by Portia Moore
This isn’t a joke, and if it all goes wrong, there might not be anyone to come and scoop me up and pull me out. Bellona is going undercover with me in a separate role; she made it clear that the job was the priority. If saving me threatened that—especially if it was my fault—well, the official line was that they wouldn’t leave an agent behind. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think that was always the case. We all know the job and the risks.
I was all ready to catch my flight and go undercover. And then I got a phone call from my aunt, just after I got back to my room post-run.
I could tell that she’d been crying when I answered it.
“What’s going on?” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Did something happen?”
“It’s your father.”
The minute I heard those words, my heart sank into my gut.
Two years ago, I committed both the most selfless act and the worst sin that a son ever could. I protected my mother by putting myself in harm’s way, and in the sequence of events that followed, I shot my father. I thought I’d killed him. Later, I was told that the gunshot had struck his shoulder, shattering the bone. It was a hell of an injury, but it wasn’t fatal. At the time, I’d been relieved to find out I wasn’t guilty of murdering my own father, but I still hadn’t been able to go home.
But something in my aunt’s voice tells me that whatever’s happened now, it’s bad. Really bad.
“What is it? Heart attack? Cancer?”
I hear her voice quiver. “Zach, he’s—he’s dead.”
The word hits me like a blow. I’m supposed to be sad, but I can’t be. The world is a better place without him, but what kind of son doesn’t grieve his father’s death? All I can think about is that at least now, he can never hit my mother again. The gunshot destroyed his use of his right arm, but I’m sure he figured out how to make up for it with the left.
My father was always an industrious kind of guy.
“How?” My voice sounds flat, empty. I know I should force myself to sound like I’m upset, just a little, but I can’t seem to manage it.
There’s a long, drawn-out moment of silence as if my aunt can’t bear to tell me. I feel my stomach knot, and I know that it must be connected to what I did before she even starts to speak.
“The doctors couldn’t get all of the buckshot out of his shoulder during surgery. They said it wouldn’t cause problems beyond some loss of mobility and pain, but he was going to have that anyway.” My aunt pauses, each word sounding as if it’s being dragged out of her. “But—”
“Just tell me.” I feel sick.
“There was a blood clot. They didn’t see it, and I guess he just lived with it for a while. But it came loose and went to his brain. He died this morning before they could do anything.” My aunt is crying again, and I know it’s not for my father. She hated him as much as I did for the way he treated my mother, her sister. She’s crying for me. Because she knows what this will do to me.
I thought I’d gotten free of it. That I’d gotten lucky. That I hadn’t killed my father. But in a roundabout way, two years later, I did anyway.
He was a bad man, a terrible husband, and a worse father. But he was my father. And I’m responsible for his death.
“You can’t blame yourself for this, Zach—”
“Yes, I can,” I say flatly. “If I hadn’t shot him—”
“Then he might have killed your mother. My sister. I’ve never thought you were wrong to do it, Zach.”
“I know. But it doesn’t change what happened.”
“Zach—you should talk to someone. A professional.” My aunt’s voice is steadier now. She’s gone into mothering mode, trying to be there for me. “I’m sure the FBI has therapists who can help—”
Fuck. It hits me then how much deeper this goes. The FBI would be hard-pressed enough to put me on a case when a parent has just died, but knowing the circumstances of his death, I can’t imagine that they’ll allow me to continue.
It’s going to be desk duty for the foreseeable future. Everything that I’d worked so hard for is slipping out of my fingers, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
They don’t waste any time, either. When I step into the office the next morning for what was supposed to be my last de-briefing before taking my flight to New York City, Simpson and Bellona are both waiting for me. Bellona looks like she might be vaguely sympathetic, but Simpson has a stern expression that tells me none of this is going to go well.
“We heard about your father.” Simpson cuts right to the chase.
“We were sorry to hear about—” Bellona starts to say, but he interrupts her.
“Given the circumstances, I don’t see how we can keep you on this case. Death of a parent is enough to put any agent on desk duty for a while, but once we were made aware of the cause of death—” Simpson shrugs. “You’re gonna sit this out, Rostov.”
My stomach turns over with nausea. I can’t lose this chance. I have so much riding on it—the opportunity to be more than just a dumb kid from bumfuck, Indiana, to make a real difference. To prove that my uncle’s faith in me, recommending me to the academy, wasn’t misplaced. I can’t fail now because of one thing I did two years ago—especially when I can’t ever truly feel that it was wrong. Even if I’ll carry the guilt of it for the rest of my life.
“Listen,” I can hear the urgency in my voice. “This case is what I’ve been waiting for. You said yourself that you thought I had what it takes. That hasn’t changed. If you know the circumstances, then you know there was no love lost between my dad and me. I’m—” I can’t say that I’m not sorry he died. That’s bound to get me a one-way trip to a psychiatrist, maybe even put on suspension until they can be sure I’m not crazy. “I’m okay,” I say finally. “I’m relieved if anything, that my mother is safe now.”
