by Portia Moore
There’s no glam squad for me tonight getting ready, but I’m glad for that. It gives me a little time alone with my thoughts, which is both good and bad—good because at least I don’t have to hide them from anyone, bad because they feel like they’re screaming inside of my head, crowding and suffocating me.
There’s a glass of champagne sparkling on the counter in front of me—my first legal drink. Not that it matters, since I’ve been with Vincent, I can drink anywhere we go out, anytime I want, so long as he’s approving of it. No one is going to tell him no.
Not even me.
I can’t help but compare my situation now to what most girls my age are doing on their twenty-first birthdays—hell, what I’d expected my birthday to be like. In another life, before I’d met Vincent, I’d be getting ready to go out to a club like I am tonight, but it would be a vastly different experience, that’s for sure.
Instead, I’m in my luxurious bathroom, my crystal glass of Dom Perignon sitting on the marble countertop, sparkling in the light. If it wasn’t for Vincent, I’d be in my little apartment with Mallory and Dena, letting them help make me over before we went out to dinner somewhere to have happy hour drinks and then to some Chicago nightclub, somewhere with sticky drinks and sticky floors, overbearing men and loud music. We’d have gotten drunk, I’d have flirted with some cute guys. Then eventually, we’d have collapsed into an Uber and gone home, falling drunkenly into bed until I woke up with a hangover the next day.
The thought of Mallory makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest. I miss my friend desperately. I haven’t spoken to her since that last conversation in the dining room of Vincent’s Chicago penthouse, per his instructions. No, his orders. That’s the only way I can think of them now. I know that’s exactly what they are, and it makes me sick every time I remember that.
And I know that all these thoughts, to any outsider, make me look like a spoiled brat. Here I am in the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, curling my hair with a glass of luxury champagne at my fingertips, in a silk and plush-lined robe. I’m the picture of pampered luxury, and yet I’m wishing for a life where we had to scrounge for rent money and men grabbed my ass at work every night.
I peer in the mirror as I finish brushing out the large blonde curls I’ve done, like a Hollywood movie star, and I know I look beautiful. The rose gold dress clings to my every curve, glimmering in the light, just low enough to be sexy without being so daring that Vincent will be pissed, and the rose gold and morganite earrings glow. I look like the picture of youth and wealth and beauty, my skin shimmering as if lit up from within. All for a party that I’ve been dreading.
I haven’t had a birthday party since I was ten, a small get-together at my house where all the kids went to the community pool and then came back for grocery-store cake and pizza ordered in, gift bags that my mom painstakingly put together from Party City but that I, in typical ten-year-old fashion, was horribly embarrassed by. I wish I could go back and smack my ten-year-old self for being disappointed by that party and by the one small gift my mother had managed to save for. At least my family was there, my friends, everyone I had who loved me then. My life was far from perfect, but my mother had poured every ounce of love she had into that party.
Tonight I won’t even know most of the people there. My job is just to act as if I’m so happy about it all, over the moon, and not have a single complaint. If I can manage that, the night will hopefully go okay. Hopefully, Vincent will be happy, and maybe Erin will cheer up. And Zach—
The thought of Zach makes my stomach knot. Just the idea of seeing him dancing with Sonya, laughing with her, enjoying the night with her makes me want to throw up. He acts like he’s forgotten all about me, like he doesn’t care at all, has he? Just seeing him still makes my heart jump in my chest no matter how much I wish it didn’t.
Vincent walks in then, not even bothering to knock, and I paste my happiest smile on my face immediately. I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking, especially not when it comes to Zach.
“Hey there,” I say softly, and he smiles charmingly at me. “I have a surprise for you,” he says with a broad smile, pulling a wrapped box out of his jacket pocket. “Happy birthday, my darling.”
