by Monica James
Pulling it together, I quickly race for the phone. “Hello,” I say, my voice croaky, letting on that I’ve been crying.
More tears are soon to follow when I hear who my caller is. “Everything okay, Holland?”
London knows it’s him. His face transforms from devastated to murderous in seconds.
“What do you want?” I snarl, jarring out my palm when London storms over, prepared to instigate a World War. He thankfully stays put—for now.
“I wish you’d stop treating me like the enemy,” he condescendingly quips. “We’re on the same side.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Has the yellow envelope arrived?”
A shiver wracks my body as I eye the item in question sitting innocently on my filing cabinet. London follows my line of sight and reaches for it.
“Your silence hints that it has. Open it.” I don’t appreciate him barking demands my way, but I am curious to see what’s inside.
London passes it to me. His white knuckles reveal he’s barely holding on.
Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I slip my finger under the seal and open the envelope. I see a photograph inside. Reaching for it, I slide it out, the innocent act sealing our fate for good.
“You son of a bitch.” London speaks first. He has snapped. Words have seemed to escape me.
“Now before you go pointing fingers, that was left on our doorstep. It didn’t come from me. I sent it to you as a gesture of good faith. That you can trust me.”
The photo trembles in my fingers as the image staring back at me tears my heart into two.
It’s of Emily and me from the ballet. It was taken after the show, and we’re both laughing, holding our nutcrackers high in the air. This was taken from afar, from someone who was watching us. This is a warning…a warning that they’re coming.
Lincoln confirms my worst fears of who that might be.
“I hear Benito Rossi is now kingpin of New York, and it seems he’s intent on revenge for you putting away his dad.”
“That’s impossible,” I say, my voice sounding far away. But it’s not.
Sooner or later, I knew this would happen. I thought it was happening when I received those letters. It seems my paranoia was warranted after all.
“I guess they want a piece of you too.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. London attempts to rip the phone from my ear, but I place my palm to his chest, shaking my head. He is beyond angry that I would deny him the opportunity to give Lincoln a piece of his mind and begins to pace once again.
“It seems we better get started on our agreement sooner rather than later then. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to dear Emily. So being in the limelight may not be such a bad thing after all. You’re untouchable when a dozen cameras are watching you.”
This has all worked in Lincoln’s favor because he’s right, on all accounts.
“I need you tomorrow night. A boring dinner with some investors.” He mock sighs, but his smugness oppresses me. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
The line goes dead, as does my heart. What a fucking mess.
I press the receiver to my chest, staring into space. I need a minute to gather my thoughts.
If what Lincoln says is true, then we all have a Rossi target on our backs. And it appears because I used Alberto’s daughter against him, he’s going to do the same to me.
“You need to take Emily back to LA,” I say in a robotic tone, her picture still clasped in my hand.
“Why? Who took that picture?” London is confused and frantic. He has every right to be.
“Benito Rossi.”
He doesn’t need me to go into detail. By the surname alone, he knows what this means. “How do we know it’s not Lincoln?” he proposes, which is a valid point. “How do we know he’s not just trying to scare you?”
“We don’t,” I reply, finally putting down the receiver. “But until I know for sure, you have to go back to LA.”
Slumping into my seat, I cradle my forehead in both hands.
“We can go to the police. Show them the photo.”
“We could, but that photo proves nothing. Anyone could have taken that photograph. There are no sinister letters or direct threats. There is no indication who the sender is or that we’re in any danger,” I reply, closing my eyes, exhaustion overcoming me. “That’s what they do. They don’t leave any traces. That picture was all the message we needed.”
“But the police—”
“They’re bigger than the police!” I yell, instantly regretting my tone.
Peering up, I witness him standing before me broken, and my heart sinks. This is a lot to take in. An indirect threat was just made against his daughter.
This very well could be Lincoln, as he knows if I were to spill the beans to London, this would ensure he would go back to LA, getting him out of the picture and leaving me alone with the wolves.
“Please, just take Emily back to LA. Stay there until I can figure out what the fuck to do.” My plea is dripping with fatigue. I don’t have the strength to argue.
He exhales, tonguing his upper lip as he wrestles with what to do. “What happened to us realizing that bad things happen when we’re apart?”
“This is an exception…it’s not just us anymore.”
London will never have to choose between his daughter and me because I would never allow it. I would sacrifice everything to save him the heartache.
But he reads my intentions as me pushing him away. “This is exactly what he wants,” he announces, a hostile smirk marring his usual stoic features. “So, have it your way, Holland. You’re going to do what you want anyway. I can’t stop you. I never could.”
He’s angry with me, and he has every right to be. I’m angry with me. But if this means he’ll go back to LA, where he and Emily will be safe, then I will take the brunt of his fury.
I want to say so many things, but sometimes, it’s best to say nothing at all.
He waits for me to stop him, to tell him I won’t go through with what Lincoln is proposing, but I don’t. I remain silent, holding back the ugly tears.
“Goodbye, Holland.”
“Goodbye, London.”
This conversation was once spoken when we were kids. Now that we’re adults, does it lessen the blow?
No, it doesn’t. It still fucking hurts.
