by Lana Sky
Hell, tonight, I’m even graced with my own eclipse: Sloane’s clinging to my side, murmuring all the gossip I missed over the weeks.
“…and then he gave her the money to fix the ‘little’ problem, of course,” she stage-whispers as we pass a politician rumored to be in the midst of a scandal. Suddenly, she grabs my arm. “Oh, and social climber alert. She’s ruthless. Avoid her at all costs.”
Her scorn is directed toward a beautiful woman with flowing, black hair, dressed in red. I don’t recognize her, and at a glance, dressed in a modest gown, she doesn’t trigger any alarm.
“Her name’s Riley Haverty. A talk show host who runs some charity,” Sloane explains while steering me along. “She’s been hounding me for weeks, trying to get an audience with the illustrious Snowy Hollings—”
“A what?” I frown, giving the woman another glance. Caught between two wealthy men, she doesn’t notice as Sloane smuggles me past.
“I told her to get in line,” the Spanish beauty continues. “Like everyone else. If I have to hear someone ask me about you and Daniel one more damn time. Oh!” She lets me go and wiggles through two elegantly dressed women. “Papa’s waving me over,” she calls back. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
I have no choice but to press on without her. One must navigate the social order of Mayfield like a shark in the open sea; you stop swimming and you die.
Upon spotting my brothers on the periphery, I make my way toward them. At least Hunter could easily do all the acting for me; he’s been so obsessed with our “reputation” lately. But when I try to meet his gaze, he’s too busy chatting up a fellow guest to notice.
Unease spurs me on. Perhaps it’s the glittery scenery, but this moment feels like glass. Fragile. It’s as if some invisible clock is counting down the seconds until it’s shattered. God, I can hear it beneath my heartbeat, steadily ticking away.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Can I have your attention, please?”
I turn, along with the rest of the crowd, to face the raised dais at the back of the ballroom, where Antonio Sebastián is standing before a microphone. His resemblance to Sloane is apparent in his sensual, shameless smile. A wealthy investor, he’s a magnate in his own right, with sway almost comparable to what Father once commanded.
But even he can’t afford to run such an event alone. The thought only comes to me now: With the Hollings money out of contention, which wealthy family rose to the occasion to claim the mantle of this year’s star benefactor?
Given Patsy’s gall to confront me, I’d stake my money on the Abernathys.
“I’d like to introduce the man of the hour,” Mr. Sebastián begins as if reading my mind. “Without his generous donation, I’m sure the Children’s Hospital wouldn’t receive nearly the incredible support that we expect to give this quarter.” He extends his hand beyond the crowd, toward a lone figure whose entrance must have been perfectly timed to coincide with his introduction. “Please join me in welcoming Mr. Blake Lorenz…”
Icy dread solidifies my limbs, rooting me to the floor. It’s as if my entire body conspires to prevent me from turning around.
But it’s too late. Driven by an impulse I can’t name, our gazes connect, his one of chilling, unending blue.
Standing on the periphery, this mysterious benefactor gleams, a creature formed of shadow, illuminated by a spotlight that settles on him from above. He’s dressed in the colors of destruction—a black tux and a blood-red tie—promising more with every step propelling him through a throng of gaping admirers.
Toward me.
I’m already turning on autopilot, pushing my way through anyone unlucky enough to be caught in my path. Shoving. Someone gasps and mutters a curse—I’m making a scene. Embarrassment sears my cheeks, but I can’t stop. Not until I’m shrouded in the shadows of the ballroom. Then farther. Farther…
“Stop—”
He grabs my wrist from behind, halting me mid-sprint. Thrown off-balance, I stagger backward into a stone surface. A breathing, stiffening stone surface. We’re in a hallway, one that branches toward the front of the house and is devoid of anyone else. When I step forward to escape, my captor grips me tighter.
“Just fucking wait a minute.”
His tone sinks into me like a hook, spearing tender flesh. Caught, I’m spun around, forced to meet his gaze. God, it’s like looking at a ghost. A demon. I find myself pinching the side of my hip—hard—to reinforce the painful truth.
