by Willa Lively
And I would ask Barb every last detail if I didn’t sense an acrid cloud coming my way. Yes, the cologne that told me as a kid to be on my “best behavior” before the source of the smell even got in the room. That cloud of doom is close, and it’s attached to the very person who has made me doubt a happiness like Barb and Bob’s could ever exist in my life.
“Hello, son,” my father strolls in with an icy glare that suggests he is calling me son as a power move rather than a term of endearment.
And with that, Barb has made herself disappear. I don’t blame her.
“Tell me, Dominick,” I address him, cutting to the chase. “Was the destruction of any possibility to witness healthy examples of affection not enough interference in my love life? Now you need to send paparazzi to harass me with my dates?”
“A simple thank you will do. I’m trying to save this company while you’re gone doing what exactly? Looking for Santa in Finland? Well, sorry son, Santa is a big lie. I guess I should have told you sooner.”
I observe him and the entitled way he moves through my space, like it is his and I am only borrowing it. His silver hair is neatly cut, and he is freshly shaven, the same way it has been my entire life. Except he isn’t maintaining it for the office anymore. No, only vanity. He lost his chance to be the ruler of this office, this company. Yet, he doesn’t seem to understand that yet.
“You want a thank you?” I say, throttling my rage. “What exactly would you like me to thank you for? Reminding me again why I don’t want to be like you?”
“For coming up with a perfect plan to save your ass. When reports get out that one of the musicians you cut from the label is dating you, the others will be discouraged to try to take you to court for breeching contract.”
“How did you even know…” I stop before I finish that sentence. My use of the private jet probably tipped him off, and all he needed to get was Melody’s passport information from the logs to figure out the rest. Damn it.
“You don’t want to be the person who sinks De la Roche Records. It will ruin my legacy and turn you into a laughingstock. Another fallen angel of nepotism.” He watches me with his hands in his suit-pant pockets, completely relaxed as if this is as normal as a father updating his son on the Yankee’s score.
I don’t bother to remind him it was his insistence that I cut so many of the young artists and that I’ve barely been able to run this place without him manipulating and controlling me at every turn. Because whatever bad happens, I’ll get the blame and whatever good happens, he’ll praise himself. Nothing I say will change that.
“I’m having a fundraiser on Friday,” he continues. “I’m sending an invitation today to this Melody Greco girl. You will come together and it will be the official announcement that you’re dating.”
Melody isn’t a fucking prop, I scream in my head. I’ve learned long ago to keep the ‘tantrums’ inside of me away from him. No, I have to hit him from a direction he can’t see coming.
“Melody and I are no longer seeing each other,” I say instead. “She won’t come.”
“What the hell did you do?” He sneers at me. “Whatever, I don’t want to hear about it. Just fix it before Friday. I expect to see you both. Together.”
Over my dead body.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lie.
I will fix it between Melody and I, but not the way he wants. I’ll do what a part of me knew would always be the outcome of this brief moment of, whatever it is, with Melody. De la Roche’s can have many things, but a ‘happily ever after’ has never been one of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Melody
“Hey, my darling sister?” Julia, my little sister, asks while splayed out on my couch. She seems to think that me being gone for a week is me relinquishing my rights to my apartment and handing it over to her.
“Uh oh,” I answer while throwing my dirty laundry from the trip into a laundry bag. “That isn’t a promising beginning. What do you want?”
She bats her eyelashes innocently. “I’m just wondering why the neighbor we all saw leaving from your apartment building is in a photo with you in Finland?”
Crap.
She is holding up her phone, which shows Cole’s Instagram. The dude has hundreds of thousands of followers and tagged me in a photo from New Year’s Eve. It’s Brooke, Cole, Lumi, Luc, and I chatting near the fire, but Luc’s arm is wrapped tightly around me. Luc doesn’t have an Instagram, so luckily my sister won’t know I’m cozy with the man I exclusively called the devil before going to Finland. No, as an older sister I have to inspire a little more self-respect in her than that.
But I can’t hide from her the fact that this man is most definitely not my neighbor.
I move her legs and sit on the edge of the couch. “Well, Jules, sometimes when a man and a woman really like each other…” I start with a smirk.
She throws a pillow at me. “Melody! I’m 16! An adult! I just want you to talk to my like I’m a friend. And it’s not like you’re protecting me from some big and bad thing by not telling me about your love life.”
“Oh, you’re an adult, huh?” I say teasing, but I can see her face is serious. “Alright, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to treat you like you’re younger than you are, I just… I’m still figuring out a lot of this stuff too, so I don’t want to be a bad influence.”
She shrugs, “I don’t want you to be an influence,” she says the word in air quotes, “I just want you to be my sister. If we were closer in age, we would be figuring all this stuff out together anyway.”