Simpson looks skeptical, but he doesn’t interrupt me. I grab that and run with it.
“What’s left of my family, my aunt and uncle, believed in me when they sent me to the academy. They saw exactly what you did when you assigned me this case. I want the chance to prove that their faith in me, your faith in me, is right. You won’t find anyone more dedicated to bringing Vincent Jamison to justice than I am.”
Simpson looks unimpressed. “Bellona? I want to talk to you outside.”
The two of them step out of the room, leaving me sitting there. Fuck. I might have just made things even worse. I should have just taken the desk duty and been grateful that they’re not reopening the case on me. The whole altercation with my father was deemed self-defense, but I’m pretty sure the FBI can take a second look at whatever they want.
I can see Simpson and Bellona just outside, now talking to the director. My stomach clenches all over again. I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up or shit myself if they don’t come back in here and tell me what’s going to happen, one way or the other, real fucking soon.
When the two of them step back into the room, Simpson doesn’t look pleased. He nods at Bellona, who looks sternly at me.
“The director has agreed to leave you on the case,” she begins, and I feel like all the air has been punched out of me. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all.
“What? Seriously? I—”
“Shut up and listen,” Simpson snaps.
Bellona gives him a look and then turns back to me. “The nature of this case is that you’re going to be managing a lot on your own. Even if the two of us end up in the same location, I can’t check in with you or even act as if I know you. However, we’re assigning a very experienced handler to you, and you cannot miss a meet with him. Not one. You can’t be late. We’re taking a huge chance leaving you on this, Rostov, but the director seems to think that your—what word did he use? Your gumption, and your drive, are reason enough. I think it’s a bad decision, full disclosure. But he calls the shots.”
“I think it’s a stupid decision,” Simpson adds. “But—”
“He calls the shots,” I echo. “Look, I’m really
grateful—"
“Can it.” Simpson glares at me. “There’s plenty left to go over and not a lot of time. We’ve been trying to catch this guy for a long time.” He looks as if he’s gone greyer overnight, as if the case is wearing on him. “We think this is going to be it, but it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s slipped through our fingers.” He narrows his eyes at me, Bellona’s stern presence behind him adding weight and making me feel like a small, chastened child. “Don’t make us regret taking a chance on you.”
“I won’t,” I assure him. And I mean it.
3
Rain
By the time I make it back up to the penthouse, all I want to do is sink into a hot bubble bath and stay there for the foreseeable future. But the second I walk inside, I see boxes everywhere and a handful of uniformed workers bustling around the house, wrapping and packing items in a flurry of activity.
April walks into the room almost the same time, and I stare at her, slightly stunned. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking around. “Why…?”
“We’re leaving to meet Mr. Jamison at the airport in about ten minutes,” April tells me. I blink, my stomach suddenly tying itself in knots.
“Meet him at the airport? Why?” I ask, confusion evident in my voice.
“I believe Mr. Jamison informed you of the plans for you to move to Manhattan,” April says tonelessly. I can feel my heart sinking, and I look for some sort of emotion in her eyes—sympathy, maybe? But there’s nothing. Just the cool delivery of information.
I knew we were moving, yes. Vincent told me at my parents’ house. But--I didn’t think it would be this soon. I thought I’d have more time to prepare--and why would he have me start working with a trainer here if we were moving the same day?
Because he’s probably paying her to move to New York, too. Or to fly in and out. Or he’ll just get me a new one. Vincent can do whatever he wants.
It’s all happening so fast that I feel completely thrown off balance. I don’t know what to think, or do, or feel. Even though I’d known since the moment Vincent showed his hand that there was no way a backup plan would work—I’ve tried before, after all—I’d still been desperately trying to think of one all morning. I’d thought of selling a piece of jewelry here and there, ditching April somehow so that I could meet up with Mallory in secret and have her sell some of my designer clothes, anything so that I could put a little bit of money away in secret. So that if my father does get better, and I can cancel the wedding, I wouldn’t be left with nothing.
But it’s too late for that now. We’re leaving, and I feel cold all over, all my aches and soreness from the workout forgotten. And if I’m being honest with myself, none of my frantic ideas for an escape make any sense. I’ve tried to leave him before, but I’m seeing now that Vincent gets what Vincent wants. I feel stupid now for never listening to my mother, or Mallory, for being so blinded by everything Vincent offered me that I never looked for the catch. I should have known that nothing like this ever comes for free, and I feel like a child who never learned that fairy tales are just that.
I’m still trying to think of a response when the door to the master suite opens, and I see that Andrea, Vincent’s house manager, is here.
I haven’t seen her since the first few weeks that I was dating Vincent, and I’d never really asked why. But there she is, her grey-streaked hair piled up neatly on top of her head, dressed in black slacks and a conservative button-down shirt. She looks over at me with a businesslike expression, as if nothing here is out of the ordinary, as if I have no reason to feel as if I’ve just been thrown into a tailspin.
“I’m pleased to be serving you and Mr. Jamison again, Ms. Carlisle,” she says coolly. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“What?” I ask dumbly, my gaze flicking between her and April.
