Billionaire’s Captive: A Beauty and the Rose Box Set

by Black, Stasia

  I bow my head and take hold of his hand. It’s all I can do.

  Thirty-Two

  20 years ago

  Daphne

  “Daphne!” My mother’s voice finds me in my hiding place. “Come out from there.”

  I hold my breath and hug the ground in case she doesn’t know I’m actually in the garden.

  “I see you behind the forsythia. Come, sweetheart, come help me dig.”

  I crawl out from under the hedge and run to my mother. She sees the mud and grass stains on my knees, but doesn’t scold. She’s in an old pair of jeans with matching stain, and her beautiful hands are covered in black dirt.

  “What are we planting?” I ask after my own hands are coated in loam.

  “Roses.”

  “More roses?” Every other plant in this garden is a type of rose. Clipped into hedges, climbing up trellises, or blossoming in pots Mom can move in and out of our house.

  Mom laughs. “Always.”

  “Now we plant.” Mom takes a wet paper bag full of green sticks and starts setting them in the earth.

  I wrinkle my nose and pick at a shriveled brown leaf. “They look dead.”

  “They’re not dead. They’re dormant. Waiting to be planted.”

  My dad walks by the open window, the phone pressed to his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but even if I could, I wouldn’t understand it. He stands looking out at the garden, but he doesn’t seem to really see it. Doesn’t see us.

  Mom and I plant another five sticks before he hangs up. For a few blissful moments, the only sound is a low buzzing of bees moving from blossom to blossom.

  “Piers, come plant with us,” my mom waves. My dad holds up a finger, and goes back to typing in another number to call.

  I sit back on my haunches. “He’s always talking to someone.”

  “He works hard. That’s his job, to take care of us.”

  Dad starts talking again, leaving a message. The sound of his voice triggers a memory I feel deep in my bones. I grab my aching arms. “Am I going to have to go back to the hospital?”

  Mom sees me shrinking into myself, and gives me a hug that leaves dirt prints on my shirt. She smells so sweet, like roses. “No, sweetie. No more hospitals. At least, not for a while.”

  “How are my two girls?” Dad’s shadow falls over me. My mother turns and the sun falls full on her face. Green eyes, black hair and brows, brown skin - she’s so beautiful, my mother. My skin is more olive, a compromise between the natural tan of my mother’s heritage and my dad’s pallor, but otherwise people say I look like her.

  “We’re planting roses.”

  “More roses?” Dad teases. And I smile, because that’s exactly what I said. But in the next moment he frowns. “Daphne, you’re watching out for your momma, right? Make sure she’s not growing too tired—”

  “That’s not her job,” Mom’s voice is soft, but she rarely cuts people off. Dad stills like she snapped at him.

  I pat his leg. “It’s okay, Dad. I am watching her. I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”

  Mom and Dad share a long look over my head. It ends when Dad bows his. I don’t quite know what their fight is about, but I know Mom won.

  “Good girl,” Dad says to me. His voice is thick with emotion I don’t understand. He drops a kiss on my head and lowers himself down to the lawn with us. “Now, how do I plant these sticks?”

  Thirty-Three

  Present day

  Daphne

  I don’t know how long I sit beside my sleeping father.

  He looks bad. Shocking. When did his skin become so translucent? How did I miss this? It’s only been a few weeks. He was so much stronger the last time I was here. Now, he looks like he’s— Like he’s—

  I want to reach out and grab his hand but he looks too weak to touch. Like he’s made of dust and if I touch him he’ll disintegrate.

  The nurse comes in and out a few times. Checks my dad’s vitals and shows me how to swab his lips to keep them wet. Her stance has softened towards me. Who knows what lies Adam told her about me? Which makes me wonder: what other lies has he told? There is a common denominator in a lot of the bad things that have happened: Adam Archer. But I can’t think about that right now.

  “Daphne?” my dad’s wan voice comes out as the barest whisper through cracked lips. His eyes are open only the barest of slits.