I keep the smile on my face, taking the box out of his hand. I remember when a surprise like this would have thrilled me. But they don’t make me feel like that anymore. Every new diamond or jewel is just a reminder that I’m not special, that I’m being rewarded for putting up with his infidelities, his cruelties, his control, that I’m being given a treat like a good little girl. I can’t help but wonder what he’s giving to his other women, if he just buys a handful of the same thing and doles them out when he’s pleased or if he picks them out for each of us. It wouldn’t make it any better if it were the latter, but I remember when I was thrilled by the jewelry he’d send up for me, the choices that I had when I dressed up for him. I know those other women think they’re special, just like I did then.
Now I know better. And every beautiful, luxurious thing I have reminds me of it, of the trap that keeps tightening around me. Every gorgeous dress and designer bag is just a reminder that I sacrificed my dreams for labels and luxury that I don’t really care about.
You sacrificed them for your family, I remind myself. But it doesn’t make me feel much better.
I open the box underneath Vincent’s beaming smile, and inside is a slender rose gold bangle studded with pave diamonds. It’s a more understated present than I’m used to from him. It’s still beautiful—actually more to my taste than some of the other things I have. “You’ll look like a Hollywood siren tonight,” Vincent says with a pleased smile as he leans down to kiss me. “My Marilyn Monroe.”
Marilyn had a tragic life, I think to myself, my stomach clenching as I clasp the bangle onto my wrist. Vincent reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he straightens.
“Everyone is starting to arrive,” he says, tucking my hand into his elbow. “Ready for your party?”
“Of course!” I tell him, forcing myself to sound excited even as my stomach does another nauseated flip. “I can’t wait.”
I can already hear the music as we walk down the stairs from the main room where the party is held. It’s a huge room in another part of the main estate house that can only be described as a ballroom—I’m sure long ago, when this mansion was first built, it was used for exactly that. Now it’s used for parties and other events.
The music is, of course, a string quartet playing something classical, nothing like what would have been playing at a club that Mallory and Dena and I would have gone to. “There will be a DJ later on tonight,” Vincent says, and I hope that my expression didn’t give that particular thought away. “But for the beginning of the night, while the older guests are here, my parents insisted on something more elegant.”
Of course. Nothing about this is the kind of twenty-first birthday I’d ever imagined. I didn’t want to be Cinderella at the ball; I just wanted to have a good time with my friends. But even if we were back in New York, Vincent would never have allowed something like that. It would have been some blowout bash at one of his clubs or something along those lines.
I scan the room, looking for anyone I know—which is basically Erin. The last thing in the world I want is to have to make small talk with Zach with Vincent standing right there. I catch a glimpse of blonde hair and glance up at Vincent. “I think Erin is over there.”
Vincent smiles indulgently at me, catching me off guard. “Go on. I’ve got some business associates here that I should go say hello to. Enjoy your party, Poppy.” He drops an affectionate kiss on my forehead, and I smile up at him, less forced than before. If Vincent is in a good mood, tonight will be so much better.
I walk towards where I think Erin is standing, surrounded by a few girls who look a little older than me and a handful of men. The guys are all looking at her as if they can’t get enough, and when I get closer, I can s
ee why as my heart sinks.
She’s wearing a red dress with a low cowl top that’s so low her nipples are barely covered, equally low in the back, and tight and ruched high on her thighs. Her silky blonde hair is straightened, and she did her makeup heavier than I’ve ever seen it before, with a thick cat-eye and a bright red lip to match the dress. Not only that, she’s wearing Louboutins, which I know she doesn’t own a pair of—or at least I’m pretty fucking sure. She didn’t buy any when we went out.
It would be a gorgeous, sexy outfit if she were older, but it’s nothing that my seventeen-year-old little sister should be wearing. But I know I can’t say anything. If I do, she’ll get angry and lash out. It’ll just make things worse between us, and then Vincent will blame me for ruining a perfectly good night—even though it’s whoever put Erin in that dress that’s ruining it. I can see more eyes turning towards her—every man in the room wants to know who the gorgeous, young-looking blonde in the tight and short red dress is.
