Defiance of the Heart (Book 2)

by Monica James

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Books By Monica James

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with Monica James

  Copyrighted Material

  DEFIANCE OF THE HEART

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Copyright © 2018 by Monica James

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.

  Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Edited by Editing 4 Indies

  Interior design and formatting by

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Follow me on:

  monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au

  THE I SURRENDER SERIES

  I Surrender

  Surrender to Me

  Surrendered

  White

  SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL SERIES

  Something like Normal

  Something like Redemption

  Something like Love

  A HARD LOVE ROMANCE

  Dirty Dix

  Wicked Dix

  The Hunt

  MEMORIES FROM YESTERDAY

  Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

  Forgetting You, Remembering Me

  SINS OF THE HEART

  Absinthe of the Heart

  Defiance of the Heart

  This is dedicated to my besties, Louise and Gemma. You’re my favourite muggles.

  Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished. For never was a story more woe. Than this of Juliet and her Romeo

  —William Shakespeare.

  I hope you enjoy Defiance of the Heart—inspired by the star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet.

  A table.

  A chair.

  The drip…drip…drip of the kitchen sink.

  These things, they all make sense to me, but Belle’s admission that Lincoln is Emily’s father…does not.

  “L-Lincoln?” His name gets lodged in my throat as tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry.

  Belle advances toward me, hands raised in surrender. “Yes. Lincoln is Emily’s biological father,” she says slowly as if it’ll soften the blow.

  But nothing will.

  “How is this possible?” I ask, my voice sounding unlike my own.

  “I’ve wanted to tell you this for so long,” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Will you listen? Will you give me the chance to explain?”

  Those familiar green eyes bear nothing but hope, but the closer she gets, the more claustrophobic I feel. However, when she attempts to touch me, I realize this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach is nausea.

  I manage to choke out, “Excuse me,” before my feet skid along the flooring as I run from the room and up the stairs. I barely make it in time as I rush into the bathroom and dry heave into the toilet.

  My stomach is empty, but it doesn’t seem to matter as shudders rock my body. Each tremor is an attempt to purge this vile emptiness within. With my head buried down in the porcelain, I thump the wall, tears scoring my cheeks.

  How is this possible? How could I have been so blind? Suddenly, broken images of the past twenty-eight years crash into me, and no matter that each moving memory is a mere sliver of what I’ve lived, one thing is clear—my whole life has been a lie.

  Everything I thought I knew isn’t what it seems. I’m a stranger in my own skin.

  “No,” I cry, refusing to accept this nightmare as truth.

  With nothing left to lose, I wipe my mouth and raise my weary head. Slumped on the floor, I have one of two options. I can sit here in denial, complaining about how unfair life is, or I can stop being a wimp, put on a pair of pants, and go back downstairs. This really is a no-brainer because I’ve never backed down in the past. And I’ve lived through worse. I’m not a quitter, and I don’t intend to start being one now.

  Rising, I flush the toilet and walk to the sink to splash some water on my burning cheeks. Taking a moment, I brace my hands against the porcelain and peer at my reflection. My mirror image reflects the raging war contained within. My eyes are wide. My skin is flushed. A palpable energy sizzles around me. “Don’t be a coward,” I whisper to my image. My cheeks billow as I exhale.

  It’s time.

  As I walk into London’s bedroom, I ignore the twisted heap of sheets lying in a tangled mess at the end of his bed. The reminder of what happened last night is just too much to deal with right now.

  Has he also lain with Belle in this bed as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear? Did he destroy her mind, body, and soul as he had with me?

  A wave of nausea overcomes me once again, but I quash it deep, deep down.

  Hunting through his drawers, I snare a pair of track pants and pull the drawstring tight. Tying my hair into a topknot, I take a steadying breath before making my way down the stairs. Hushed voices reveal whatever Belle and London are discussing are for their ears only. My heart drops.

  When I enter the kitchen, it’s high school all over again as Belle is quick to stop talking. That happened a lot at Harvard-Westlake, usually because I was the topic of discussion. Just as I am right now.

  Hearing what Belle has to say will be difficult to stomach, but locking eyes with London is so much worse. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him since Belle dropped the bombshell that’s sure to change my life forever.

  The stormy gray to his steel blue eyes rips the air from my lungs. He’s wounded because he knows beneath this bravado, I’m crumpling inside.

  A ghost of a smile plays on his lips when he sees I raided his drawer. But it’s soon slathered in melancholy when Belle gently clears her throat. “Will you let me explain?”

  London breaks our exchange, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a profound swallow as he averts his eyes.

  His response makes me nervous, but nonetheless, I nod. “Okay.”