  “Dad,” I lean in to touch his cheek. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It feels dry and delicate like filo pastry dough. “I’m here, Dad. It’s going to be okay.”

  “You look...like your mother. I thought you were her.”

  Crap, now I’m crying. “I was thinking of her just now.” I brush my sleeve over my eyes and grab the cup of water. “Hey, can you drink a little bit for me?”

  Everything else feels so silly and unimportant now. All the drama. All the hurt and grudges. In this moment, all I want is to go back and spend time with my dad. I wasted so much time. We both did.

  “Try…” he whispers. I set the straw between his lips and coax him to take some sips. He doesn’t take much. That’s when I know: we’re counting the hours, not the days, now. Shit.

  Fat tears roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t know you were this bad. I would’ve been here. Dad.”

  “Busy...girl.” His eyes are open a little wider now and they are shining, a small smile curving his lips up.

  “Yeah.” My laugh is pathetic. “It certainly has been a couple of days.” I filter through all that’s happened, trying to figure out what I can tell him. Hey, dad, I ended up in the tabloids again—this time with my clothes off! And I’ve lost the love of my life and my job all in one scandal. Oh, and I think Adam Archer orchestrated it all so he can steal our company.

  “Um, Dad? I have to tell you… I’m not engaged.” I stare at his liver-spotted finger entwined with mine. “I told Adam I didn’t want to marry him.” There, that’s nice and simple, and without any lurid details. And I managed not to call Adam a douche canoe.

  Dad makes a little sound and I rush out, “I know it’s what you wanted for me—”

  He seems agitated and finally manages to bark out, “No.”

  “No?” I risk raising my eyes to his. Is this what it’s finally come to, then? And he doesn’t even know the worst of it. How do I tell him his life’s work, his company is about to slip through my fingers? “I’m such a failure.” It’s barely a whisper but he must hear.

  “Shhh. Not a failure. Never.” His hand traces my wrist, the veins, as if remembering when they bore IVs.

  “I couldn’t save mom. I was supposed to cure her. That’s why you had me, right?” I half laugh. But we’re both crying.

  “Daphne,” he mouths my name. Twin tracks of water stream from his eyes.

  “Shhh.” I wipe his face and give him more water. The nurse comes in and the moment is broken. I excuse myself to give dad privacy.

  I find a bathroom and commandeer a whole box of tissues. Then the floodgates open. When I head back in, Dad’s sleeping, so I take up vigil by the window and look at the flowers perched in the window box, bright and colorful in the midday sun.

  I wasted so much time working for my father’s love. Why? Because you didn’t know love could be effortless. Unconditional. Not like I do now.

  The nurse finds me still staring out the window.

  “He’s ready for you.”

  I sniffle and wipe my eyes, to hide my sadness. “This is the end, isn’t it?” I can’t believe I’m really asking that question.

  She hesitates, and nods. “He’s out of pain. I did my best to make him comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” I swallow hard.

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No.” I wave the pathetic crumple of tissues in my hand. “I’m fine.” The nurse doesn’t move, so I add, “I’ll go in in a moment.”

  “I called him. Mr. Archer. I didn’t tell him you were here.”

  “Oh….thank you.” I don’t quite understan
d her determined expression, but she looks like she wants to say more.

  She draws herself up. “I told him Dr. Laurel wasn’t long for this world, and it was time to notify his next of kin. He told me he’d handle it, and hung up.”

  Ah. Good ole Adam, showing his true douche canoe colors. “He’s probably not going to call me.”

  “That’s what I suspected. I saw the tabloids today.”

  Oh no. “You did?’ I hide my wince.

  “I did. And if any man did that to me, I wouldn’t be his fiancée for long.”

  I blink at her declaration. “Did...what exactly?” I ask carefully.

  “Forced you to have a threesome.” She looks as confused as I feel. “At least that’s what the Herald said.”

