OWNED: A Dark Mystery Romance (LOVE IS WAR Book 4)

by Shayne Ford

  Sebastien started dating Jeraldine Monroe when he was twenty-four.

  They were married within months. The documentary shifts the spotlight to her.

  Sole child and fiercely independent, Jacqueline had become the role model for many young women. Educated, rich and outspoken, she had a knack for business. She inherited most of her wealth when her father died, the same way Sebastien did when his father perished a few months later. The couple had been highly regarded in the business community and for a good reason. Known for their charitable actions, they stole the spotlight and held the headlines for years.

  Separation rumors surfaced recently, fueled by the sightings of the couple in the company of other people. Although they could never be romantically linked to them.

  An obscure piece of information made it to the web a few years back, speculating that Sebastien Rockford’s inheritance came with strings attached. Nobody could verify it since it was a revocable living trust and therefore not public.

  The documentary ends a few moments later before an ad starts playing on the screen.

  I turn off the TV and tip my head back, slumping in my chair. My eyes close, my thoughts bouncing around in my head.

  The snapshots and the words whip up chaos in me. Him and me, the clips, Jacqueline, the red camellias, and our first kiss.

  The first time he had me. The night we spent at his mother’s house.

  Allan and Stephan.

  The passing of the seasons since the inception of this story.

  The colorful fall and silver winter. The nights and days of the summer. The feel of his body against mine and the touch of his lips against my skin. His words, and grins. The luring power of his eyes.

  It all comes to me like a cloud of confetti, throwing bits and pieces at me as my mind is watching the unraveling story.

  How did we get here?

  Little by little, I recognize the trail. Every step of the way he pulled me deeper into the story, sewing me into the fabric of it.

  I slowly open my eyes and shift my empty stare to the window.

  I ponder for a moment.

  No... This can’t be possible.

  A smile creases my lips.

  A silent, bitter grin.

  There’s no way he could’ve planned all that. There’s no way in hell, he would’ve known all the variables, the unforeseeable, the capricious, fickle nature of the people. The accidents and twists of fate.

  And yet, now that I look at it... It all panned out perfectly.

  The circle had been closed. The players had fulfilled their roles. Myself included.

  With the exquisite elegance of a chess master, he made his last move and let the last piece of the puzzle fall.

  He built a web around me and caught me in it. In his life, his secrets, the war of love and hate between him and his wife.

  He did all that so that he could free himself.

  He. Is. Free. Now.

  Isn’t that what he wanted all along? To free himself?

  I was the linchpin. The key to his escape.

  But was that all?

  As I stare into the patch of darkness lining my window, I no longer see the glass and the trees waving their branches outside.

  I only see him, and no matter how much I try to read him, even in my imagination, his back is turned to me, refusing me that last piece of information.

  Will I ever know?

  I flick my hand and wipe away his image, my eyes getting in focus again as a distinct noise of slammed doors drifts through the air.

  I shift my gaze down. The street is closed off now and guarded by the police. His white shirt stands out in the grayish morning light as large strides take him into the house.

  The lights turn on as he strolls across, the glow trailing him. The shadow of his silhouette slides from one level to the other, from one room to another.

  I wait.

  The door of his office slides open, and I merely get a glimpse of him before he vanishes into an adjacent chamber.

  A few moments pass by until I move my eyes away from his windows and shift my attention to my phone screen. The news breaks rampantly, the media having a blast running the story.

  A bit of information catches my eye.

  “Sources close to the investigation who are familiar with Stephan Leon’s preliminary interrogation suggest that an instrumental piece of information might have triggered the unfolding of the dramatic events last night. However, at this time we can’t confirm it. When asked, the detectives assigned to this case denied that such information exists.”

  My breath hitches in my throat.

  With trembling fingers, I let the phone slide onto the side table, my body shaking as well.

  It takes seconds before the scorching heat of a stare makes me flick my gaze to the side. My eyes get blurry with tears as I spot his silhouette in his office. Hands in his pockets, he stands next to the window and looks at me.

  Straight at me.

  Unwavering eyes. No smile on his lips.

  Doing to me what I haven’t been able to do to him lately.

  Reading me.

  Taking inventory of my teary eyes, and distraught expression. Of my trembling hand running through my hair. Of my chest rocking with quiet sobs as guilt begins to flood me.

  Splaying his fingers on the glass, he tips his chin down in a soft greeting as if he says hi to me...

  For the very first time.

  10

  TESS

  It’s a gloomy, rainy Sunday.

  I wake up around noon frazzled as if I didn’t sleep a wink. Running a shaky hand over my face, I put my slippers on and shuffle to the kitchen.

  I turn on the TV as I start to prepare my coffee, and sure enough, the noise of a debate fills my place.

  People sit around the table in a studio, discussing the latest developments.

  I glance at the TV as I take a sip of coffee.

  Pictures of Jacqueline Monroe flash on the screen followed by Stephan Leon’s mug shot.

