by Sophia Henry
Suddenly, the reality of what happened at my parents’ house hits me—and it smacks me like a wrecking ball. My knees buckle and I have to brace myself against the wall to keep myself up. Tears burst from my ducts, seemingly falling as hard as the stream of water coming from the shower head, and I almost can’t tell which is which.
Trent almost killed me today.
I squeeze my eyes shut and run my hands through my hair.
If Erik hadn’t seen what happened, I would be dead.
My heart pounds against my chest as panic and fear and anger take control.
While at Mama and Daddy’s, I’d gone straight into crisis mode. I’m good at thinking on my feet, no matter what problems arise. Assess the situation: come up with a plan, carry out plan. I brushed off the severity of the situation, convinced everyone I had it under control, and lied about Trent’s intentions.
Granted, I still didn’t think he meant to kill me, but whether he meant to or not—that’s what almost happened. A freak accident. When he pushed me, he didn’t know I’d fall into the pool. And when I did, I assumed he thought I’d just swim back to the top and life would go on as usual. He gets mad at me for something trivial, then hurts or embarrasses me as punishment.
Trent didn’t know I hit my head on the edge of the pool. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, even as I drove home. The alternative is unthinkable.
But now, under the stream of scorching water, my lies wash away, swirling down the drain. I clutch my hair in my hands as I sink to my knees. The shower floor is covered with a beautiful mosaic of pebble tiles, which I had specially installed because I love the feel of the tiny stones massaging my feet.
But kneeling on it feels like punishment—like I’m being tortured for keeping secrets and telling lies.
Has he ever put his hands on you?
Yes.
Has he ever hurt you?
Yes.
Why didn’t you say anything?
That’s the question I fear answering because it has such a broad range of answers. Some are the same reasons as any women in the same situation: fear of not being believed, fear of what Trent would do if he found out I said anything. But other reasons are mine and mine alone.
How could I “tell” on someone who has so many ties with my family? Mama made it very clear. If I say something about Trent, it damages his reputation—if it even gets out. I’m sure it would never come to that—as both of our families would keep the situation under a tight wrap.
But even if everything was handled behind closed doors, saying something would damage my reputation irreparably. I’d be blackballed—kicked out of and excluded from business and social networks my family has been a part of for years. And if I were blackballed, that would almost certainly trickle down through my family. People would stop doing business with my father because he has a daughter who doesn’t know her place. He has a daughter who doesn’t keep her mouth shut. He has a daughter who accused one of the Anderson boys of something unspeakable. Even if everyone knew Trent was indeed abusing me, there’s always a way to excuse his actions—or cover them up. My integrity and credibility would be questioned, not his. Who’s going to believe me, a female SCAD—Savannah College of Arts and Design—Fashion Marketing and Management major over a man who graduated with honors from both Duke University and Georgetown Law? And even if they did—they’d lie for him anyway.
I learned that early.
No matter how accomplished and successful I come to be, Trent will always be worth more than me in the eyes of men who run everything—from city-level straight up to the entire country. That’s the way the wealthy Boys’ Club works. I know because I’m in the midst of it. The Commons family is one of the founding families of Charlotte. My father, Harris Commons, is one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the city, and I’m the heiress to his business—and maybe even some of that power.
I know my role, not only as Harris’s daughter, but as an executive in the family business. I’m a modern-day Southern belle who can charm her way into people’s hearts with a wink, smile, and a sharp eye for business. It’s not fake, but I know what I’m doing. I play the game. Hell, Mama groomed me for this game. It’s the only way to swim in an ocean of sharks. Play by their rules. Smile. Make allies. Smile. Don’t rock the boat. Smile. Despite being a woman, I’ve been my father’s “right-hand man” for years. I’ve seen what goes on behind the scenes and I chose my battles wisely.
Which is why I’ve never said anything about Trent.
Telling the truth is an uphill battle I’m not equipped to fight. It’s better to push it aside. Walk away as if it’s normal to breakup and move on with my life. Truth be told, I’m terrified of how Trent will react, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take with Erik by my side.
Chapter Six
Erik
My long legs shake, banging the too-short table with every nervous bounce. I grab my coffee cup to keep it from spilling. Not sure the caffeine is helping at this time of night, but I wasn’t really thinking straight when I ordered, so I went with my usual.
I’m sitting at Amelia’s, a French bakery not too far from my apartment complex, waiting for Maddie. It’s a funky little place with amazing pastries, great food, and a ton of specialty drinks. I stop here to grab a medium-roast coffee almost every morning.
My palms are sweaty as I grip my coffee cup tonight. Maddie texted me about an hour ago asking me to meet her here at eight p.m. A follow-up text said she was breaking up with Trent tonight and she needed someone to meet with me after, to help her keep up her strength. Though she never responded when I asked for more information, I rushed home, showered, and changed quickly so I could make it in time.
And here I sit, on edge, hoping Maddie is okay. A million unanswered questions have run through my mind since getting her texts.