  “Oh…” A threesome? Dear gods. These reporters have quite the imagination. “Well, you’re right. I’m not his fiancée any more. Gave back the ring and everything.”

  She gives a satisfied nod. “Good girl.”

  “I told my father the engagement’s off, but didn’t tell him why.”

  She mimes locking her lips shut and bustles off.

  I wilt against the window. Since when is my life a soap opera? I head back in to my dad, squeezing the back of my neck to wring out the exhaustion.

  My dad is sleeping again, his lips parted.

  The death rattle starts at dusk. I alternate pacing the floor at the foot of dad’s bed, and sitting by his side, watching the blanket rise and fall. Waiting for the final breath.

  My dad’s lips move and his eyes flutter open. “I wish…”

  I rush to grab his cup of ice chips, but he refuses. He’s trying to tell me something.

  I lean closer. “What, Dad? What do you wish?”

  “I wish ... Logan were here.”

  Oh. My. Gods.

  I glance at my phone, but it’s dead. And Logan probably wouldn’t even pick up if I called.

  “I had two sons, one dark, one light. Both were lost. But you…” His head rolls back, his eyes fluttering closed as his throat works soundlessly.

  His lips move, his voice creaking, “Want you to...” he heaves for breath and continues, “be happy.”

  My eyes burn. “Oh, Dad.”

  Finally, after years—after a lifetime—of not communicating, I feel like Dad is finally telling me something true. He’s finally looking at me and seeing me. Talking to me like I’m a real person and not just his creation he can order around.

  I see what I couldn’t for so long—my father is far from a perfect man. But it doesn’t mean there isn’t still love between us.

  I hold the straw to his mouth again. He takes half a sip of water and chokes out. “You’re so beautiful. My rose bud.”

  “No more time. Need you to—” he heaves and coughs, “forgive me.”

  “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “It’s not right...what we did to him.”

  Chills blast down my arms. “Dad? What did you do?”

  “It’s not right,” he murmurs weakly. “Adam said…” He shakes his head and his voice trails off. I fight a scream. All my answers are here.

  He clutches my hand. “Make it right.”

  “How?” I cry, but his head has dropped back on the pillow and he starts whispering too softly for me to hear. I put my ear by his lips.

  “Bella…”

  “Belladonna?” I step back and search my dad’s face, but his eyes are closed. He never reopens them, but even unconscious, he continues to whisper one name over and over.

  And it’s not his company’s. It’s my mother’s.

  “Isabella…Isabella… Bella… Bella, Bella, Bella…”

  Thirty-Four

  Present Day

  Logan

  Dr. Laurel’s memorial service is held near Belladonna’s headquarters, in a garden dedicated to patients of Battleman’s.

  “He fought tirelessly to save them from the ravages of a cruel disease. A disease that claimed his wife’s life,” intones the priestess.

  I lurk on the furthest edge of the crowd at the back, watching Daphne’s dark, huddled figure. She stands alone beside a display of roses, her face lifted to the misting rain. She looks so cold.

  The board members are all here, and so is Adam Archer. The question is, why am I here? Just to torment myself?

  Did I think I’d feel some sense of victory, standing on the grave of one of the men who participated in my downfall?

  I feel nothing for the old man. But my eyes are continually drawn back to Daphne, again and again. She lived her life for her father’s approval for so long. How is she doing now that he’s gone?

  When the priestess is done with the last rites, my blood burns as Adam makes his way close to Daphne, leaning down to say something to her, but she stares past him to her father’s closed coffin. After a few minutes, Adam gives up and stalks away, and my tense muscles relax.

  The ceremony continues. Both Adam and the board unerringly find the biggest philanthropists in the city to stand next to, probably so they can schmooze them after the service.

  Daphne stays where she is, beside her father’s empty coffin. I know it’s empty, because earlier today he was cremated. His estate lawyer sent me notice, along with a formal request to be interred beside his wife at Thornhill.

