“I know what happened with the journalist.”
Mark grinned. Not the cheerful, open smile she was used to seeing—the one that she now realised had always been fake—but the horrifying, face-splitting grimace of a monster closing in on its victim.
“Well then that’s it,” he said, almost breathless with excitement. “We have what we need!”
“Not quite. You see, this particular journalist was planning an exposé. A tell-all about Isaac’s childhood, with the help of his estranged father’s sister. It relied quite heavily on less than flattering stories about Isaac’s mother—the implication being that she had raised him cruelly, that her influence had turned his gentle soul towards a life of crime—you get the gist.”
Mark’s face fell at her words. “You mean… He beat the journalist to protect his mother’s honour?”
“Oh, no.” Lizzie shook her head. “He didn’t beat the journalist at all.
“I-I beg your pardon?” Mark gaped. He looked almost as shocked as Lizzie had felt, when the truth came out.
I haven’t hit a man since the night I killed Ben Davis. And I never will again.
Lizzie forced herself to speak around the lump in her throat. She kept her tone measured, her face impassive, as she snatched away the backbone of Mark’s plan. “Isaac intimidated the man, certainly—but there was no violence. He paid Mr. Wright off. Had the man sign a contract. And then he engaged his publicist to ensure that nothing similar would ever occur.”
Mark blinked, as though his mind was struggling to comprehend this new reality. Because it was so very shocking that Isaac should use his intelligence rather than his fists, Lizzie supposed. God, she didn’t know how Isaac could stand the way people saw him.
The way she’d seen him.
She was no better than Mark.
Clearing her throat Lizzie moved on. She couldn’t become distracted. Not if she wanted every piece on this chess board to move in her favour. “This isn’t exactly the scandal you were hoping for,” she said, trying her best to sound sympathetic.
“No.” Mark folded his hands, turning pensive. “No, not at all.”
“But don’t worry,” she said brightly. “I’ve won his trust. That much is clear. Yes?”
Slow and lazy as a lizard, Mark nodded. “Yes. I suppose that’s true…”
“And there’s so much more for me to find out,” she said, her tone low, beguiling. “I just need a few days to help with my—my family issue. He’ll miss me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. I’ll get what you need soon enough.”
Mark’s gaze sharpened. “You’d better. Because if you don’t—”
“I know,” she snapped. And then, dragging back her self-control, she smiled. Smoothed her hands over her lavender, cashmere skirt. “Don’t worry. I’m fully aware of my obligations. And I won’t let you down.”
“Excellent.” He said crisply.
And when she left, they almost parted on good terms. Mark certainly seemed happy, anyway. And so did Lizzie, right up until his door closed. Then she let every inch of her worry and fear run free—but just for a moment.
She couldn’t lose herself to emotion just yet. She had one more thing to do.
Twenty-Two
Four days. Four days they’d been here, and Isaac felt like he’d spent every single one of them wrapped up in the kind of intense emotion he usually felt once a year—if that.
But he hadn’t minded so much when those emotions had all been the warm and fuzzy—or red-fucking hot—kind. He certainly hadn’t minded when he’d been lying in this very bed with Lizzie just yesterday, thinking that for the first time in his life, he’d managed to secure something worth having. Something that filled him with a dangerous kind of joy.
Dangerous because he’d known, deep down, that he’d fuck it up. And he had.
The look on Lizzie’s face when she’d pushed him away played on a loop in his head. Somehow, he'd ruined things. No surprise there.
He should’ve known it couldn’t last. She was delicate and precious and he’d always had clumsy fucking hands.
Isaac stared blankly up at the ceiling as his phone rang for the what felt like the hundredth time in the last half hour. He should answer it. But he didn’t have the energy. Better yet, he should switch it to silent so he could ignore the world in peace.
And now he was thinking like a teenage boy. Clearly, this mood was getting out of hand. Isaac sat up with a sigh and grabbed the phone. The call stopped as soon as he touched it—because that was just how life fucking worked—but a moment later, it rang again. It was Jane, he saw, but he’d already known that. Only Jane would call fifty fucking times in a row. And she’d rip him to shreds when he finally answered, too.
Still, he hit ‘accept’ and put the phone to his ear. “What?” He barked.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Demanded his publicist, her voice steely. “I’ve been calling you all day!”
“You’ve been calling me for half an hour.”
“At least an hour.”
He sighed. There was no arguing with this woman. He’d do better not to waste his breath.
She began a tirade about his awful lack of manners and professionalism, but it was interrupted on Isaac’s end by a knock at his door. A knock that made his heart stop, made his blood freeze in his veins. It was her. It had to be her.
“Hang on, Jane,” he said, getting up to answer the door.
“Hang on? What the fuck do you mean hang on? We need to talk! There’s—”
Isaac pulled open his door and found her standing there, dressed like some political wife. Her hair was up, her eyes were sharp, her shoes were shiny and her skirt was far too long for his liking. She was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Jane,” he said. “I’ll ring you later.”
“What?! Isaac—”
He hung up.
Lizzie stared at him. He stared at her. He didn’t know how long he stood there, silent, but it was probably too long. Only, when he got like this—when his mind was full of words demanding release—those were the times he really struggled to speak.
