by Maisey Yates
Chelsea stared at him, wanting to believe him. Wanting this to be enough. But it wasn’t, because she knew Alex. Knew he was trying to make amends, but did he really feel it? Want her? She didn’t see it in his eyes. Didn’t hear it in his voice.
“You know what I saw when I looked at that photograph?” she asked. Alex shook his head.
“I saw myself. That expression in Sarah’s eyes...as if she were dead inside, but nobody knew but her. Nobody saw it. That’s how I’ve been, Alex. That’s how I’ve felt for so long—” She took a quick, steadying breath. “You woke me up,” she said when she trusted herself to speak evenly. “You brought me back to life, but it’s not enough. Not for the kind of relationship I want now.”
“I know it isn’t.” Those were not the words she wanted him to say, and yet she wasn’t surprised. “I’m sorry,” he added, and she didn’t like those ones either.
“I know you are,” she managed.
Alex stared at her for a long moment. “I checked the hospital report, Chelsea. You had a broken nose and jaw, a severed artery in your chest, and three fractured fingers. My God.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Do you know what I wish I’d done when you told me about it all? I wish I’d held you, the way you held me. I wish I’d kissed your tears. I wish I’d been as strong as I know you are.”
She felt one cold, lone tear slip from her eye. “I wish you had, too.”
He nodded slowly, accepting, and she felt like grabbing him by the lapels of his coat and shaking him. Telling him it wasn’t too late, that they could still forgive and try and love again.
Except he didn’t love her enough. She knew that; he knew that. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be telling her what he’d wished he’d done. He’d be doing it. He’d be fighting for her, and God knew she needed a fighter.
Alex stared off for a moment, his expression hidden, and then he said abruptly, “Zoe Brook came to me yesterday.”
Startled, Chelsea blinked. Swallowed past the tightness in her throat and tried for businesslike. “The PR specialist?”
“Yes. She’s the source I mentioned before. She was one of Treffen’s victims.”
“Will she talk?”
“She wants to talk to you.”
Hope bloomed in Chelsea’s soul, even amidst all the wreckage. “I want to talk to her.”
“Good. She’ll contact you.” He stepped back, and it felt like a farewell.
So that was it, Chelsea thought bleakly. She loved him, but he didn’t love her, at least not as hard and as much as she did. And what had started as a desperate attempt at reconciliation had turned into a business meeting.
She nodded jerkily, her own farewell. They stared, didn’t speak. But something in Chelsea yearned so hard and deep she reached out and touched his cheek. Didn’t say anything, because her throat ached too much. But he must have understood because he turned his head so his lips brushed her palm. Another farewell. And then he stepped away and opened the door to her car.
He let her go, just as she’d known he would.
Chapter Fourteen
It had been her choice to go, but Chelsea still felt unbearably lonely as she headed uptown to her apartment and another night alone. Back in her living room she powered up her laptop and went to work. She had three weeks to research Jason Treffen, to find out everything she could and orchestrate the man’s complete ruin—as well as her own.
Six hours later she leaned back against the sofa and gazed around her apartment with gritty eyes. The stark black and white had soothed her once, but it just felt sterile now, as empty and icy as her Chelsea Maxwell persona.
Her gaze fell on the white canvas with its jagged black lines that Alex had made fun of. The thing was ugly, she thought. And stupid. She could sell it for a hundred thousand dollars and give the money to charity.
She could start a charity...something for women who had been in abusive relationships. Smart, accomplished, successful women who still had been debased and demoralized by the men they thought they loved.
A slight smile formed on her lips and she turned back to her laptop.
A week later she called Louise. The ache of missing Alex still bit into her hard, but she told herself in time it would lessen. Heal, even. Hopefully.
But she needed to start dealing with things. With all that emotional baggage Louise had talked about, before the ship sank.
They met this time up by Columbia, and headed for a diner near the university’s main buildings. Cracked vinyl booths and peeling tables, and the best waffles in New York, or so Louise had assured her.
“But you don’t eat waffles, do you?” she said as she leafed through the huge, plastic-covered menu.
“Maybe I do now,” Chelsea answered, “if they’re as good as you say.”
Louise looked up from the menu. “You seem different, Chelsea.”
“You told me that last time we met.”
“I know, but then you were all nervy. High-strung. Now you seem...calmer.”
Chelsea gave a brief smile. “I don’t know about that. Trying to be, more like.”
“How?” Louise cocked her head. “And why?”
“Do you really need to ask why?” Chelsea took a sip of her water. She wanted to change, wanted to deal with things and put them to rest, but that didn’t mean it was easy. “Did I ever seem happy to you, Louise?”
“No,” her sister answered quietly, “but you seemed determined for everyone to think you were.”
“Yes, I was. Desperately determined to have finally made a success of my life.”
“And you’ve changed your mind about that?”
“I’ve decided it’s not worth it. Faking it all the time. Living my life so no one gets close, no one knows who I really am.”
Louise leaned forward, a small, sad smile playing about her lips. “And who are you really, Chelsea?”
“I’m Aurora Dawn Jensen,” Chelsea answered quietly.