  He’s been charged with second-degree murder.

  A high profile attorney’s name has been already linked to his case. The analysts predict that he will try to exonerate his client on the grounds of insanity.

  I tear the cup away from my lips as the lively debate intensifies around the table. People seem to be split on whether the piece of information that set the dramatic events in motion was real or not.

  According to some, that’s a fabricated story that Stephan Leon relayed to the police. On the other hand, there’s a rumor that the police couldn’t find anything.

  I feel like fainting.

  I take a small, rushed breath just as the phone starts to ring. Startled, I pivot and flick my hand, spilling most of my coffee on my pajamas.

  I slide my finger onto the phone.

  “How are you?”

  Anna’s voice is the best thing to hear right now. I mute the TV, set the mug on the table and soak up the blot with a paper towel.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  “I’m still watching the news, although I shouldn't have,” I mumble.

  “The story is grim.”

  “Yeah...” I murmur.

  “They say that the man had a jealousy fit, and that’s what led to the disaster. Apparently, she did reconcile with her husband. Horrible story...” she says.

  I remain quiet.

  “Are you working today?”

  I look around, my brain a fog.

  “I wish I could,” I say.

  “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that if you want to come to my place you’re more than welcome. I’m alone till the end of the week. You can bring your stuff and work here instead of going to your mom’s. You’re going to be by yourself during the day... It’s really quiet. You know that.”

  “Yes, I do. Sounds like a great idea… Just give me an hour or so to pack my things.”

  “Sure. There’s no rush.”

  I set the phone on
the table, my gaze scanning the room as I take inventory of the stuff I need to pack. I also make a mental list of all the things I need to do.

  The firm knock on the door catches me half-dressed. My pulse explodes in my neck.

  “Give me one second.”

  More rapping follows.

  I throw a top and a sweater on me, slip a pair of pants on and run my hands through my hair.

  Heart beating in my mouth, I peer through the peephole before I slide the door open.

  A man and a woman wearing police badges run their eyes on me, giving me a swift once-over.

  The man speaks first, stating their names.

  Detective Short and Landon. Both Homicide.

  The woman, detective Short, flicks her gaze at me.

  “Do you have a moment?”

  “Um, sure...” I say hesitantly as I step aside.

  They walk in.

  Striding behind them, I snatch the remote control from the coffee table and turn off the TV.

  “Are you moving out?”

  “Um, yes... I’m planning on doing that,” I say unable to keep my voice even.

  I show them to the armchairs.

  The woman and I take a seat. The man remains standing.

  “Is there a reason you decide to leave your residence at this particular moment?” the woman asks.

  She looks down as she writes something on her little notepad while the man grills my face with his stare.

  I look at him instinctively, perhaps looking for a little support or sympathy. His eyes lock mine–– two pools of ice.

  It takes me only seconds to figure out the path I need to follow in this story. It all becomes so clear to me.

  There’s no point in dancing around it or letting them dragging me into this drama.

  I’m already there.

  “Yes, there’s a reason,” I say firmly. “A personal reason.”

  I pause for a moment.

  The woman cocks an eyebrow as she raises her eyes from the notepad.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Yes, sure,” I say, almost suffocating. “I was publicly humiliated in Sebastien Rockford’s house a couple of days ago.”

  They both study me. I swing my gaze back and forth, from one to the other, without faltering.

  “Can you describe the circumstances of your public humiliation?” the man asks.

  A moment of silence slips by as I gather my thoughts.

  “He and I used to be, um... friends. He ended our relationship rather abruptly and without any notice or explanation. Later on, I realized that he had reconciled with his wife. I confronted him in his home, last Friday evening.”

  “What did you hope to accomplish?” the woman asks.

  I sense a shred of female curiosity in her voice.

  “Nothing. It was a cry for attention,” I say.

  She scribbles down a few words.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Sebastien Rockford?” she asks without raising her eyes.

  “We got to know each other in rather strange circumstances. His wife...”

  I look down for a moment and swallow hard unable to remove the lump in my throat before I flick my eyes up.

  They’re both looking at me.

  “My husband was cheating with his wife.”

  They furtively glance at each other before they shift their gazes back to me.

  “That’s how Sebastien Rockford and I got acquainted and became friends after that.”

  “There’s solid documentation that you were more than that.”

  “Documentation?? What kind of documentation?”

  They lock eyes for a moment before the woman swings her gaze at me.

  “His wife hired a private investigator. A stack of photographs suggests that you two were more than friends. It may be the very reason they had reconciled,” the woman says.

  My mouth drops open in surprise.

  I smell a trap. The man stares at me as he gauges my reaction, confirming my suspicion.

  As the seconds tick by, I’m perfectly aware that I need to say something... Anything. But no words come to my mouth. I have a hard time to absorb what she just said, and for a moment I forget where I am, and who these people are, and why they’re here.