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror, feelings of not recognizing my reflection engulf me once more.
The strapless silver mini dress is designer, of course, as Lincoln wouldn’t have his supposed fiancée in anything but expensive threads. It’s tight and restricting, and I suddenly can’t breathe. I doubt that has anything to do with the dress, though. This feeling hasn’t left me since London walked out of my office earlier.
I should have chased after him, but his anger at my stubbornness meant he and Emily were safe. So, I had to let him go. They are far away from here, which is the only reason I agreed to attend this stupid dinner with Lincoln. If I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain, Lincoln would ensure we all paid.
Arranging the short dress, I look at the stranger in front of me. My long hair curls around my face. I’ve worn it down to cover my exposed shoulders. The neckline of the dress is a sweetheart cut, drawing attention to my ample chest. It’s like a second skin as it clings to my body, stopping midthigh.
I feel like a prized pig, and in some ways, I am.
Lincoln sent this dress to my hotel room earlier today. Matching shoes and accessories arrived a half an hour later. When I opened the red velvet box and found the engagement ring shining brightly, I ran to the bathroom and threw up, hoping to purge the disgust festering within.
Slipping into my stilettos, I grab my clutch and pause when the ring box sitting innocently on the dresser catches my eye. There is no way I am wearing that ring until I have to, so I shove the box inside my bag.
The knock on my door reeks of smugness, so no guessing
who it is. He’s early.
Taking a deep breath, I tell my mirror image this is for the greater good and walk willingly toward my doom. The moment I open the door, Lincoln’s heavy-handed cologne envelops me. He looks chic and smug in his black suit, and I instantly want to slap his cheek.
His appraisal of me makes my stomach roil as he examines me from head to toe. However, when he stops at my ringless finger, his smirk turns into a scowl. “You’re packing a little light.” He makes a point to look at my hand.
“So are you,” I counter, referring to the NDA he has yet to sign.
Once London left, I worked like a madwoman to finish drawing up the terms to our agreement. I had it emailed to Lincoln and his lawyer before three p.m. He said he would read over it and have it signed before tonight, but I’m still waiting.
Until it is signed, I’m not going anywhere.
Lincoln reads my thoughts as I stand my ground, hinting I’m not moving an inch until that agreement is in my hands.
“Always so suspicious,” he says, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. When he retrieves the folded papers, I suppress my relief. “I noticed on clause 2.3., you forgot to add London’s name as people who cannot know about our agreement.”
I stand unaffected because this was done with intent. I didn’t think he’d pick up on it, but I was wrong. “An oversight on my behalf as I didn’t know you expected me to list all parties involved. The term everybody does cover everybody, but that’s fine. I’ll have it amended.”
“No need,” Lincoln replies, opening it to the page in question. “I corrected it.” He turns the paper around so I can see his scribbled handwriting.
“Perfect,” I say, my words non-reflective of my mood.
He smirks, producing a gold pen. “Your turn to sign. It’s time to make things official.”
His signature confirms he’s legally bound, and as I take the pen and sign on the dotted line, it means I am too. There’s no going back now. It’s only for one month. Thirty days, I remind myself. That was the agreed upon timeline. Lincoln said one month was enough time for him to prove himself. After that month was up, I was home free.
“Shall we?” he asks, extending his arm. The agreement feels like a live grenade in my hand. I’ve just set London free, but at what cost? I still have yet to hear from him, but maybe it’s for the best for now. Once this is over with, I will beg for forgiveness, but now, I have to pretend I’m not dying inside.
Placing the agreement on the hallway table, I brush past him, not interested in playing nice until I have to. We walk down the corridor in silence, each step bringing me closer to ending this once and for all.
A black limousine idles by the curb. When Lincoln opens the door for me, I roll my eyes. “A cab would have sufficed.”
“Nonsense. This is my first social outing as VP.”
“So what? A car shouldn’t be reflective of social standing. You should be able to reflect that on your name alone. But I suppose you haven’t quite got there yet. Don’t worry”—I patronize him as I rub his upper arm—“one day, you’ll be able to play with the big boys.”
His cheeks blister, and his nostrils flare.
As I attempt to shove past him, he grips my bicep. I instantly rip from his hold. “Don’t touch me. I may be legally bound to play nice when in the company of others, but when we’re alone, I have no intention of doing so.”
He raises his hands, allowing me to get into the limo unscathed. When he scoots onto the seat after me, he makes sure to leave enough space between us. My message has been received—loud and clear.
The limo ride is silent as I peer out the window, and Lincoln savors his glass of aged scotch. “Tonight is dinner with Mr. Petrov and his business associates.” I know who he is. I did some legal work for Tony Petrov’s sister, but I’ll be damned if I tell Lincoln that. “They are big investors and have personally requested a sit-down dinner with me and Gerald.”
“Great,” I mutter under my breath, watching the bright lights pass by. “Gerald is coming too. This evening just got worse.” Lincoln elects to ignore me, knowing it’s best to choose his battles wisely. And when we pull up at Maze, New York’s hottest restaurant, it’s game on.