Luckily, she never struggled to speak. She didn’t struggle with anything.
No; that wasn't true. She wasn't in control all the time. It simply seemed that way.
“Can I come in?” She asked tightly.
He nodded, stepping back to let her through. She strolled into the little seating area like she owned it, like the carpet beneath her feet was there only by her grace. He shut the door and watched as she sat, every movement perfectly composed, her face a careful mask. And his heart dropped, tore right through his stomach, and sank into the fucking floor.
Everything about this was wrong.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I think you should sit down.”
“Just fucking tell me, Lizzie. Don’t drag it out. Tell me.”
She sighed. A sigh that said, I wish you’d just be reasonable about this. Or maybe he was imagining that. Maybe he was projecting. Being fatalistic.
Probably not.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she said, her voice low. Almost a whisper. His first instinct was to move closer—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be close when she held herself so carefully, as if one touch would shatter her into a thousand pieces. When you’d touched the moon itself, would moonlight still be enough to move you? Or would it feel like an insult?
The latter, Isaac thought. But that, he knew, was a personal flaw.
“I lied to you,” she said.
Isaac swallowed. Wet his lips. Forced himself to ask, “What do you mean?” But he already knew. The blank, unfeeling mask of her face was enough to tell him exactly what she meant.
The whole thing. The whole thing had been a lie.
“I was invited here to get close to you,” she said, her words slow and painfully clear. As if she were giving a speech, a presentation: All the Ways I Owned Isaac Montgomery.
“I used you,” she said. I owned his body. “I manipulated you.” I owned his heart. “I betrayed you.” I owned his soul. “And I’m very sorry for it.”
Isaac took a deep, shuddering breath, air catching on all the words stuck in his throat. But then she stood, as if to leave, as if she were done, and that eased the way for all those pent-up words real fucking quick.
He stepped forward, felt fury’s bite, and revelled in the pain. “Where do you think you’re going?” He gritted out.
She pursed her lips.
“Well?” He demanded. “You can’t—you can’t just fucking leave. You have to tell me why.”
“What’s the point?” She asked quietly. “You won’t care. You won’t forgive me—”
“You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he spat. “But I deserve an explanation.”
She swallowed. He saw the motion, watched the delicate line of her throat, remembered the taste of her cinnamon skin, and wished he could burn it from his brain. He’d been so fucking right about this woman. She was always meant to ruin him.
Biting her lip, she sat down again. Folded her hands neatly in her lap. Crossed her ankles. He remembered when her hands were all over him, when she couldn’t keep them still. When she'd looked at him like she needed him. And that was all a lie too. The only time he’d truly known her was the first fucking day they'd met.
“I have a brother,” she began. He wanted to say, I know. He wanted to say, You never mention him. But that was part of the act too, wasn’t it? He’d assumed that they must not be close. From the look on her face, he was willing to bet he’d been wrong.
She took a deep breath before she continued. “I love him more than anything else in the world.”
What would that be like? To have her love? Her loyalty? Isaac folded his arms to hide his clenched fists.
“He has done more for me than anyone. Been more of parent to me than our own parents ever were. Whenever I need him, he's there. Always.” Her voice was soft, haunting. Her eyes were unfocused, as though she were far from here. Far from him. “My mother forced me to study ballet when I was a child, for discipline. She always said I had no discipline.”
Isaac blinked, stunned. Lizzie was the epitome of discipline. It was hard to imagine that she’d been any other way; that she hadn’t emerged from the womb complete with perfect posture and social graces.
“When it became clear that I had talent,” she said, her voice bitter, “I became Mother’s walking trophy. Finally, she could be proud of me. I had to be the best. I had to take the world by storm. So, when I was fourteen, she sent me away. Away from London, away from my friends—to train. It was a prestigious dance school. An honour." She looked up at him, and for the first time, he understood. A vital piece of the puzzle that was Lizzie clicked into place.
She didn't want to be a ballerina.
"I was terrified," she said. "But I had to do it. I already knew that. My mother is not to be disobeyed. Only... I couldn't do it alone. So I called my brother.
“He’s a lot older than me. He was twenty-five, he was free, and I was stuck at home with them. But he came back, and he fought for me. I don’t know how, but he convinced our father that we should move together. That I should stay with him, instead of at the school. So I went, and Olu came with me. He looked after me. Mother spent so much time teaching me... control. Perfection. Everything I'd need to succeed. But Olu to taught me how to be fearless. I couldn't have done it without him."
Isaac drifted towards her, even though every step sent a blade through his heart. But she was hurting, and it pulled him closer. Her eyes were shadowed, not by the ghosts he'd caught glimpses of, but by her true demons. For the first time since they’d met, Lizzie's posture slipped into something less than perfection. And even though he hated every words she was saying, hated this, he felt glad. Because at least he'd finally know her, now. He'd finally know the woman he'd almost fallen in love with.
"You don't want to dance?" He asked.
Her head shot up and she looked at him as if he'd just said the sky was green. "Of course I want to dance!" She gasped. "I love to dance. It's all I have."
You could've had me.
