Make Me Shine (Six Silent Sins #1)

by Colt, Elodie

  I once had to spend a few days in a hospital, and Luka showed up out of nowhere. There was nothing I could do other than scream like crazy and jam the emergency button. Eventually, he left, but I knew he was there somewhere.

  He was always there somewhere.

  The scent of astringent chemicals and over-bleached sheets makes bile rise up my throat, and I push up the collar of my winter dress so I can breathe through the fabric. With hurried steps, I veer toward the info desk, propping my arms on the high counter.

  “Excuse me… My name is Ella Jenkins. I need to see Kate Dugan, please.”

  The nurse lifts her gaze from her clipboard, cocking an eyebrow as she scrutinizes me.

  “Visiting hours are over,” she replies in a monotone voice.

  “It’s an emergency,” I press, and her eyebrow lifts further. “Please, she called me an hour ago telling me to come here immediately. I just drove here from Brooklyn. Just give me twenty minutes.”

  The nurse gives me a once-over, and to my surprise, she bops her head in a curt nod and points to the left.

  Not hesitating, I cross the maze-like hallways until I spot Kate’s name on a door plate, and I announce myself with a soft knock before I enter.

  My gaze travels to the figure lying on the cot, and I cover my mouth with a hand at the sight of her battered face.

  “Kate! Oh, my God…”

  Her bed creaks as she twists her head in my direction and sends me a sad smile.

  “Ella. You came,” she croaks, and I take a few steps closer, easing down on the plastic chair next to her bed.

  Stunned, my gaze roams over her face littered in bruises. A bandage is wrapped around her head, and blood soaks the fabric on a spot right above her ear. A two-inch gash stitched with thread mars her temple, and one eye is swollen shut.

  “What in God’s name happened?” I whisper with tremors in my voice.

  Kate winces as she tries to sit upright, and I adjust the tube that hooks her up to an IV so it doesn’t restrict her movements.

  “Someone attacked me.”

  My palms get clammy, and I clutch my hands. “What? Who? Where?”

  “Last night, I forgot my phone in my office, so I drove back later,” she says, shaking her head. “He must have slipped into the headquarters sometime in the afternoon, disabled the alarm and the cameras, and hid somewhere, waiting until we closed the doors.”

  I shift in my seat, every hair on my neck stiffening.

  “I knew something was wrong when I noticed that the door to my office was ajar, and I peeked inside to find a figure sitting in front of my computer. I couldn’t see his features because it was dark and the monitor hid most of his face. He hadn’t spotted me yet, so I decided to sneak into another office and call the police, but he heard me move, and I knew it was too late.”

  She pauses to take a deep breath, and I place my hand over hers on the scratchy blanket, offering her comfort.

  “He launched to his feet, and I knew he was going to attack me, so I just grabbed the coffee maker and flung it at him.”

  I gape at her. “You took him on? Why didn’t you run?”

  Glancing out of the window, she shakes her head.

  “I don’t know. It was a knee-jerk reaction.” She gulps. “So, I hurled the coffee maker at him, but he ducked and lunged at me. I leaped clear and spun behind the desk, grabbing the keyboard to clock him across the face, but he was faster, yanked it from my hands, and hit me with it. I managed to stay on my feet, ready to tackle him, but he snatched my desk lamp and smashed it against my head. The lamp shattered, and yeah…”

  She points to the cut across her eyebrow, and I squeeze her hand, tears brimming my eyes.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Kate.”

  She nods, but I can tell there’s more, and I wait for the punchline with bated breath.

  “Ella, I got only a glimpse of the file he’d opened on the screen. It just took me some time to remember…”

  The hesitant glance she sends me from under her lashes turns my blood cold, and I pray to God that she won’t say what I suspect she’s going to say.

  “It was your file, Ella.”

  My face goes blank. My vision blurs at the edges. White noise rings in my ears as a chilly layer of soul-deep terror seeps into my bones. It’s only when Kate utters my name that I blink, shuddering in a breath.