“I don’t need to remind you a lot is riding on tonight and the impression I make. You do your part because I’ve done mine.”
“Bite me,” I reply, reaching for the handle, but he reaches across and stops me from escaping.
“Forgetting something?”
I know what he’s referring to, and it eats me up that I have to wear it. With no other choice, I shrug him away from me and open my clutch. Sweat collects at the small of my back when I set eyes on the red ring box.
“Need help putting it on?” he asks, happy as a pig in shit.
Not bothering to humor him, I push aside my anxieties because I don’t want him to see any weakness. Weakness in the hands of someone like Lincoln is a dangerous thing. I open the box and stare at the diamond before slipping it from its silk confines.
God, save my soul.
As I slip it on my finger, bile rises as it looks so wrong. It feels like a manacle weighing me down, but I focus on the result, which is me taking it off for good.
“A perfect fit,” Lincoln says, a touch of nostalgia framing his words. He seems transfixed by the sight, yet I can’t even look at it without wanting to throw up.
“Let’s get this over with.” I don’t wait for him to speak. Instead, I exit the car and inhale the fresh air to calm my raging nerves.
New York is innocent to my woes, watching on and judging, believing I’m just another bigshot out on the town with her beau. If only they knew the real story of how I’m being blackmailed to save the man I love.
“Babe.” Lincoln offers his arm, and I peer down at it, swallowing past the lump lodged in my throat.
I’d rather chop off my arm than touch him, but Emily’s innocent smile flashes before me, forcing me to accept his offering. It feels so wrong to have our arms linked, but I pull back my shoulders and remember I’m Holland Brooks-Ferris, and I’m not a quitter.
We walk toward the entrance, and the doorman opens the glass door for us. Seems a little excessive to have someone open the door for us, but so does paying three hundred dollars for a steak. This place exudes excess in droves.
The restaurant is furnished in crisp white linens, sparkling crystal, and gold rimmed tableware. We approach the host, and Lincoln gives his name. I raise an eyebrow when I spot the governor of New York sitting in a booth upstairs.
“Mr. O’Toole, please follow Hilary. She’ll show you to your table.” The server in question smiles, doing a poor job at concealing her appraisal of Lincoln.
To the outside world, he reeks of success and money, but I know the truth—he’s a mommy’s boy who is still seeking his father’s approval. He turns on the charm by winking, and I almost gag on my repulsion.
We follow her wiggling ass as she leads us through the masses, who turn to gossip about whoever is on display. I recognize far too many faces but smile and nod in acknowledgment nonetheless. As far as they know, Lincoln and I are still happily engaged.
“Hello, Holland,” says Jeremy, the DA for Manhattan, as I pass his table. “I thought you’d be honeymooning in Europe by now?”
Lincoln stiffens beside me. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to reveal what a sham my engagement is, but I suck it up. “No rest for the wicked, Jeremy. You know that. Besides, Lincoln was just made VP.”
Jeremy’s gaze darts to Lincoln, who stands proud. “Congratulations.” He reaches into his pocket, producing a white business card. “Let’s do lunch.”
Lincoln accepts, tucking it into his inner jacket pocket. He wants me on his arm for this exact reason. To use me for his own social ladder climbing. “Sounds great. If you’ll excuse us.” He leads me away from Jeremy, most likely afraid my quota for being nice has been reached.
I wave goodbye to Jeremy. Lincoln nuzzles into my ear. “Nice job
. I almost believed you gave a shit.”
Pretending to rearrange my hair, I slip from his closeness before I stomp on his toes. “I’ve pretended for a long time to like you…it comes naturally.”
He doesn’t have a chance to address my sarcasm because Hilary stops at table fifteen, announcing we’ve arrived at our table. Gerald and his wife, Taylor, are already here. I only tolerated these two because they were Lincoln’s friends. However, the gloves are off now.
I will be civil, but that’s it.
“Here are the lovebirds,” jibes Gerald, raising his glass in greeting. I don’t know how much he knows, but I still stick by the belief that he housed Lincoln during his disappearing stunt. He is a sleaze, and I want to pluck out his eyeballs when they ogle my boobs.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Gerald. Did you get a haircut?”
He blanches and sweeps his thinning brown hair to the right, attempting to hide his receding hairline. Lincoln lightly squeezes my arm, reminding me to behave as Gerald’s premature balding is a touchy subject for him.
Taylor appears bored as she nurses a glass of water. She doesn’t bother to say hello.
The evening is already giving me a migraine.
When we take our seats, Lincoln makes a big song and dance as he pulls out my chair. “Thank you, sweetie,” I grit out in a sickly-sweet tone.
Lincoln smiles, pleased I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself.
The moment I sit, I reach for the bottle of wine. Looking at the label, I whistle. “It’s probably polite if we wait for the other people in our party to arrive,” Gerald says, the total tight ass, as this bottle costs five hundred dollars a pop.
Ignoring his suggestion, I drown my goblet with the red liquid. I don’t bother smelling it or swishing it around the glass. I gulp it down in one mouthful, satisfied when I’m certain I see smoke blasting out of Gerald’s ears. “I’m pretty sure they’d prefer vodka.”