  I get angry. So much angrier than I was before. And I’m set to fall right into her trap.

  She must glean a lot from my face as suggests her expression.

  “Was Sebastien Rockford your lover, Miss Sandoval?” she asks, looking for a confirmation.

  “Waters.”

  She lifts her eyebrows.

  “Soon to be Waters. I’m in the process of getting a divorce,” I mutter, keen to clarify it for them.

  They remain silent. And unresponsive.

  I turn a dull gaze to Detective Short.

  Slowly, I shake my head in response to the woman’s question, still trying to make sense.

  Sebastien broke up with me and reconciled with Jacqueline because of photographs that portrayed nothing but the truth?

  It doesn’t make sense to me.

  Yes, I know he wanted to keep it a secret, but throwing me under the bus because some photographs, sounds ridiculous.

  I feel like crying, but I don’t have that luxury.

  I feel like breaking something but then I’d probably get escorted out of this place by these two people, and I might end up spending time at the police station.

  I make an effort to pull myself together.

  “I wouldn’t say that, Detective Short,” I say, finding my voice. “There was no way we could’ve been lovers. We were never in love. The man never showed me love. And after a failed marriage, I guarantee you that I was nowhere near the place where I could’ve afforded to have deep feelings for another man.”

  “And yet you crashed a private party to confront him.”

  I draw my lips together and tip my chin up.

  “Yes, I did all that, but it was nothing more than a lapse of judgment. Retribution for the fact that he didn’t care to tell me that we couldn’t see each other anymore which proves again that there was nothing serious between us.”

  “Your husband seems to be of a different opinion.”

  My hands cover in cold sweat.

  “My husband? What does he have to do with anything?” The woman flicks an eyebrow up, tossing me a scrutinizing look. I push back my frustration and purse my lips again as I muse over the best response.

  “My husband is probably not the best judge when it comes to my relationships. He simply assumed that I was obsessed with Sebastien Rockford when all he did was looking for a way to justify his actions.”

  I turn silent the moment I realize that I gaffed.

  “I never said that he hinted that you were obsessed,” the woman mutters.

  “I assumed that’s what you implied.”

  “Your relationship with Mr. Rockford seems to go way back and started in rather unusual circumstances,” the male detective interjects.

  “If crossing paths in a public park is what you consider unusual, then yes,” I retort.

  My answer doesn’t sit well with either of them, both arching their eyebrows.

  Sweat trickles down my back.

  Clearly, this doesn’t go well.

  I imagine that bringing me to this point with this back and forth was probably the sole purpose of this interrogation.

  I should stop digging myself into a hole, yet obviously, I can’t refrain myself.

  “Mr. Rockford held my fascination for a very long time, and it all started before we actually met and exchanged words, but that’s–– I think, a common occurrence when it comes to a man of his stature. It had nothing to do with love or real feelings. Mr. Rockford and I were never in love,” I say without blinking.

  Believing it.

  It is the ugly truth after all.

  “Have Mr. Rockford promised you anything, Miss Waters?” asks the man.

  I toss him a questioning look.

 
“Romantically speaking?” he clarifies.

  “No, not at all.”

  “From your conversations, what was your impression regarding his relationship with his wife?”

  I shrug and move my eyes away from him briefly.

  “Are you married, Detective Maxwell?” I ask raising my gaze.

  The man looks at me, surprised.

  “If you were, you’d know that quite often, a marriage takes away the freedom of being yourself and kills romantic love instead of fostering it. He and I shared the same experience when it came to our spouses, but unlike me, he decided to reconcile with his wife.”

  They look down at their notes.

  “Did either of them ask you to vacate this apartment?”

  I ponder for a moment, surprised.

  “No.”

  “Did you know that this apartment and the entire building, in fact, is part of the Rockford Estate?”

  I stifle my initial reaction and swiftly serve them a lie.

  “No.”

  “How did you get into this apartment?”

  I move my eyes away from them, and glance around, looking for that leaflet.

  “It was a booklet I found in the coffeehouse across the street.”

  The man takes it from my hand and flips it a few times, somewhat dissatisfied with my answer.

  The woman only glances at it before the man drops it on a side table.

  “Where were you last night between eight and nine o’clock?” asks the woman.

  My eyes start darting back and forth between them.

  “Am I a suspect now?”

  “Answer the question, Miss Waters,” the man says.

  “I, um... I had dinner in a restaurant downtown, and then I walked back home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. I had plans with my sister, but she canceled them at the last moment. She does that all the time,” I say, trying to smile.

  The woman pushes to her feet somewhat unexpectedly. She slides her little notepad into her pocket. The man follows her example.

  “Where do you plan to move?” she asks, motioning to the boxes on the floor.

  “To a friend’s house for the moment. And then, probably back to my old home.”

  I expect them to turn around and head to the door when the woman takes a few steps toward the window. She looks up and down the street and then to the building across the street.