  “Could you…” I gulp to moisten my dry throat. “Could you see his face?”

  Kate shakes her head, looking guilty. “It was too dark.”

  “What about his voice?”

  “I only heard a curse. I can’t be sure, but I think it was Russian.”

  No. No, it can’t be. Please, God, no…

  “What did you tell the police?” I ask in an impassive tone, my nails digging into the armrests.

  “Everything, but it was only shortly after that I remembered what I saw on the screen, so the police don’t know about it yet. Our legal team is already on it, too. I’ll have to tell them at some point, and then they’re going to interrogate you, so I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  My heart feels like exploding in my chest, my instincts screaming at me to run, but run where? I already moved to the other end of the world, so where the hell should I go?

  The knock-knock sound coming from my Silent Sins app is nothing more than a background noise. Ross probably sent me an invitation for our next date, and—

  Oh, my God, Ross! What if his file was hacked, too?

  “How much information did he dig up?” I drag a hand down my cheeks, my nails leaving scratches on my skin. “Do you think he knows about my connection to Ross? Is his anonymity at risk?”

  Again, Kate shakes her head. “I can’t tell. I don’t know how much time he had before I busted in. Ella…”

  I tear my gaze away from the window, my stare flat.

  “From the moment you stepped into my office, I knew you were carrying a huge burden, and I have the feeling that this guy is your biggest weight. You know him, right? Who is he?”

  I dart to my feet, my jaw as hard as steel.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what he did to you. If I’d known he’d—” The sudden knot in my throat makes it impossible to utter another word, so I let my emotions speak for me and lean down to place a gentle kiss onto her forehead. “I’m so, so sorry…” I whisper before I pivot on my heels, running from this room and running from my fears.

  I drive home on autopilot, my hands shaking so hard, it’s all I can do to clutch the steering wheel as I maneuver the car over the slippery road. For the first time in weeks, I pull out my pepper spray from my purse, my gaze bouncing from left to right as I stumble in the direction of my apartment complex.

  I stop short when I walk up to my door, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. A horrible dizziness washes over me as I stand there with trembling legs, holding my breath.

  If I thought my nightmare yesterday was bad, I was wrong.

  Because my nightmare just materialized on my doormat…

  In the form of a gift with a red bow.

  ‘Pending.’

  The word is a kick in my gut every time I look at it. And the status hasn’t changed within the last five minutes. Or the ten minutes before.

  Or the six days before…

  To say I’m on edge today would be an understatement. I’ve been suffering for six fucking days now waiting for Devon to finally agree to our sixth date. As far as I know—and I’ve checked that a lot—she hasn’t been online once during that time.

  Today is the tipping point. Six days are more than I can bear. I’m going to squeeze a word out of her today, no matter what it takes.

  My fingers dig into the leather armrest that creaks under my grip, and it’s all I can do not to rampage out of control and smash my phone against the nearest wall. Nick throws me a quizzical look from beside me as I restlessly fumble with both of my pendants, no doubt seeing the vein pulsing in my temple. I drag a finger along my collar to loose
n it. Hopefully, this bullshit meeting will be over soon so I can get tanked at the bar downstairs.

  Everything went like a charm. Nick and I landed a big contract with a billionaire oligarch who agreed to support our Russian exhibition next week. The Fabergé eggs are being shipped over the Northern Sea Route along with other ornamental pieces way above the six-figure mark. We even managed to negotiate a better deal for several Imperial Russian porcelain vases. And after my last call with Devon shortly before Christmas, I was ninety-nine percent sure I’d finally torn down her walls and broken through her anxieties. That I’d finally convinced her to go on a real date with me.

  I knew things were going down the drain when she started ignoring my messages. No reply when I asked if she had fun at her Christmas party. No reply when I asked if she was enjoying the holidays. No reply when I asked about her plans for New Year’s Eve. No reply when the worries got the better of me, and I begged her to at least give me a sign that she was okay.

  And no reply when I sent her an invitation for the most important date in my Silent Sins history. The sixth date.