I hope she’s doing it here—or somewhere in public. I don’t expect her telling him it’s over is going to go well. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to let things go easily, but I have a strong suspicion Trent wouldn’t do anything crazy in public. He’s a behind-closed-doors guy. He’d never risk ruining his impeccable reputation by letting someone see his true colors.
It’s only been about five minutes since I sat down, but it seems like hours when I hear heels tapping on the concrete floors, coming toward me with purpose. I look up to see Maddie striding toward me in a black pantsuit and that makes her look incredibly lean, sexy, and powerful. Her hair is tied back, in a low ponytail that shows off her beautiful delicate neck. She is sexy as fuck. And seeing her in her executive element has my dick jumping to attention, ready to salute her when I stand.
I rise to greet her. “Everything okay?”
She nods and smiles, but it’s tired and doesn’t reach her eyes. I immediately pull a chair out for her. She hangs her purse over the back before lowering herself into the seat. When she sits, I do, as well.
“How are you doing?” I ask gently.
She leans forward, placing her elbows on the table and holding her head in her hands. Then she closes her eyes for a moment, taking a mental break. When she finally opens her eyes, her gaze is locked on the table. “I feel lighter than I have in a long time. Like a huge weight has been lifted.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
She nods.
When I take one of her hands in mine, she looks up at me. “Promise?”
“I promise,” she whispers. Then she straightens her shoulders and sits straight in her chair. The brief moment of weakness is over, and the facade of strength and control is back. Because of her appearance, I’m almost tricked into believing it.
“Thank you so much for meeting me here. The thought of going straight home after that made me nervous.”
The weight of her words hit me hard. This is the same woman who, just a few days ago, would barely admit that Trent pushed her into the pool. Telling me she fears going home by herself is a huge step.
“I’m glad you asked me. Do y
ou think he would go to your place?”
“Honestly?” She lifts her weary eyes to mine. “Yes. He doesn’t let things go easily. He’s chased me. Followed me. Waited outside of my building and restaurants before. It’s like he wanted to catch me doing something.”
“Jesus, that’s fucked up.” My words come out with an exhale. “You must have been terrified.”
“I got used to it.” She glances over her shoulder when a woman squeezing by our table bumps her unintentionally.
“You got used to being stalked by your own boyfriend?”
Maddie shrugs and sips her drink. “It’s how he was. If I confronted him, he got angry and violent, so I just ignored it. Pretended everything was fine. Pretended I was surprised to see him.”
“You don’t have to take it anymore. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. You’re the only one I could call. The only one I trust right now.” She pauses and sets her cup down. For some reason, it feels like coffee with a friend suddenly transformed into a business meeting. “We need to talk about what we discussed.”
“What did we discuss?”
“Getting into a relationship—a fake relationship, of course.”
“Maddie.” I sigh. “I told you I was joking. It was a ridiculous request.”
“Maybe you were, but I need you right now, and the scenario we discussed would be beneficial for both of us.”
Her words sear like a stake straight through my heart. She needs me—but it’s all business.
“I’d like to hear more about your situation, Erik. I’ve told you my truth. Now I want to hear yours.”
“My truth? I don’t know what that is,” I say, leaning back in my chair and looking up at the clear plastic chandelier, fashioned to look like crystal hanging above the table.
Multiple chandeliers in all colors, shapes, and sizes hang from the ceilings in each room at Amelia’s. The interesting decor—a difficult-to-describe mishmash of bohemian, French-inspired, eclectic pieces—is one of the things that draws people to the various locations. How often do you see a replica of the Mona Lisa with sunglasses stuck over her eyes, or a painting of Napoleon with a word bubble coming out of his mouth, asking for a salted-caramel brownie?
“What do you want it to be?” Maddie asks.
“That’s the magic question. Truth can be manipulated. Isn’t that right? A week ago, the truth was that you and Trent were one of Charlotte’s power couples. Today’s truth is a bit different.”
“That’s not truth, that’s perception.” Maddie’s cool, blue eyes don’t waver.
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
Our conversation just took a turn, but it’s okay, because I really want to get into her head. For as much as I thought I knew about her, I realize now it was years ago and we’ve both changed. I knew a sweet, bubbly teenager with big future plans. She once told me she wanted to start a program where Commons would donate an article of clothing to someone in need for each article of clothing sold—sort of like the TOMS Shoes’ model. But that was years ago, before Harris started grooming her for taking over the family business. I’m not insinuating she’s not that same person—or that she doesn’t have those same big, world-changing plans. But the truth is—I don’t know. Maybe I’m holding on to the ideal image of a teenage girl I fell in love with who no longer exists.
“Perception is how people see something. Truth is what you know about yourself. I perceive that you are a U.S. citizen, but I know now that is not the truth.”
“Touché.” I tip my coffee cup to her before taking a sip.
“So, let’s start over.” She sighs and leans back. “Some people may have had a perception of my relationship with Trent. Their perception may be their reality, but it isn’t my truth. Now tell me your story.”
