“My God—that blade has provenance…”
“It does.”
“Well, if nothing else, I applaud that you applied style in your, uh, addiction. And for that, you’ll always be a class act. But you need to get yourself back on track. Will you flush the rest of those pills for me?”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I’ll do it tonight.”
“Thank God! I can’t lose you now—not after coming so close to doing so. You know I can’t. I couldn’t bear it!”
“Je suis d’accord.”
“I knew you’d agree.”
He turned to me and smiled. “Jennifer,” he said.
“You mean you can actually recognize her?” Blackwell said.
“I do. And she’s beautiful. Come and give Bernie a hug,” he said to me.
“As you can see, I’m a little limited when it comes to giving hugs, Bernie—”
“She’s a goddamned cripple.”
I shot Blackwell a withering, sidelong glance. “—but I’ll do my best.”
Gently, we hugged, and as we did, I could smell just a touch of his cologne, which was clean and bright with hints of lavender, amber, and sandalwood.
“You smell wonderful,” I said.
“Do I? Even though I’ve just outted myself as a borderline drug baron?”
“You’ll be fine,” I said.
“Are you high now, Bernie?” Blackwell asked tentatively. “Because we can’t, you know, have anything go wrong on this very important night. Tonight, after all, marks Jennifer’s reintroduction back into the world of high society.”
“No, no. I’m fine. The six lines I snorted this morning are long gone. Even that hundred-dollar bill I used is gone—I burned it up out of shame. I held it right over the toilet, set it ablaze, and let it go with the rest of the waste. Now I’m just high on life!”
“Perfect,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Then we need to commence. The party is just a few hours away.”
* * *
When Bernie was finished with me—repairing my hair with a wealth of tonics, blowing it out and then straightening it with a flatiron, and making my skin look dewy, fresh, and youthful with his masterful approach to applying just the right touch of makeup—I stared at myself in the mirror, and then looked up at him.
“So, who is she?” I said.
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Blackwell said.
“She’s you,” Bernie said. “The best of you. Own it. Work it. Twerk it, as they’re saying these days. Because you look fabulous, Jennifer, even if I do say so myself.”
“I have to agree,” Blackwell said, coming to my side and looking at me in the lighted mirror. “I love the smoky eye and the pouty lip. J’adore the fact that her face looks as if it’s been sandblasted by granite. She came in here looking like one of the Little Rascals on even harder times, and now she’s been transformed into a princess.” Her gaze flicked up to meet Bernie’s in the mirror. “You’re a magician. Or, in this one’s case, a superb mortician. Somehow, you brought her back to life.”
“Why does my self-esteem plummet when you’re like this?” I asked.
“Oh, please—you know I’m only joking. You look fab. But when you get dressed, what are we to do with your bum arm? That’s what concerns me. So, go and get into your dress, and we’ll see what I can come up with that will make your sling somehow mesh with your dress. Now, scoot!”
It was at that moment that my cell rang.
“Alex,” I said to Blackwell. “Finally. I haven’t heard from him all day.”
“Then take the call,” she said.
I went to the makeup table, grabbed my phone, and answered it. “Where have you been?” I asked. “I called earlier.”
“I apologize,” he said. “I had a long lunch with the old guard—Jonathan and Tim. You remember them?”
“Of course I do. What happened?”
“I wanted to know if and how I could get my seat back as CEO. I told them that I couldn’t care less about being chairman of the board—that can go to someone else. The long answer they gave me is complicated, but the short answer is that it’s not going to happen unless Stephen Rowe does something radical enough to throw off investors and the board. Only then, in their estimation, will I be able to win my seat back.”
“Did you tell them about Janice Jones?”
“I did.”
“What was their reaction?”
“They said that we’d need to bring the board proof of his indiscretions and, more importantly, show how they might affect Wenn’s stock if those indiscretions were made public.”
“That’s just what we plan to do.”
“And that’s why we need to find Jones and convince her to come clean about her affair with Rowe. As for the rest of the day, I’ve just been answering emails, getting caught up on work—that sort of thing. Ann had a pile of paperwork for me to go through. I’m sorry that I went missing, but now I’m dressed and ready for Henri’s party. Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes? Tank will drive us to Henri’s.”
“I’ll see you in fifteen,” I said. “And I love you, Alex.”
“I love you, too—more than anything, Jennifer.”
“Tonight should be curious,” I said. “Are you ready for it?”
“Bring it on,” he said. And after he said that he loved me again, he severed the connection.
I put my phone back onto the makeup table and turned to Blackwell. “I’ve got fifteen minutes,” I said. “We should move. But you know I won’t be able to get into that dress on my own without your help.”
She heard the tension in my voice, and her face softened. “Then let me help you.”
And she did. And when we were finished, I stood before the mirror in my Michael Kors gown with my arm out of its sling, but still held up close to my chest.
“It’s lovely,” Blackwell said. “And sexy. And it makes a statement—you’re back and you’re in charge. You’re the complete package. Now, here, let’s put on your jewelry so you’re not late for Alex.”