  One more reason to hate that god-damn number.

  “The ‘turbines series of rings’ might be exactly what increases your artistic scope,” the PR guy who’s name I have forgotten concludes his speech, and Nick smacks my leg under the table, telling me not so gently that my assessment is needed.

  Rubbing my eyebrow, I try to unscramble my thoughts and focus on my job.

  “The collections of Igor Uchevatov will take over the main part of our exhibition,” I say, drumming my fingers on the mahogany table. “His enamel inserts, anodized metal components, and scattering of precious stones make for unusual colors, and that’s exactly what we need. The way Zakhar Borisenko uses ornaments to go for engineering themes like these”—I point to the set of rings displayed on a velvet stripe in front of him—“is very innovative, but our clientele isn’t interested in rings in the shape of a screw.”

  The PR guy throws uncertain glances at his colleagues as if looking for support, smoothing down his tie, and then changes the subject with a harrumph. Nick sends me a look of disbelief that I choose to ignore.

  While the people at the table continue to discuss how important it is that jewelry designers stick to a harmonious combination of new techniques and tradition, my fingers fly over the keyboard on my phone underneath the table.

  Rosswell: I’m slowly going crazy here. Please, don’t give me the silent treatment now…

  Stealing furtive glances at my screen, I count the seconds until Devon finally ends my torture. It’s eleven in the morning in New York, so there’s no way she’s still in bed.

  I nearly jump in my seat when my phone blinks with her reply.

  Devonport: I’m sorry…

  My breathing becomes shallow, my fingers going numb as I glare at the screen. She’s sorry? What does that mean? And why the hell did she put ellipses at the end?

  “Nathan, what the fuck is going on?” Nick whisper-yells from under his hand as I go rigid in my seat, my jaw clenching.

  Enough. I need to settle this right now.

  Pushing back my chair with a squeak, I rise to my feet and button my suit jacket.

  “Excuse me,” I say with a harrumph, ignoring Nick’s warning glower as I beeline for the door.

  With my mind whirling, I storm the men’s room and slap my hand against the door of the first stall, slamming it open and then locking it behind me. I pace the spacious stall as I push a button on my phone to call Devon. It rings once…twice…thrice…

  “Come on, pick up,” I mutter in frustration, my fingers twisting Devon’s pendant until I nearly tear the leather chain. “I know you’re there. Don’t do this to me, honey…”

  The call goes over to voice mail, so I end it and call her again. And again. And again. And—

  Ping!

  Removing the phone from my ear, I open the message.

  Devonport: I’m sorry, I can’t…

  My chest caves as I read the words, and I frown, expelling an audible breath. Those damn ellipses again.

  Rosswell: What do you mean you can’t?

  Devonport: I can’t meet you next week.

  Why the fuck not? I want to type but decide to stay professional here. The last thing I want is to scare her off for good.

  Rosswell: Let’s meet the week after, then.

  Devonport: Don’t know yet.

  I rake my hand through my hair. This damn girl is a brick wall!

  Rosswell: Dragonfly girl, what’s going on?

  My chest expands with burning breaths as I watch the dots move. Then they stop. Then they move again. Then they stop altogether. Biting into my knuckles, I wait thirty seconds before my control snaps.

  Rosswell: Are you seeing someone else?

  My lips curl at the mere thought of some guy touching her soft skin or tasting her sweet lips or licking her—

  Stop right here unless you decide to run riot and want a Kalashnikov pointed at your head.

  Devonport: No.

  It could be a lie, for all I know, but her immediate response lets me huff out in relief nonetheless. Alas, this prompts a whole new line of questioning. What if something happened to her? What if she’s sick? Hurt? Injured?

  Rosswell: Then what’s the matter? Please, talk to me. Are you ok? Did something happen to you?

  My eyes are riveted on my phone until my vision starts to blur. I don’t even dare to fucking blink.

  Devonport: It’s complicated, Ross…

  I grit out a sardonic laugh. She can shove that bullshit line up her sweet ass. And those fucking ellipses, too!