Damn, it’s sexy when she tells me what to do. The demand prickles the hair on the back of my neck. It’s making other things tingle, as well, but I’m not going down that route right now.
I nod to her drink. “You need a refill before I start this?”
Maddie peers into her cup. “Mine’s full, thank you.” She leans back and runs a hand through her hair, shaking it through her fingers before letting it fall over her shoulders. The action shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does, but she’s got that hair that looks like she just stepped off the runway at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Maybe I should agree to the fake relationship just to see if she’ll model lingerie for me.
“The truth is,” I begin, focusing my attention back to the story, “I didn’t even know I wasn’t a citizen until my senior year of high school. A few buddies and I were planning a trip for Spring Break and I needed a passport. When I started gathering the documents I needed, I asked my grandfather where my birth certificate was. That’s when he told me the real story of my childhood.”
“What do you mean, the real story?”
I take a deep breath. We’re in truth mode right now, but I can still tell the truth without telling every detail of the story. “I always thought my parents broke up after I was born and my father couldn’t handle a kid, so he sent me to live with his parents, my grandparents.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Erik. I didn’t realize—”
“Promise me something?” I interrupt her.
“What?”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not my family’s choices. I’m doing okay.” The last thing I want from her—or anyone—is pity.
Maddie nods. “I know. I promise.”
“My grandfather said my mom moved with me, to Chicago from the Czech Republic, when I was a year old. She already had me when she met the dude I believed was my dad. They broke up when I was three. She went back, but left me here to have a better life and all that shit. Fake Dad wasn’t all about the kid-life, so he sent me down here to be raised by his parents.”
The guy wasn’t even my real father, but she left me here with him anyway. I still can’t fully comprehend that, but I don’t remember. Maybe she did have my best interests in mind. I’m not ready to reveal much more about my mom because the entire truth about her is more than I want to admit right now.
“Wait, so the people who raised you aren’t related to you at all?”
“Correct.”
“Why would they do that?” Maddie blurts out. Then her eyes get wide and she starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that as rude as it came out.”
I’m not hurt or offended. I get it.
“I asked my grandfather that same question. He said because it was the right thing to do. I guess, back then, the guy I thought was my dad was into drugs. It’s sort of how he and my mom met, while he was backpacking across Europe. They knew he didn’t have the means or desire to take care of me. So, they offered to raise me.”
The family I have here is not my own, but they’re all I’ve ever known—and they loved me as though I were a blood relation. Hell, my grandfather left me his business. Maybe they were trying to right the wrong, of my mother abandoning me, in their own way. They never really said why they did it. But they always made it clear they loved me and never regretted the decision. That’s all I needed. Growing up with that kind of unconditional love was all the explanation I ever needed. I didn’t need to question my mother’s choices—or her lifestyle that led to those choices.
I’ve never heard from my mother since she left. Didn’t even think about her until recently, when the reality of my situation hit me. I will have to go to a country I never remember being in. I don’t know a soul in the Czech Republic. I’ve never had contact with anyone there. I don’t even know my birth mother’s name.
It doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is that I was brought here illegally and I didn’t even know until I was seventeen. I’ve lived my entire life as an American citizen. Once I found out my situation, I talked to my grandfather and he went to Harris Commons for help. On the advice of an immigration lawyer he set us up with—and paid for—my applic
ation for a Deferred Action program for people who had been brought to America illegally as children.
“That was really selfless.”
“It was. I’m very lucky to have been raised by amazing people. I’m grateful for them and the opportunities they gave me.”
Maddie’s lips slide into a sincere smile that makes the skin around her eyes crinkle. Her defined cheekbones glow with a stunning, pale pink blush. She’s a gorgeous woman. She always has been, even as a teenager, when those cheeks were a bit more round. As she got taller, she lost some of the cute curves, but I’m not complaining. She’s a fucking ten in anyone’s book.
“Okay, so technically, you weren’t born here, but you’ve been here almost your entire life. You were a baby. Can’t you just apply for citizenship or something?”
“I wish it worked that way. There are all these rules. I’d have to leave the country, and the chances of me being able to re-enter would be next to none.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” She shakes her head, as if trying to wrap her head around how ridiculous it is. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were brought here as a child. You didn’t make the decision.”
“I know.” I’ve screamed everything she’s saying to the sky on multiple occasions as I’ve tried to figure this out—tried to find a way to stay.
“You’re as much of an American as I am.”
“In theory.”
“You’re a business owner. You pay taxes.”
“I know.” Technically, I don’t own my business. Her father does, but she doesn’t know that. It really is a technicality, as I run everything. We have signed documents, specifically stating that Harris has no control over my business. He agreed to put it in his name after my grandfather passed away. I didn’t feel comfortable because of my immigrant status and Harris is a successful business owner. It made sense, and I trusted that he would be true to his word. We’ve never had any issues at all.