Isaac took a breath, tried again. "But you don't want to perform." She’d told him so in a thousand tiny ways, but he hadn’t understood until this moment. Until the moment it mattered least.
She deflated, shrinking before his very eyes. "No," she said, her voice bleak. "I don't. I should. What else can I do? What else can I do that isn't somehow... beneath me? Ordinary?"
The words felt like a slap. Like she was talking about him. About the way things were between them, and the woman he'd thought she was. The woman he'd cared for so fucking much.
But then she whispered, "There must be something wrong with me. Because I want to be ordinary."
And that filled him with something new. Something that felt too much like hope.
Isaac squashed it. He'd learned his lesson.
"Get on with it," he said, leaning against the wall. Lounging, as if he were bored, when really he needed its solid presence to stop him from falling. "You lied. Because...?"
He expected her to bristle. He waited for her posture to stiffen, for the broken desolation on her face to disappear. He waited for her to become flawless again; untouchable. Something more than human. Something too cold to love.
It didn't happen. Her walls didn't come up. She looked at him, and he saw every scrap of despair in her eyes. And he knew it was cruel, but he wished she'd stop. Wished she'd hide. Wish she'd perform for him the way she did for everyone else, even as she told him how she hated it.
"My brother is the best person I know," she said. "My parents taught me how to be proud. He taught me how to be a person. I have always known that he’d do anything for me. But now... now he needs my protection. Someone is threatening him, and I had the chance to eliminate that threat. All I had to do…” Her voice cracked—but of course, she didn’t break down. She didn’t allow herself to falter. She powered through, meeting his gaze as she said the words: “All I had to do was get close to you.”
Isaac turned away. He couldn’t look at her, not when her eyes shone with devotion, with the kind of pure, unconditional love that no-one had held for him since the day his mother died. It was the thing he’d been searching for without even knowing it, and he’d thought… He’d thought that he’d found it in Lizzie.
And he had. He’d found real love, devoted love, selfless love. It just wasn’t for him.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hard. And then he said, “This is about that fucking contract, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I don’t know what’s in that thing, but you can’t sign. You once told me to be careful with Mark. Now I’m telling you the same.” She stood, and this time he let her. Let her skirt around the furniture, let her come to him. But when she reached out to touch his cheek, Isaac grabbed her wrist.
"Don't," he choked out.
"Isaac..." Tears glistened in her eyes, and she didn't try to hide them. Why wouldn't she hide them? "Please listen to me," she whispered.
He clenched his jaw. Remained silent. For the first time in his life, it was a struggle. But he did it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It was wrong, and I was desperate, and I'm sorry." Her wrist was still trapped in his hand. She didn't pull away. He should pull away. He should let go. Touching her was dangerous. But soon, she would walk out of the door, and after that moment he'd never touch her again.
Just a second. Just one more second. He'd give himself that much.
The tears that had been threatening for the last few minutes finally spilled over her long lashes. He watched as the little moles under her right eye were drowned in something like sorrow. "You have to know," she said. "I wasn't faking anything. I wasn't. When we're together, I—”
"Don't," he roared. As soon as the rage burst from him, he wanted to apologise, to reassure her. But he didn’t have to. She stood firm, unafraid. She’d n
ever been scared of him. At least that had been real.
Unlike everything else.
"Isaac," she continued. Because of course she'd ignore him. "Isaac, I’m falling in love with you."
For a moment, everything was still. Suspended, as if time itself had ceased to exist. As if he'd be trapped in this moment forever.
But then, just like that, reality restarted. And something in him snapped.
He jerked her forward, his grip on her wrist tightening. By rights, she should be avoiding his gaze. But she wouldn't; too fucking proud to back down, always. And it made him furious.
"Why,” he began, his voice low and barely controlled, “should I give a fuck?”
That got her. She blinked up at him, shock taking over hopelessness. "You believe me?"
"Let's say I do," he said. "Let's say I believe you. Okay; you could love me.” He felt a smirk twist his lips. “Why should I give a fuck? You're a liar. You're manipulative, and you're fake. I see it all the time. I watch you handing out false smiles and bullshit like lollipops. And I was arrogant enough to believe that you'd treat me differently. That I was special." He pushed her away. She stumbled, but he knew she wouldn't fall.
Lizzie never fell. Not unless it was choreographed.
"I won't make the mistake twice," he said. "Love is only worth as much as the person who gives it. All this time I told myself that you were perfection and I was just lucky." He shook his head, letting her see every inch of his disgust. "You had me fooled. You really did. But not anymore. Your love doesn’t mean shit. Show's over. Now get out."
She finally retreated, wrapping ice around herself like a blanket. Her jaw clenched and her spine was like a church spire, but there was desolation in her gaze. With a slow, stiff nod, she turned away.
Lizzie sailed past him like a queen to the guillotine, and he heard the door swing open behind him. Couldn’t look back.
In the stifling silence of the room, she spoke for one last time. “I kissed you because I wanted to. Even though I knew it would hurt.”
Before he could even begin to process that, she was gone.
Undone by the Ex-Con: A BWWM Romance (Just for Him Book 2) Page 18