This man isn’t my Brandt. At least not anymore…
“Finally.” He hesitates as he flicks his gaze over me, narrowed. “You look…”
I can guess the taunts he doesn’t voice. You look broken, Snowy. You look disgusting.
I tug my arm, but his grip tightens.
“Wait.”
In the glow of moonlight streaming in through a nearby window, I can only make out the stern line of his jaw, but there’s no snarl distorting it. No glare lurks behind his gaze, either. Just shadow.
“We need to talk—”
“Why?” I’m not stupid. Hope is a weak fantasy I easily squash; I may have told him the truth, but in the grand scheme, it means nothing. Ten years of pain have done their damage, and no excuse on my part could ever make up for them. Weeks of reckoning with what happened between us on my own, however, still haven’t prepared me for this. Seeing him. Smelling him. Hearing him: gruff but for once devoid of anger. Swallowing hard, I echo my pathetic question. “Why now?”
He flinches. Surprised? As if to compensate for that brief weakness, he steps in closer, towering above me. “You want a reason? How about business? My accountant is still waiting for a call from you.”
I cringe, remembering his poisoned olive branch: a sum more than I could ever hope to recover from my family’s finances—money we desperately need. And money I’ve left virtually in limbo, untouched.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he questions when I haven’t answered. “After all this time, you owe me more than fucking silence, Snow.”
Do I? I thought his parting gift in my hospital room was closure enough on his part—a birth certificate, in addition to the account transfer, confirming his identity. Yet the revelation just brought up even more unanswered questions. The foremost being: Why return now?
“What do you want from me?”
He levels his gaze against mine. “All I want is to talk.”
“T-talk?” My mouth goes dry with the possibilities. Talk about how he destroyed my family home? My life? My brothers?
Months of silence and it seems fitting that he would choose now, of all times, to make his reappearance. If only to reinforce the truth he drilled into my skull: He’ll never let me escape the past.
“I think you’ve said enough.”
“Listen to me,” he insists, reaching for my arm again. “Just let me explain. Please—”
“Snowy?”
The shout triggers alarm. Ronan?
Eyes flashing, Blake hisses, “Fuck, not now. Come with me.” His fingers graze my forearm, but I’m already backing out of his reach. I can’t let my brother see me like this.
Sensing my chance, I lunge, breaking into a sprint.
“Snow!”
Panting, I run through the dark, and footsteps echo, gaining on my position. Fast. Faster—too quickly to outrun.
“Snowy!”
Ronan. He’s the one who grabs my forearm. My brain knows it, but my body reacts impulsively and I jump, wrenching away from him.
“Don’t touch me!” I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing his touch away. Overly sensitive skin remembers everything I don’t want to—every hateful caress. The cruel words snarled against my spine and whispered into my ear.
You’re only beautiful like this, Snow. I’ll only want you broken.
“Snowy?”
“I’m fine.” My heart slams against my rib cage as fear mingles with guilt. I’ve never heard Ronan sound so worried. No, so terrifi
ed.
From behind him, I can see Hunter running, his hair mussed in haste. One look at me and he skids to a stop, his hands held before him.
“It’s all right, Snowy,” he says in that soothing, calm murmur only he can master. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We won’t let him hurt—”
“I want to leave.” God, I barely recognize the high-pitched voice tearing out of me. My hands are shaking. Wringing them together can’t disguise the motion though. I’m shaking—and this time, I don’t flinch when Ronan reaches for me, wrapping me in his arms.
“We are,” he says. To Hunter, I hear him mutter, “We should have never brought her here. Fuck him. We’ll just call the police the next time he sends another fucking—”
“Enough,” Hunter snaps. “Now isn’t the time.”
I don’t even try to follow the argument, as they steer me through the ballroom, past wide-eyed vultures desperate for a glance. He’s watching as well—I sense him. Anger and cologne broadcast his location, so fucking close. Behind me? Numb, I can’t even find the strength to look. I just eye the floor, clinging to my brothers as they forge a path through the crowd.