It’s my party, and Erin is the center of attention. But I don’t care about that—I care about why she is.
“Erin.” I try to keep my voice neutral when I walk up, but I guess I didn’t do a good enough job because she glares at me, her fingers tightening around her glass of champagne.
“If you’re here to bitch at me, don’t bother,” she says with a toss of her hair. “It’s Italy, and I can drink if I want to. And this dress looks hot on me.”
“It certainly does,” a dark-haired man on her right says, his eyes raking over her in a way that makes me feel sick and want to slap him all at once. “You’re the most gorgeous woman here.”
She’s a girl, I want to hiss. Not a woman. A seventeen-year-old girl, you fucking pervert. But I’m completely muzzled. Nothing I say will matter. Erin will get to do as she pleases anyway, egged on by Vincent and Sonya, and I’ll just be the one who ruins everything, punished for speaking up.
I can feel tears burning my eyes, and I do everything I can to force them back. “It’s a pretty dress,” I manage, swallowing past the choked feeling in my throat.
“Sonya gave it to me,” Erin says with another flip of her hair. “She said it would suit me.”
The lump in my throat grows. Of course, Sonya gave it to her. I can just imagine the satisfied smile on her face, knowing that she was undermining me, making me look even weaker than I already feel. I hate her, just like I’m coming to hate Vincent, to hate this whole awful family that has me trapped. That’s tearing my family apart when all I wanted to do was save them.
“I want to dance,” Erin says, turning towards one of the men. “When are they going to change up this funeral home music?”
Her back is to me now, clearly dismissing me, and it’s for the best anyway. If I don’t get away, I’m going to start crying, and that’s going to ruin everything.
I blindly make my way through the crowd, thinking that maybe I’ll head to the appetizer buffet, anything to get my mind off of what’s happening and distract me. This all just feels like the dress rehearsal for my wedding, another party that I don’t want that won’t be for me, just a vehicle for Vincent to show off and for my sister to relish in her newfound designer clothes and attention. I wonder what my mother would say if she could see this, but even that I’m not sure of anymore. She’s completely gone over to Vincent’s side too, after him paying for my father’s care, and I can’t blame her. She doesn’t see any of this, and I can’t tell her.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even see the person in front of me until I run smack into his chest, the scent of a smoky cologne filling my nose. The man’s arms go around me for a split second, almost as if by instinct, and then he pulls back, gripping my upper arms as he separates the two of us stiffly.
But even before I look up into his brilliant blue eyes, I know who I ran into.
And Zach’s hands on my arms still give me shivers all over my skin even after all this time.
27
Zach
I should have stopped Rain before she ran into me. But the truth is that seeing her froze me in place for a second. She looks so fucking beautiful tonight, not the girl from high school or the overly made-up trophy fiancée that I’ve been seeing around here. In that rose gold dress with her hair loose and the soft makeup, she looks like a princess. Like a fucking angel. Like she needs me to save her from a dragon, swoop her back up to heaven. And god, she felt like heaven the last time I touched her.
She feels like it this time too. When she crashes into my chest and I smell her perfume, I’m rock-hard in an instant, my entire body drawn to her like a magnet. I want her more than I want to breathe. Even though all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and drag her mouth up to mine, sweep her up into my arms and carry her off to the nearest bedroom, my training takes over. My mind works where my body won’t, and I push her away from me, my hands firm on her upper arms as I look down at her.
“Where are you going in such a hurry—Rain, right?” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, like someone else has taken over, like Agent Rostov is speaking while Zach Rostov is still swooning over touching his high school sweetheart for the first time in more years than I can remember now.
She stares at me like I slapped her. “What?”
“I just mean—anyway, it’s your birthday, right? This is your party.” I sound stupid. I know I do. But how is a man supposed to act like he doesn’t know a girl he’s known most of his life, right to her face, while his dick is so hard it feels like it might snap off?