  A request I denied. Maybe it’s petty of me, but I hated that old bastard and I swore he’d never enter my property dead or alive. He did nothing for his wife or daughter in life.

  I feel a few pangs of guilt as Daphne sprinkles rose petals at the base of the statue dedicated to Dr. Laurel. She looks thinner and paler than I last saw her. Reporters dog her steps and I want to growl, scare them all off. Wrap her in my great coat and carry her back to my castle. Make sure she got a good meal in her.

  And then what? She chose Adam. I trusted her with my heart and she reduced it to rubble. Why the fuck am I here again?

  A funeral goer glances up at me, startled. I’m growling like a feral dog. I glare at him until he flashes the whites of his eyes and scuttles away.

  Calm. Control. Daphne’s pale face, red lips moving as she thanks the priestess. Her frozen expression as black-garbed people mill past to pay their respects.

  I feel nothing for her. I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that over and over again. I can believe anything if I say it enough times. Any emotion I ever had for Daphne Laurel needs to die.

  * * *

  Daphne

  Logan leaves. A hulking mountain of a man. I saw him as soon as he showed up. It’s ridiculous that he even tries to hide.

  Adam Archer leaves too, after posing with the statue for a few photos. He glances my way, willing me to look at him, but the board gathers around him, ushering him away. Belladonna’s board members won’t even look in my direction.

  Not that I want them to. The news came out this morning: Belladonna’s CEO fired. The papers took the opportunity to rerun my half-naked photos on the front page. Next to the news of my dad’s memorial service.

  I lost everything in one fell swoop.

  Half the people came to pay their respects, the other half to gawk. Or take photos of me, the disgraced daughter. Not that I need more photographic evidence to document my complete and utter failure.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” a well meaning socialite murmurs.

  Which one? I want to reply.

  “I’d say I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m more worried about you catching cold,” a cultured voice makes my chin jerk up.

  Armand. Seeing a friendly face in this tank of sharks is so welcoming, I have to fight back tears as Armand grasps both my hands in his gloved ones.

  “Girl, you need more layers.” He starts stripping off his gloves.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, but I let him take my hand and tug the glove on.

  He doesn’t answer until he’s put both of his gloves on my hands. I haven’t cried since my dad died, but Armand’s kindness makes me want to weep. “I heard about what happened. With
Belladonna, with everything. I know it’s trite, but I believe things will turn out all right.” He touches my face and now his hands are cold. “How’re you doing?”

  I tell him the honest truth. “I’m at rock bottom.” There’s no one left, nowhere to go. I’m all but homeless, friendless, have no more family, no job, no—

  “Come here.” Armand hugs me in front of everyone. Not that there are many people left and I don’t care who’s watching anyway. It’s not like I have much reputation left to lose.

  “You know the great thing about rock bottom?” Armand’s whisper tickles my ear. “There’s nowhere to go but up.”

  I choke out a laugh and pull away from Armand. “Thank you,” I sniffle.

  “And look on the bright side. You look wicked lovely in black.” His kohl-lined eyes glitter with laughter, and I reward him with a small smile. “Next time—a hat. A hat would complete this look. Funeral chic.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” I bite back my own smile. And gods, he’s right. I’m not the one who died today. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a long, full life. I can’t just give up because of a rough patch. Even if it’s a really rough patch.

  The last of the crowd flocks away, leaving me beside the statue honoring my dad. A pigeon has already crapped on the bronze head. But that’s life, isn’t it?

  “Bye, Dad.”

  My bones creak as I head to the curb. I feel old, like I’ve aged ninety years in a week. But my heart is light. Maybe Armand is right. Rock bottom is a great place to be.

  At my feet, a little yellow blossom pokes up between two slabs of concrete. A dandelion growing through the cracks. Most people would call it a weed, but my mother knew ten different ways to use the blossom, leaves, and root.

  I can do this.

  I luck out and catch up to Armand before he gets in the car.