Swiftly, Blackwell dipped into her bag from Cartier, and fastened a new diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings to me. The ring she slipped onto my right index finger was a ten-carat emerald diamond with a brilliant cut that dazzled in ways that made me wonder again how in the hell I’d ever gotten to this point in my life. The lot of it was as stunning as it was obnoxious.
“You’re like a damned disco ball,” she said. “But in the right way.”
“I long for the days of disco balls,” Bernie said. “Twirling beneath them, not a care in the world.”
“Just be happy that you survived those days,” she said to him. “But what are we to do with her arm? She might have a black sling, but it won’t work for this. Bernie?”
“I have no idea…”
“And this is why I’m Blackwell.”
“What does that mean?” I asked her. “Are you going to magically heal my wound?”
“Not quite, though I would if I could,” she said. “That said, I did tell you earlier today that a surprise was coming, so allow me to spring that surprise upon you now.”
With that, she went to the far end of the room, where she grabbed a bag from behind a group of tables. She must have put it there earlier so I wouldn’t see it. It said “Swarovski” on it, which puzzled me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your new sling.”
And with a flourish, she removed from the bag a large white box inside which was a black sling encrusted with black Swarovski crystals that sparkled, flared and danced in the light as if they were about to go out on the town themselves. My breath caught when I saw it, and when I locked eyes with Blackwell, her mouth was set in a self-satisfied smirk.
“You can’t be serious?” I asked. “A sling made out of Swarovski crystals? And black ones at that? How did you pull that off in such a limited amount of time?”
“Money always talks,” she said
. “Speak loudly enough, and people will listen. And act, for that matter. I ordered this the day you left for Maine, knowing that you’d likely be going to an event while you were still healing. With a fair bit of pressure, I made sure that it arrived today. Now, here. Stop looking like a raccoon in the headlights. Let me put it on you. You’re about to see that your arm is no longer a burden to couture. In fact, this sling is meant to only enhance the couture.”
“How do we know if it will even fit?”
“Maine, please. Do you really think I don’t know your measurements by now? Even if you did lose some weight on that beastly island, I’ve got this. Now, come on—let me help you into it.”
Once she had maneuvered my arm into the sling and clipped it behind my back, she stepped away from me, folded her arms in front of herself, and lifted a self-satisfied eyebrow at me. Then, I heard Bernie gasp and start to clap his hands as I turned to the mirror and looked at myself. As imperfect as I was due to my injury, the effect Blackwell and Bernie had created for me was as perfect as it could get.
“That’s Page Six material,” Bernie said.
“And that was my intent,” Blackwell said. “She’ll land there tomorrow—just you wait and see.”
“Thank you,” I said to her. “You always have my back.”
“That’s because, even though I love to tease you, my dear, I will always have your back because I love you. Look at you,” she said. “That slings says that you’re not embarrassed by what happened to you, but that you are owning what happened to you. You’re proud of what happened to you because you saved your husband’s life. You’re willing to draw attention to your injury, not because you’re searching for pity, but because you’re a strong woman who refuses to let a bullet to the shoulder get in her way. That will speak volumes about who you are. In fact, it is who you are—a fighter. Now, make the best of it.”
“I will,” I said. “Thank you both so much. I do love you both—you have to know that!”
“We do,” she said. “Now, go. Alex is waiting, and soon the party will begin.”
“I can’t take a clutch,” I said. “I need to leave one arm open in order to hold a drink and to shake hands. What am I going to do about a compact and lipstick, never mind my phone?”
“You don’t need your phone, but you do need your lipstick and your compact, so here—give them to Alex, and ask him to put them in his pants pocket for you.”
“Thank you again,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” Blackwell said. “And we both love you too, darling. Now, go!”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
When I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for Alex’s floor, I was a nervous wreck. Rowe would be there tonight, which would present its own share of challenges since it seemed inevitable to me that we’d have a confrontation at some point during the evening. Moreover, Bernie and Blackwell were convinced that I’d make Page Six, which meant that they really did think that I was about to cause a stir.
And if I was to be honest with myself, they probably were right.
All of the news coverage that occurred when we went missing, and then the massive coverage that hit when we were found alive, and then the press conference we held when we’d finally returned home had worked to quietly create a firestorm of attention that was about to be unleashed upon Alex and me tonight.
I may have stood alongside my husband and in front of the press when we first returned to Wenn, but that was for the world to see—and because Alex had kept the conference so brief, no one had asked me anything.
Tonight would be a far more intimate experience as I’d be mingling with a host of people that I knew or who, at the very least, knew me. And because of that, Alex and I would be hammered with a crush of questions about all of it—what was the crash like, how did we manage to survive for two weeks on that island, what was it like there, how did we manage to escape? The answers to these questions were already well documented, but these people viewed themselves as insiders, and they would want to hear it from our own lips, over and over again, throughout the night.
It was enough to make me want to have a martini now—not just at the party—if only so I could settle my nerves before we arrived at the event.