I have no fucking clue.
“Zach,” she hisses, and I tense immediately. “Why the hell are you doing this? You know me.”
“Don’t call me that.” I grit my teeth, looking around the room. “I’m Chase. Chase West.”
“No, the fuck you’re not.” She looks up at me with those huge eyes. “I know I’m not crazy! But you’re making me feel like it. So what the hell is going on?”
My stomach clenches. If anyone overhears us, I’m fucked. Rain isn’t exactly blowing my cover, but she’s obviously upset about something. “Come on,” I say quickly, glancing around again. “I want to dance with the birthday girl.”
It’s still not totally safe to talk anywhere in this room, but at least on the main dance floor the music is louder. I hadn’t counted on how it would make me feel to put my hands on Rain’s waist or have her wrap her arms around my neck as we start to twirl around. The fight between my logic and my emotion is tearing me apart—with her here so close to me again, I’ve just about forgotten Sofia, the job, the FBI, and every other damn thing I’m supposed to be here for. I feel like I’d throw it all away just to whisk her out of here, but I know better than that. It’d be awfully hard to protect her with Vincent after both of us and me kicked out of the FBI, maybe even up on charges for kidnapping Rain. Helping her in any way just jeopardizes the mission—and I don’t even know for sure that she wants my help. She might be happy with him, glad for the money and security and fancy things.
But I don’t know that for sure. And the look on her face tells me that she’s upset about something—more than upset. Devastated, on the verge of tears. On her fucking birthday.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her quietly. “Keep your voice down, too.”
She narrows her eyes, stiffening a little at the tone of my voice. “My sister has guys crawling all over her. She’s wearing this dress that your girlfriend gave her; that’s way more for a woman, not a barely seventeen-year-old. And she hates me for trying to keep her from getting all caught up in—this.” She waves a hand around the room, and I frown.
“Maybe she just wants what you have.”
Rain looks at me, her expression guarded. “She shouldn’t,” she says simply. And then she clamps her mouth shut, clearly not about to say anything else to me. I realize then that just as I’m not totally sure I should trust her anymore, she doesn’t entirely trust me either.
I spin her around, moving in time with the music, and
my pulse is in my throat the entire time. I’m not worried about anyone thinking it’s strange I’m dancing with her, I’m just getting a dance with the birthday girl like I’d said. There’s nothing odd about that. But it feels wrong, because it feels so fucking good. Having her in my arms again, breathing in her perfume, feeling the silky fabric of her dress under my hands makes me feel a little crazy. It makes me feel like I did the day before everything went all to hell, when I’d decided to throw caution to the wind and tell Rain I loved her, that I wanted our life together.
I wanted her then more than I’d ever wanted anything in my entire life, and all it took was this dance to remind me that I still do.
Rain looks up at me then, her soft brown eyes wide, and I know that she’s feeling the same thing. I can feel the electricity between us, that old feeling that we don’t even have to say the words out loud, because why would we ever have to?
We’re soulmates.
We were since the day I saw her in that cafeteria. Friends turned to lovers turned to strangers, and now seeing her is opening up every old wound until I feel like I’m going to bleed out in front of her.
She pulls away from me suddenly before the music comes to an end, and I can see that she’s pale. “I can’t do this,” she whispers. “I can’t stand here and pretend—I—” She swallows hard, backing away. “I need some air.”
And she leaves me there, standing in the middle of the dance floor as she flees through the crowd towards the French doors that lead out into the gardens, for all the world like that one fairy tale. The one with the glass slipper.
I want to follow her, but I wait. I can’t be seen chasing Vincent’s fiancée out of the room. And I’m glad that I did because a minute later Sonya is walking towards me with two glasses of champagne. “Here,” she says, handing me one. “I know you like whiskey better, but this is the best champagne you’ll ever have. It costs as much as that shitty little apartment you used to live in does for a year,” she says with a laugh, clinking her glass against mine.