  Again, I decide to play it safe and go for a carefully controlled tone.

  Rosswell: Then uncomplicate it for me.

  Devonport: I’m sorry… I’ll be in touch.

  The dot above her avatar switches from green to gray, but I continue to stare holes into the screen, hoping, praying that she’ll come back. Her offline status doesn’t change.

  “Dammit!” I smack my hand against the stall hard enough to rattle the hinges.

  I’ll be in touch is the equivalent to I might contact you again, but don’t hold your breath. And other than bombarding her with calls and texts until our phones go up in flames, there’s no way for me to reach out to her. No name, no number, no address. I’m practically chasing a ghost. If she refuses to talk to me, there’s not one fucking thing I can do.

  The door to the men’s room opens, and heavy footsteps resound before someone pounds a fist against my stall.

  “Nathan, get the fuck out of here,” Nick instructs.

  “Can’t I even take a piss in peace?” I fire back.

  “You’re not taking a piss unless you’re shooting in the wrong direction on purpose.”

  I glance down at my shoes pointing away from the toilet, and then at the gap between the floor and the door that probably gave me away.

  With a grunt, I unlock the door and push it open. Nick’s gaze drops to the phone in my hand, and he crosses his arms, jutting out his chin.

  “Is this about that girl again?”

  “Shut up,” is my choppy response, but Nick stays unfazed as I barrel past him to wash my hands just to keep them busy.

  “You nearly ruined our deal with Borisenko. Care to tell me why?”

  With a frustrated yank, I pull down a piece of tissue to dry my hands.

  “There’s a reason why Zakhar Borisenko is the only jewelry house in Russia that uses carbon fiber for their designs,” I say. “Because no one wants carbon fiber in their jewels. Those rings he showed us? They make nice pieces for our showroom, but no one is going to buy this shit. These designs don’t fit into our portfolio, and you know it.”

  Nick shakes his head, pinching his lips. “Doesn’t matter. You know how important it is to keep our ties with the Russians. And unless you want Mom to rip you a new one, we’re going to return with a Borisenko deal in our bags.”

  I toss the used tissue i
nto the trash. “Fine.”

  “No.” Nick puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from storming out. “I’m going to handle this. You’re going to take a breather and get your shit together before you ruin any more business relationships.”

  Eyes burning into mine, he waits for my agreement. We’re equal as brothers, but I’m still one rung above him on the hierarchy ladder—something he could spit on if he chose to do so, and Mommy would definitely have his back. But he has never questioned my authority, nor have we ever been rivals. When Vincent went to jail and put a wedge between our family, we swore to each other to never let the business put a wedge between us. Somehow, Devon has started to become that wedge, I realize with shock.

  Squeezing my brother’s shoulder, I nod.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Go get them, tiger,” I add with a wink, and Nick marches out with a mock salute.

  Unsurprisingly, I end up at the hotel bar and order six shots of the finest Russian Standard all at once. Gotta stay true to my lucky number, right?

  I’m just in the process of knocking back shot number four when Nick joins me, parking his ass on the barstool next to me and ordering a shot, too. I throw him a questioning glance, one he answers with offering me a high-five.

  “I got the deal with Borisenko,” he tells me with a grin.

  “Well done, brother.” I slap my hand against his with a respectful nod.

  “Now, tell me,” he says. “What did your girl do to put you in such a shitty mood?”

  “She’s not my girl.”

  “And that’s exactly the problem, right?” he grumbles while I swirl my glass, watching the ice cubes tumble with the motion.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve found me the perfect fuck-buddy,’ I said to Carl that day he sent me my matches, and I remember his response very clearly.

  ‘I’m certain she will be more than that, Nathan.’

  Folding his elbows onto the table, Nick leans closer. “How come you fell in love with that girl so fast?”

  I grunt. “Who said anything about love? I don’t even know her fucking name.”

  “And yet you sit here, looking more forlorn than you did on the day Aiko cheated on you.”