As the elevator slowed, I thought, Why not have one now? Being a few minutes late is hardly going to rattle any cages. And after the day Alex has had, he probably could use one, too.
The doors whisked open, and I was about to step out in search of my husband and a drink when instead I stopped cold in my tracks and just stared at the man standing across from me.
Stephen Rowe.
He was dressed in a tux, and when his eyes flicked up to meet mine, he appeared as startled as I was. I looked up at the dial to check the floor I was on, and saw that I had somehow pushed the button for the forty-seventh floor, obviously out of habit. Rowe had taken this floor for himself, banishing Alex and me to our new offices on the fortieth floor. How stupid could I be? How could I have done this?
“Well, this is a surprise,” he said.
“And an unpleasant one at that,” I countered.
“If it’s so unpleasant, Jennifer, why are you here?”
“Old habits die hard,” I said. “I’d forgotten you’d moved us to the fortieth floor. I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s the problem with most hicks from Maine—they don’t think. And by the way, nice sling and bling. Who says you can’t put lipstick on a pig?”
The doors started to slide shut as he said that, but I reached out a hand to stop them before they could close.
Really, Rowe? A hick and a pig? Game on, motherfucker.
I stepped out of the elevator and approached him.
“You can call me what you will, Stephen, but what you’ll never be able to call me is a cheater, which is a word I can absolutely use to describe you.”
“Are we really going to go there again, Jennifer? You’ve got nothing on me. If you did, you already would have come forward with it. You know, like the day after your husband kicked down the door to my office. That would have been a good time—but neither of you did so for a reason. And we both know what that reason is. So, why don’t you just put your threats of revealing my supposed infidelity to bed already?” He smiled at that. “Or so to speak. It’s a waste of time. You were bluffing on that dance floor, and we both know it.”
“If I was bluffing, then why did you suddenly fall in line when I challenged you with it, Stephen? Answer me that. Because I saw the fear in your eyes when I told you what I knew, and it was real. I threatened you with what I knew, and when you heard all of the sordid details of what I had on you, you did exactly as I told you to do. If someone had said those words to me—that I’d cheated on Alex and that they had proof—I would have laughed in their face and left them standing there on the dance floor, knowing they had nothing on me. But you didn’t—and to echo your words, we both know why—you’ve been having a two-year affair with Janice Jones.”
“How about this?” he asked. “Why don’t you just come forward with the information you have on me? Spill it to the world. Or is that out of the question because you don’t have shit on me?”
“After tonight, you’ll see otherwise. There’s a reason we came back from Maine to go to this party, Stephen, and it’s all about you.”
“I’ll just consider that another empty threat.”
I smiled at him as the elevator doors swept closed behind me. “Do as you will.”
“You know,” he said. “You’re in my employ now, and I could fire you if you keep this up.”
“So do it. Or maybe the reason you haven’t done it yet is because you believe it’s always best to keep your enemies close. I believe you have a reason to keep me as close as you do, Stephen. And we both know what that reason is. Best to keep an eye on me, don’t you think?”
“Here’s what I really think,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“That tonight, your miscarriage is going to
be the talk of the party.”
My lips parted in shock, horror, and surprise upon hearing his words—I felt a stinging jolt of humiliation that this man, of all people, possessed my deepest secret—but then I quickly composed myself. I would give him no personal satisfaction for somehow finding out what never should have been found out.
“I know that you’ve kept it a secret for personal reasons, but guess what?” he said. “With a few anonymous texts sent to the right people via a TracFone about an hour ago, word already is spreading. Phones are starting to ring. People are talking, some of them gasping. Worse for you, the people arriving at Henri’s party are now buzzing with the news of your loss. You’re about to be humiliated in ways that you never saw coming.”
He held out his hands and shrugged at me. “I mean, think of it, Jennifer. What will people be saying? ‘Is she able to give Alexander Wenn the heir his previous wife denied him of having?’ ‘Because of the crash, could it be that she’s now physically unable to do give him a child that will carry on the Wenn name?’ Think about what that will do for your reputation within Alex’s set, which is all about extending the family name. I say that it will lead to nothing good because you’re going to be marked as a broken woman. Tonight, you’re going to take another hit to the gut—and I’m happy to be the one to have orchestrated it, especially after the way you set me up on that dance floor. So, here’s the takeaway, Jennifer—Don’t fuck with me.”
“There are rumors and there are facts,” I said with steel in my voice. “All I need to do is to dismiss this as a rumor, and you’ve lost.”
“Oh, I haven’t lost,” he said. “You see, I sent physical proof of your miscarriage along with those texts…”
“What proof?”
“Let’s just say that there was a certain person at Gleneagles who was willing to send me a PDF of your medical records during your stay there—for a steep price, of course, but who cares? It was worth it. From reading those records, I learned plenty. Was I expecting to find a miscarriage tucked in there? No—but I have to say that it was a welcomed bonus.”
Annihilate Me 2: Omnibus (Complete Vols. 1-3, Annihilate Me 2) Page 50