When we finally reach the cool night air, I realize I’ve been holding my breath all along. A bitter chill floods my lungs when I inhale, numbing me to my core.
“It’s all right. We’re leaving,” Ronan insists while shoving me into the first town car that pulls up.
Sandwiched between him and Hunter, I struggle to catch my breath. To catch my senses. The only action my brain seems capable of has nothing to do with logic. Memories seep into the cracks where control has fractured. They taunt me with images, and feelings, and thoughts I’ve spent two months fighting to smother.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, Snow. No one can put you back together again. You’re broken. Beautifully broken.
My brothers try to salvage the damaged pieces. They bundle me in their arms and rush me up to our suite. They ply me with promises of a bubble bath and a warm meal. The moment they leave to let me get undressed, I find myself staggering into the bathroom with the only goal of facing myself in the mirror.
Poor little Snowy Hollings. I was wrong to think wearing a stupid dress and lipstick could hide the damage visible on my skin. Angrily, I swipe the makeup off and sob openly at what I find underneath. A blind person could see it: I’m broken. Hollow. Ugly, selfish little Snow.
I’ll always be that little girl who killed the boy she loved.
And he’ll always haunt me.
Like a coward, I can’t even run. So I cower over the toilet bowl, emptying myself of everything but pain. It’s the only way I feel even an ounce of control.
Of something…
“Snowy!”
Oh no. I look up and find Ronan standing in the doorway, and I’d give anything in the world to avoid witnessing the pain lancing across his features.
All I can do is swipe my hand across my mouth, shaking with silent sobs. “I’m sorry,” I croak, meaning every damn word. “Ronan, I’m so, so sorry.”
Chapter 3
“Remember,” the doctor says, standing before me in clinical white. “One session once a week. I look forward to meeting with you, Snowy.”
My smile forced, I nod and then turn to the two men behind me. Wearing stoic expressions and gray suits, Ronan and Hunter resemble orderlies more than the disgraced businessmen they are.
“I’ll get the car,” Hunter explains before exiting the unit alone, leaving Ronan as my sole escort.
“Are you ready?” he asks, eyeing me warily.
I say nothing. Three days of inpatient psychiatric treatment and I’m right as rain. Honestly, I do feel better, even as my brother escorts me from the private, locked unit on the eighteenth floor of the city’s most exclusive hospital.
All of those hours spent trapped here made one fact apparent: Blake Lorenz is the least of my problems.
Strange things have a habit of being revealed in family therapy sessions. Like the fact that Ronan and Hunter have been corresponding with a medical team for weeks, even before the night of the Sebastiáns’ gala.
“We’re worried about you, Snowy,” Hunter had the nerve to insist, even while he surreptitiously eyed his cell phone beneath the unit’s conference table—watching the stocks, I presume. “Lorenz did something to you,” he added, his teeth bared. “If you just tell us what it fucking was, then we can nail the bastard—”
“Your well-being is all that matters,” Ronan insisted, cutting him off.
Supposedly, that was their motive for turning their backs on me. Covert photographs of a skeletal stranger fill my medical record, along with secondhand descriptions of my behavior for the past eight weeks. I’ve lost five pounds, apparently. I’ve stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. As Ronan relayed to my therapist, he and Hunter were concerned.
Concerned enough to recommend an extended treatment facility outside of Mayfield against my protests. Concerned enough to offer an ultimatum: treatment, either voluntarily or otherwise.
Concerned enough to lie to me all this time.
I can process it all now with an almost detached sense of curiosity. After all, the joke’s on me. I thought I’d been doing such a great job of coping. I smiled on cue and danced like a puppet on a string when asked. But the moment I falter on the world’s stage? Oh, no. It’s time to hide me away.