  “Do you want to sit?” Belle wrings her hands in front of her.

  “No. I’ll stand.” She flinches at the sharpness to my tone, but it doesn’t make a difference whether I sit or stand. What does matter, however, is the truth.

  Belle nods once. She inhales. Gathering courage maybe?

  With a final deep breath...her tale begins.

  “Lincoln and I have always been flirty,” she explains, which is nothing I didn’t already know. “It was obvious you didn’t like him. And it was also obvious the reason was because you were always in love with…London.”

  London stands unmoving, arms folded as he leans against the kitchen counter. I don’t bother correcting her because she’s right. His cadence has forever sung to my soul.

  “Well, that flirting soon turned into something a little more serious, and before I knew it, one thing led to another. I thought you knew?” she offers as a p
ossible explanation to why she did it. Her suggestion, however, doesn’t fly.

  “I didn’t know, Belle. Do you think I’d have stayed with Lincoln if I had?”

  “I suppose not,” she replies, chewing on her bottom lip. “The night of prom, I found out I was pregnant. I took a test, not thinking anything of being a few days late, but well…that night changed my life forever.”

  Returning to that day, to our conversation in the car, I shake my head, feeling like an utter fool. “So that bad burrito turned out to be a baby?” I ask, remembering how Belle confessed she felt bloated and looked like the walking dead.

  I also remember her ascertaining I wouldn’t be at prom. I now know why that is. She wanted to spend the night dancing in the shadows with Lincoln.

  “Yes,” she confesses softly. “I told Lincoln the night of prom that the baby was his. He kissed me. He was so happy. But that happiness was short-lived when London saw us together and beat the living crap out of him. He fought to protect you, Holland. Just how he told Lincoln not to bring you to prom.”

  Like a ship coming home in the dead of night, I search for my lighthouse in a withering storm. He stands tall, unapologetic, and goddamn, all I want to do is throw my arms around him and thank him for always keeping me close to his heart.

  “He didn’t want you at prom because he knew something was going on with Lincoln and me. At first, I did it to make him jealous, but for him to be jealous, it would mean he’d have to care,” Belle sadly confesses. “But the only person he ever cared about was you. That’s why he didn’t want you at prom. Each time he saw you and Lincoln together…” She leaves the sentence unfinished because she doesn’t need to explain.

  London told me why he did what he did. He didn’t hold back when he detailed the fact he would fight Lincoln once and for all because he was right—I should have been on his arm all along.

  “But when he saw Lincoln kiss me, when he saw us commit the ultimate betrayal…he wasn’t fighting for me. He was fighting for you. I made him promise not to tell you because it was my story to tell, not his.”

  “Listen to what Belle has to say.”

  That’s what he said to me the night of prom when he turned up on my doorstep, bloody and beaten. And that’s what he meant when he said it’s not his story to tell.

  I always knew that whatever happened was because of me, and that darkening sense of foreboding blankets me once again.

  “He said if I didn’t tell you soon, then he would.”

  My head snaps London’s way, but he lowers his jaw to his chest, averting his eyes to the floor.

  “Lincoln was in a bad way, so once London left, and it was clear where he was going, I took Lincoln home and helped clean him up. We spoke about the future. He said he would take care of me and our baby.”

  Bile rises, but as despicable as her confession is, beside the baby, isn’t her story a mirror image of mine? Didn’t I also tend to London’s wounds? Didn’t we make love and discuss the future? Our paths intersected and changed the course of our lives evermore.

  However, there is one bothersome question…“Why were you so certain Emily wasn’t London’s daughter?”

  A grinding fills the small space, and I realize it’s coming from London’s clenched jaw. I want to console him, but he shakes his head once, indicating there is so much more.

  “Because…because Lincoln was the only man I’d ever slept with. But London didn’t know that.”

  My lip curls on its own accord. “What?”

  Belle’s eyes fill with tears while I hold my breath. “I told London we had slept together when he was drunk. We were at some party but not there together. Lincoln and I fooled around in his truck, and when he was done, he told me he had fun, but it was time to leave. I thought he meant together, but he meant me leave while he went to see you.

  “I had never felt more used before in my life. But I did as he asked. He left me standing in the dark like some cheap whore. I just…I just wanted to be loved.” She sniffs, her lower lip quivering as she cries.

  Belle has always craved love and belonging. I blamed this on her loveless parents. But maybe they weren’t to blame after all.

  “I went back to the party and saw London. He was trashed. I knew he’d end up in a fight or passing out God knows where, so I drove him back to my house. My intentions were innocent until I put him to bed, and he told me how much he…loved you. That you were his. After what Lincoln had just done to me, it just, why was I always second best?” she reasons while I blink once, not recognizing this stranger in front of me.

