my entree still on it. The wine is good, though.
And that’s when things get unusual.
Normally, the waiter brings the check right away. No dessert for us. Mitchell doesn’t want me to gain any weight, after all.
But tonight he doesn’t. I look around, shifting in my seat, wondering where he disappeared to.
“Kendra.”
“Hmm?” I’m still swiveling my head, barely paying attention to Mitchell, waiting for him to continue his exposition about IPOs or something.
“Kendra. Please pay attention.”
When I finally look at him, his nostrils are flaring, his mouth pinched. “Sorry. I just thought the waiter was coming back with the check. I know you have an early meeting tomorrow.”
He takes a deep breath. “Right. How thoughtful of you. He’ll be back in a minute. Tonight I wanted to ask you something.”
With my hands in my lap, I put on my best listening face. “Okay.”
He places a small velvet box on the table between us, prying the lid open to reveal a large princess cut diamond set in gold with tiny diamonds icing the side. If this were a real proposal, I’d gasp and my heart would speed up and I’d be so excited. If it were Marcus sitting across the table, at least.
Instead, my stomach drops, and while my heart is pounding, it’s because I think I’m going to be sick. Good thing I didn’t eat much.
But the wine is getting to me, making my head swim.
“Breathe, Kendra,” Mitchell commands, irritation lacing his tight whisper. “We need a good story to make things look real. So we’re doing this here. You need to look like you’re happy instead of like you’re facing a firing squad.”
I suck in a deep breath, hold it, and breathe out slowly. He’s right, of course. Much as I hate to admit it.
Forcing a smile onto my face, I meet his blue eyes. They’re ice cold. No hint of emotion, no remorse, no care. This is as much a business transaction as signing a contract.
“Kendra. Will you marry me?”
Ratcheting my smile a little wider, I nod my head jerkily. “Yes. Of course.”
The diners around us erupt in applause. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” they demand.
Oh, god.
Mitchell chuckles and stands, moving around to my side of the table, picking up the ring box on his way. He removes the ring, and I hold out my hand, doing my best to play my part. I stare at the ring as he slides it on my finger. Then he leans over me, and I hold my breath, wanting to turn away, forcing myself not to.
His lips press against mine. It’s even worse than I remember. Everything in me revolts at having his lips on me anywhere. And I fight back tears, because this should be Marcus and me. Not Mitchell and me. Even if we wouldn’t have gotten here this quickly, or this way, the ring and kiss and applause should be for someone else.
It’s all I can do to last through congratulations from the people around us and the waitstaff when they finally bring the damn check. Mitchell drops me off at my condo building as usual, not even walking me to the door.
Which is a small mercy, because I can’t handle another minute in his company than absolutely necessary.
When I reach my condo, I bolt the door and sink to the floor, my hands shaking. I rip off the ring and throw it across the room, tears streaming down my face.
I’m trapped. Engaged. No closer to destroying the proof against my dad. Or proving him innocent. No leads. No hope.
Trapped and utterly alone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Marcus
“Really, dude? You’re dropping this on us now? We’re scheduled to be in the studio tomorrow, and you want to add a new song?” Aaron, our keyboard player, is practically foaming at the mouth after I passed out the music to the addition to our album.
Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1) Page 16