“Please say something,” Ronan urges as he wrestles with a rolling suitcase containing my belongings and attempts to drag it onto the elevator leading to the hospital lobby. The wheels keep getting stuck just beyond the closing doors. Exasperated, he glances up and tries to shove the extended handle of the suitcase down into the body. “Give me a hand?”
I cut my gaze to the gleaming buttons on the elevator’s interior, but I can’t seem to move. Gradually, the doors meet, blocking off my view of a startled Ronan.
“Snowy!” He lunges a fraction too late.
Ding! The elevator’s already descending, and seconds later, I arrive on the first level alone.
A good sister would wait for him to catch up. She certainly wouldn’t merge into the stream of visitors with her head lowered to keep from drawing attention. She wouldn’t slip down the first hallway she came across with no goal apart from…
What? Running?
Perhaps all I want is some fresh goddamn air. I’m so fucking sick of having my every moment scrutinized and maneuvered like a pawn on a chessboard. I’m so fucking sick…
Strangely, the anger I feel isn’t even directed at Ronan or Hunter. Every ounce of rage festering inside me has only one target: myself.
“I was angry at the world,” a woman says. The veracity of her words makes me freeze, mid-step.
At first glance, I see no one around, and dread gnaws at my nerves. Am I that desperate for validation that I hallucinated it? No. The voice is real, coming from somewhere nearby. A doorway, I realize.
Curious, I find myself drawn closer, peering into what looks like a lecture hall. At a podium stands a beautiful woman with cocoa skin and black hair hanging freely down her back. Dressed in a red pantsuit, she stuns almost as much as her heartfelt words. Her face seems familiar somehow, though I can’t place it to a name.
“Do you want to know the worst part?” she asks the attentive crowd seated before her. “Everyone kept tiptoeing around me like I was some fragile porcelain doll. Like I’d cry at the drop of a hat. They thought I was ‘depressed’ or ‘wallowing in despair,’ but I wasn’t.” She shakes her head and hones her blazing, brown eyes on a distant spot, beyond the reach of those around her. “I was angry. And while I may have been raped, that didn’t mean I was dead.”
Raped. That word triggers alarm that has me scurrying back out into the hall. A bitter ache starts up in my stomach. Guilt? For the first time in so damn long, it feels as though someone is finally voicing what I can’t say. How fitting that it only cements reality like a slap in the face: the elephant in the room. Despite how he treated me, Blake Lore
nz didn’t assault me. At least…I don’t think I can call it that.
I stayed with him willingly. Even the sex was consensual. And, a twisted part of me adds, you enjoyed it.
I cringe away from the thought and then find myself leaning against the wall of a deserted hallway, panting. The longer I dawdle, the more elusive my freedom feels. Ronan’s probably torn the whole hospital apart by now or called in the SWAT team. I almost feel bad for abandoning him. Almost.
But not too long ago, he abandoned me to be Hunter’s babysitter, forced to cater to his fragile ego after our family’s company went to ruin. I never consorted with doctors behind his back. I never betrayed him.
“Excuse me?”
Oh no. Soft footsteps approach, and I look up, fully prepared to find a security guard ready to escort me back to my brother. Instead, an amused pair of brown eyes takes me in, gleaming with genuine interest.
“Snowy Hollings,” the woman says. “Don’t tell me that the one time I stop contacting your family’s offices is the one time I’m graced with a meeting?” Her warm laugh dispels any hostility the words may convey.
Regardless, I blink. “Excuse me?”
She’s the woman from the podium, I realize. But wait. Even stranger, I think she’s the same woman from the gala as well. The ruthless social climber, according to Sloane.
Up close, she radiates a steady confidence even Forrest Hollings would take note of. She tilts her head, eyeing me with a black eyebrow raised. “Or perhaps you were merely minding your own business and the fact you stumbled upon this meeting was entirely coincidence?”
I glance over her shoulder to find that I only managed to take a few steps from the lecture room she spoke in. Soft murmurs allude to the fact that someone else must have taken her place at the podium.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m Riley Haverty,” she says, extending her hand.
I return the gesture, but she doesn’t release my hand.