  “I undressed him and then slipped in beside him. When he woke the next morning and we were both naked, I told him”—she gulps, looking at London with nothing but remorse—“I told him we had slept together. He didn’t even question me. He believed me because that’s the type of person London is. But he was disgusted at what he’d done.” She appears hurt while I refrain from cursing.

  Small pieces of this puzzle are beginning to come together. London was loyal to Belle because she tricked him into believing they’d slept together. London wasn’t like Lincoln. He actually cared about people other than himself.

  “We hadn’t even really kissed. So I know it came as a surprise to him.”

  Her confession winds me. “Belle, you insinuated you and London were together. Every time we talked, you hinted you were a thing.”

  London sighs, running a hand down his face.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she weeps, “but it wasn’t fair. You had them both. What about me? I did it hoping he’d tell you. I wanted to hurt you. Just as you had hurt me by having Lincoln’s love.”

  There are so many things I could say, but what would be the point? How do I tell her she’s a selfish, lying bitch without slapping her cheek and causing a scene? No matter what I’m feeling, I have to remember her daughter knows her as nothing but perfect, and I won’t drag her into this mess we’ve made.

  “Lincoln was thrilled when I told him about the baby, but he made me promise that I’d wait to tell you, and we’d do it together. He wanted the timing to be right. I thought it was because he wanted to do the right thing, but I now know it was because he wanted to get to you first.

  “He wanted to blame it all on me and turn it around so it was my fault.”

  This is karma at its best, but I don’t feel a lick of satisfaction.

  “The next day, I knew I had to tell you. I couldn’t lie to you anymore. I called Lincoln so many times, but when he didn’t answer, I knew something wasn’t right. So when you called me from Lincoln’s phone, I knew he’d lied. He had no intention of telling you. All along, he was going to blame it all on me. He painted everyone but himself out to be the villain.

  “I tried telling you the truth, but when Lincoln told me he’d ruin me by telling the entire school and my family what a slut I was for sleeping with my best friend’s boyfriend, I knew he’d won. He said he didn’t tell you about the baby, and that if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t say a word. He said if I told anyone he was the father, he’d deny it.” Belle bursts into tears while I stand numb.

  As I listen to everything she says, it all makes sense now.

  I called Belle after Lincoln pressed me to find out if the “truth” he told me was in fact that. When I asked her if she had kissed Lincoln and she said yes, I made an assumption that will haunt me forever. I should have asked her the right questions, instead of believing Lincoln. But I didn’t.

  He must have threatened her when I ran into the bathroom and relived what I experienced some five minutes ago. My life seems to be stuck on a loop, but I want out.

  London is deathly quiet. However, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest indicates he’s listening and barely holding on.

  This clusterfuck of events is sure to end in tears, but there are so many more answers I need. “But I came to London’s house. Your car was there. Why?”

  London said he never saw me, but someone did. The curtain across his b
ay window drawing to a close is forever ingrained in my memory because that final act was the reason I left behind the person I once was.

  Belle frowns, and once again looks at London for forgiveness. He simply leans back and arches a challenging brow. “I…I told London Emily was his.”

  I knew it was coming, but that doesn’t soften the blow.

  “Belle, how could you?” I gasp, covering my mouth, horrified.

  “I was scared,” she bellows, attempting to latch onto my forearm as she lunges forward. But I recoil sharply; jaw hard as I shake my head in disappointment.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I was seventeen. Lincoln broke my heart, and London was always so nice to me.”

  “So, in return, you lie to him and tell him you’re having his baby?” I exclaim, my temper unleashing in a fury that will soon drag us all under.

  “London may not have loved me, but he was always there for me. He was the only person I could talk to besides you, but after what I did, I couldn’t talk to you. He made me feel safe.”

  My tether to the sane, rational Holland is slowly slipping, and it takes all my willpower not to tell Belle what I think of her deceiving, deplorable ways.

  The question that has plagued me for over ten long years has finally been answered. I always thought it was me, and I now know it never was. “That’s why you stood me up? Isn’t it?”

  London meets my eyes with nothing but utter torment in his. Time stands still for so many reasons as he watches me closely. This changes everything.

  Tonguing the smooth scar above his lip, the one my father gave him when he sought me out, he sighs. “Yes.” A simple word has the ability to shatter my world.

  I wrap my arms around my middle, unbelieving this is happening right now. London’s confession is one of the final pieces I need. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who saw me?” There is no need for me to clarify what I’m asking because all along, I thought it was London who saw me and let me go…but it never was.