“This isn’t just about a name.”
“No,” she agreed, “it isn’t. Although you know why I picked the name Chelsea?” She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Because I’d read a book as a kid about a girl who had her own horse. Some pony club type book, and the girl’s name was Chelsea.” She paused, her throat tightening. “When we were growing up, I always wanted to be that girl.” She glanced at Louise, shocked to see tears coursing down her sister’s face. “Louise—”
Louise shook her head, the tears falling unchecked. “I should have protected you, Chelsea. From Mom’s boyfriends. I should have been a better sister—”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I saw how they looked at you and sometimes—sometimes how they touched you.” She let out a hiccuppy sob, dashing the tears from her face as she angled her head away from the few other diners who were, thankfully, oblivious to this sorrowful drama unfolding right here amidst the waffles and coffee. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did, Lou,” Chelsea said quietly. “I remember how you’d yank me out of bed and have me sleep with you instead.”
“But not often enough.”
Chelsea shrugged. “You were only eighteen months older than me, Louise. You did the best you could.”
“No, I didn’t.” Louise dabbed her still-streaming eyes with a napkin. “I really didn’t, Chelsea. Because I was—I was jealous.”
Chelsea’s jaw dropped. “Jealous?”
“I know how stupid it sounds. How stupid it is. Jealous of some disgusting drunken men pawing you? I know.” She let out a ragged sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “But I was. They didn’t look twice at me. Momma didn’t look twice at me. You were her little star, parading about in those child beauty pageants.”
“I hated those beauty pageants.”
“I know you did. And I did, too. I told you over and over again how stupid they were, but the truth was I would have done anything to be in one. For our mother to think I could be in one, that I wasn’t ugly and stupid and forgettable.
” Louise buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, and Chelsea left her side of the booth to slide next to Louise and put her arms around her as she cried. To hell with the other diners and what they thought. This was more important.
“It’s not your fault, Louise. It really isn’t. You were eight, nine years old. A child. You’ve got to remember that.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
And hadn’t she said that about herself? Hadn’t she made it a point of pride? But maybe nineteen wasn’t, in some ways, that different from nine. Maybe she’d still been a child inside, desperate to be loved, thinking the only way someone could love her was if she gave him everything she had.
Louise snuffled against her shoulder and Chelsea stroked her hair. “You know, you’ve got to forgive yourself for the things you didn’t do as much as the things you’ve done.” She thought of Alex, and she felt an ache deep inside.
How long would he beat himself up for failing Sarah? Failing her? It shouldn’t matter, because she knew it was over between them. Knew he didn’t have enough to give her.
And at least, she told herself, she knew that. At least she knew she wanted, and maybe even deserved, more.
After a moment Louise eased back and gazed at her with reddened eyes. “What do you have to forgive yourself for, Chelsea?”
Chelsea smiled wryly. Her sister didn’t miss a trick. “For being stupid, mainly. And desperate. And just...sad.”
“Is this about sleeping your way into a job?”
She nodded. “Not just that, though. I could almost excuse that, because I was desperate for work.” She sighed and leaned back against the booth. “Desperate for love, too. I stayed with this guy for three years, Louise. Three years of being humiliated and used.” Her throat thickened and she blinked hard, the memories assailing her like knives, sharp and painful. “Of letting a man treat me like absolute shit. Like I was worth nothing, less than nothing. I can’t forgive myself for that. Not easily. And it’s kept me from trying with anybody else, even a man who—” Her voice caught. “Who’s worth trying for.”
Even if he didn’t want to try.
* * *
That afternoon Michael came over to her dressing room as she got ready to film. Hair and makeup perfect, her outfit crisply tailored, the stylist was putting the finishing touches on her face.
“I just heard from Treffen. He wants you to sign off on those questions by the end of today.”
I bet he does, Chelsea thought. Yet still she hesitated, because she knew once she signed that piece of paper all bets were off. Her career at AMI would essentially be over.
“Chelsea?”
“I’ll sign and fax it over after the show.”
“You don’t want to negotiate?”
She gave him a wintry smile. “You don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Michael raised his eyebrows. “You really don’t like this guy, huh?”
“I don’t like being told what to do.” Michael, of course, didn’t know the truth about Treffen. And Chelsea wouldn’t tell him, because it would compromise him and threaten his own career. She’d be the only one to go out in a blaze of glory, even if the prospect still made a thrill of terror run coldly through her.
“You could say no to the interview,” Michael suggested quietly.
“And miss out on prime time?”
“There’ll be other opportunities.”
No, there wouldn’t. Not like this. She’d never have another chance to confront a man like Treffen. A man like Brian Taylor.
She turned to smile at Michael. “I’ll do the interview, Michael, and I’ll sign the paper. Don’t worry about me.”
“Five minutes till air.”
Chelsea nodded at the production assistant and turned to Michael. “I’m trying to change,” she said quietly. “It might not seem like it, but I am.”
She reached over and kissed his cheek, and Michael squeezed her hand. And then she walked onto the studio set.
Her guest today was a feminist journalist who’d had some racy and unfortunately naked photos taken years ago, and then recently discovered and plastered all over the internet and newspapers.