“Your engagement,” she says patiently but with a slight edge to her tone. “Mr. Jamison tells me that you are soon to be Mrs. Jamison.”
I look down at my massive engagement ring. “Oh…yes. Yes, I’m really happy,” I say, trying to inject genuine emotion into the words, but it’s hard to muster.
I feel sick. Andrea was never rude to me, just cold before, and I’d figured it was because she assumed I was another girl passing through. But she doesn’t seem any more pleased to see me now. She’s almost disdainful as she looks me up and down, taking in my flushed, messy appearance.
“I really need to shower,” I say weakly. “I just got back from the gym.”
“Of course, go ahead—” April starts to say, and Andrea cuts her off.
“Quickly, though, Ms. Carlisle,” she says sharply. “I’ll continue packing the things that Mr. Jamison requested that you bring to the new apartment while you do so.”
“What?” I blink at her. “No, I can pack my own things. It’s fine. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”
“I’ve been instructed to help you, per Mr. Jamison himself,” Andrea says firmly, cutting me off. “No argument, Ms. Carlisle, please. We’re in a hurry. Just get yourself cleaned up.” She says the last with distaste, and I flush hotly, my cheeks turning red.
It doesn’t seem like I can do anything right these days.
My heart sinks as I push past her, hurrying towards the bathroom before I start to cry again. It’s clear to me now what’s going on. It won’t be just April to babysit me anymore; now it’ll be Andrea, too. And I have a sinking feeling that Andrea isn’t going to be quietly sympathetic the way April sometimes is or fade into the background like she does. No, she’ll be front and center, doing Vincent’s bidding, handling me, and making sure that I toe the line at all times and do exactly what he wants. I have no doubt that her eyes will be on me regularly and that she’ll report any infractions immediately.
Tears start to slide down my cheeks as I turn on the shower, stripping out of my workout clothes. I can hear her in the bedroom already, pulling things out of drawers.
I knew my life was going to change last night, but I had no idea that it would be to this degree. And I have a sinking feeling that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
The ride out to the tarmac is silent. I sit on one side of the black town car, April and Andrea on the other. I glance at their faces as I smooth my hands nervously over my thighs. I’m wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans that are one of Vincent’s favorites and a silky cream-colored top with diamond studs in my ears and a diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist—all things that Andrea laid out for me and said that Vincent had picked for me to wear.
I remember, in the early days of my relationship with Vincent, when all of the clothes and jewelry he’d send for me seemed like a theme, like he was dressing me up like a doll—this time a Barbie for a nightclub opening, another time a pinup for going out to a speakeasy and a jazz bar. Then it seemed eccentric but fun, a sort of inside joke.
It doesn’t feel fun anymore.
April’s face is coolly neutral as always. I don’t know what’s going on in her head right now—if she approves, disapproves, or just doesn’t care. On the other hand, Andrea has that slightly pursed look around her lips, as if she’s tasted something bad, and she gives me one quick look before primly looking out of the window, dismissing me.
I don’t speak for the entirety of the drive, and neither do they. There’s a faint drizzle of rain starting to fall as the town car pulls up to the hangar, and I think morosely that it’s entirely appropriate for today—the weather matches how I feel.
Vincent is waiting by the jet, dressed impeccably in a bespoke black suit that fits him without a line or crease to be seen, his hair styled perfectly, his face set in a stern, handsome lines. I slide out of the car nervously as the driver opens the door, followed by April and Andrea, and I can feel my stomach fluttering as I walk towards him. This is the first time I’ve seen him since last night, since everything changed. I don’t know what to expect.
The moment I’m within reaching distance, he pulls me to him, wrapping his
arms around me as his fingers slide under my chin, tilting my face up for him to kiss me. The kiss is deep and passionate, embarrassing in front of April and Andrea but dizzying at the same time. For a brief second, it’s hard not to forget everything that happened over the last weeks, to not believe once again that this is the man I fell in love with, that everything else has just been some misunderstanding. The man I fell in love with wouldn’t have told me just last night that I wasn’t going to be the only woman he slept with. Still, I can’t stop myself from returning the kiss, if only because I want the old Vincent back so badly. I want the desire and love and security, the idea of it at least, the lingering memory of what we once had, and I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing him back with equal passion.
At that moment, even I don’t know if I really mean it or if I’m pretending.
When we separate, I see that April and Andrea have already disappeared onto the jet. Vincent and I walk up the steps together, my fingers linked through his, and I wonder if he’s gripping my hand more tightly than usual, or if I’m just imagining it. The moment we’re on board and reach our seats, he pulls me into his lap as he sits down, his arms encircling my waist tightly.
“Are you excited for our fresh start, Poppy?” he asks, smoothing one hand over my blonde hair. I left it long and loose, blow-dried straight the way he likes, and I can’t help but lean into his touch. I miss him touching me like this, gently, affectionately. I miss everything about what we used to be, what I might never have with him again.