She sat across from Chelsea now, her face composed but her eyes dark, full of a despair Chelsea understood all too well. And for the first time since she’d started Chat with Chelsea, she felt not just an empathy for the guest on her show, but an admiration. They’d made mistakes and they were willing to acknowledge them. They wanted to move on and they had the courage to try.
Did she? Did Alex?
“Two minutes, Chelsea.”
She nodded, took a breath, and then gave her guest a genuine smile.
The show went well. There were tears, and heartfelt confessions, and at the end Chelsea did something she didn’t normally do. She stood up and crossed the set and hugged the woman, whose arms closed around her in surprise and gratitude.
“That was fantastic,” Miles, the producer, gushed as Chelsea came off the set. “The hug—what a perfect touch, Chelsea! How did you think of it?”
She eyed him coolly, knowing that in another lifetime—a few short weeks ago—that hug would have been nothing more than the art of manipulation. Today it had been real.
“I didn’t think of it, Miles,” she said. “I just did it.”
A week passed, and then she met with Zoe Brook, heard her sad, sordid story. She spoke with Katy Michaels, Sarah’s sister, and they drew up interview questions, discussed tactics.
She tried to focus on the things that mattered now. Healing herself. Preparing for her interview with Treffen. Trying not to think about Alex.
But she still thought about him. All the time, she thought of him. Sleepless night after sleepless night she lay in bed and remembered the feel of his body against hers, the taste and smell and sight of him. She thought about going to see him, about giving him the second chance he hadn’t even asked for, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. She was still too fragile, too afraid. And Alex hadn’t so much as sent her a text since he’d let her walk away.
But she couldn’t avoid him forever, and three days before the interview with Treffen, she showed up at Diaz Network’s offices. Alex’s assistant, a slender young woman with straw-blond hair and huge green eyes, blinked nervously at her. “Ms. Maxwell? Alex is off-site at a meeting, but he told me to text him immediately if you ever came here.”
She felt a ripple of surprise, a wary thrill of hope. “Did he?”
“Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“Not at all.”
She sat in the elegant lobby and ran through all the things she needed to tell Alex...about Treffen. She wasn’t going to touch the emotional stuff, not today. Not when so much was already on the line. And ten minutes later he burst through the door, out of breath and his hair ruffled.
“Chelsea—” So much feeling in that one word, but she didn’t know what it was. She smiled, and it felt as if that smile could slide right off her face.
“Hello, Alex.”
“Come into my office.”
She followed him into the huge penthouse office, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing Manhattan in all of its sparkling glory.
Chelsea closed the door behind her and Alex stared at her, his gaze roving over her. She gazed back, her heart starting to thud just from looking at him. Wanting him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly and that dangerous hope ballooned inside her, set her soul soaring. Hope. So dangerous. So wonderful.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she managed, and Alex regarded her with dark, sorrowful eyes.
“Have you?”
She nodded, then swallowed. They couldn’t go there, not now. “I came here to talk about Treffen.”
He inclined his head, that sadness still in his eyes. “Okay. So tell me about Treffen.”
“I spoke to Zoe Brook. And Katy.”
“Good.”
“Zoe’s going to appear on the show.”
Alex nodded. “Treffe
n won’t go for that.”
“He won’t know.”
“He’ll be pissed as hell.”
“Well, that’s the idea. If I can’t make him lose his shit completely, there’s no point.”
A smile flickered across Alex’s face and then was gone. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, and she stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what was going behind that inscrutable golden-brown gaze.
“Don’t you want me to? Don’t you want to see Treffen humiliated, make him pay?”
“Yes. I do.” He paused, flicking his gaze away from her to stare out the window for a moment, but Chelsea knew his mind was on other things. Other memories. “But I don’t want to be blinded by a need for revenge. I was blinded before, by ambition. And there’s not much difference, really. Blindness is blindness, whatever the cause.”
“But what he’s done—”
“He’s been ousted from his law firm, estranged from his family. He’ll be prosecuted even if it doesn’t all go down on live TV.”
“I know that. But he’s a lawyer, Alex, and a millionaire. He’ll be able to cover it up, just like he has everything else, and I want the world to know what he’s done.” She took a breath, let it out slowly. “I’m doing this for me as much as you or anyone else, Alex. Because I know what it’s like to live in fear. In terror. And shame.” She swallowed hard. “So much shame.”
“Chelsea—”
“You’ve helped me to move past it, Alex, even if you don’t realize it. Knowing you, being with you...” Loving you... She swallowed back the words. “It opened me up again. Made me realize it’s okay to want more. To be happy.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, and she could see his throat working, a torment in his eyes, one she didn’t really understand. Was he regretting his actions, or lack of, before? Or was he just cringing under her sudden onslaught of honesty now?
“I’m glad,” he finally said, and she nodded.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, and Chelsea longed for Alex to say something real. Hell, maybe she should. I miss you didn’t begin to cover it. I love you was terrifying.
“You know if you confront Treffen on live TV,” Alex said suddenly, “he’ll feel cornered. Trapped. He might go for you.”