I put her legs on my lap and look at her. When did it happen that she is suddenly a young woman? Our parents had tried for a baby for so long after they had me. They had nearly given up, but then Julia came along, laughing and giggling into our family. I’m ten years older than her and often cared for her, so our relationship has had a unique dynamic. I guess it’s time for me to adjust according to the fact that she seems to need me as a friend now more than she needs me as a guardian.
“You’re right,” I say to which a big smile spreads across her face in response.
“Okay,” she says. “Then tell me everything.”
When I finish telling her about Luc, leaving out any mention of sex because I am certainly not there yet, all she can say is, “A private jet? Seriously?” over and over.
“I promise you, Jules, in a dating pool like New York, a private jet is less of a rare find than him not having a huge stick up his, uh, butt.”
“You can say ass.”
“Butt.” I squeeze her leg. “What about you? Any lucky people fortunate enough to be crushed on by you?”
“Of course, I have crushes. I’m sixteen for Pete’s sake, but almost none of them are actual people I would ever in a million years meet. Like, I think I have a crush on half the guys I follow on TikTok and they’re complete strangers.”
“Almost none of them,” I repeat her words back to her.
“Alright, sister time over,” she announces while getting up.
“Oh, come on!” I whine. Now it’s my turn to throw a pillow at her. “I told you mine.”
“Nope,” she says. “Yours takes you on private jets. Mine doesn’t know I exist. Plus, I actually promised Mom I would help her set up an Instagram account tonight.”
“One- there is no way he doesn’t know you exist and I’ll get it out of you, eventually. Two- don’t miss this opportunity to give mom a hilarious username. If you want to be treated like an adult, you gotta play with the big dogs. You got this. Make me proud.”
“You’re ruthless! See you tomorrow for dinner?”
I nod and wave her off, and as soon as I’m alone, I pick up my guitar.
My alone time doesn’t last long, as the buzzer on my apartment intercom goes off.
“Who is it?” I ask while pressing the button to connect me to the apartment’s front door.
“Hey Melody, it’s Lucien. Do you have time for me to come up for a bit?” His unmistakabl
e voice comes through the speaker and my heart races. Why is he here? He sounds somber and without the mischievous slant I’ve come to associate with him. Even him using both of our whole names instead of the shortened versions is unusual. Did something happen?
“Oh,” I say, unable to hide my confusion. “Okay, come on up.” I buzz him in.
I run to the bathroom to check out my appearance before he gets to my front door. I’m wearing leggings and an old sweatshirt, my hair is all over the place, and the apartment is a mess from my unpacking. There is no time to address all these things, so I pick and choose. I throw my hair up in a bun and strip off my sweatshirt to throw on a white v-neck t-shirt over the black sports bra I have on. The apartment is hopeless, so Lucien will just have to accept that he is not doing the nasty with a type-A personality. It’s better anyway that he figures that out sooner rather than later.
A knock comes at my apartment door, and I smooth my hair before opening it.
It’s only been two days, but I feel my brain light up at the sight of him. He’s dressed like he just came from the office, with blue slacks and a white dress shirt that reveals the outline of his chest and arms if you look close enough, which apparently I am. His hair is pushed back in a more polished look than he favored over his vacation in Finland, and he is clean-shaven.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, spreading my arm out long to signal that he’s welcome to come in. After our awkward goodbye at the airport, I’m not really sure how we should greet each other. He texted me a million times yesterday (now that I’ve unblocked him). Even so, a part of me feels like I should let him set the pace after it literally scared him to be close to me in public at the airport.
“Yeah, thanks,” he says. I get a close look at his face and it comes across as strange and wrong, just like his voice did over the intercom. His lips are in a firm line and his brown eyes look kind of like puppy eyes, but not the comforting kind. No, his eyebrows arched inward as if he just did something bad that he regrets.
I move to the couch and signal for him to sit.
“Do you want a water or anything?” I ask with increasing nervousness in my voice. It’s clear that whatever he is here for can’t be good.
“No, no thank you,” he sighs as he sits down. “I’m sorry to just show up at your apartment like this. I just…” He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it out of its perfectly pushed back form. “I just knew I wouldn’t be able to do it unless I came here straight away.”
“Do what, Luc?” My voice comes out sharp and foreboding.
His eyes look directly at me, and I see them harden, the emotion draining from them.
“I can’t see you anymore.” His words hit me like a punch to the stomach. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
I swallow hard instead of answering, because what the hell do you say to that. I can’t believe just a minute ago, my heart raced hearing his voice. Just an hour ago, I raved over him like a little schoolgirl to my little sister. And just a week ago, I was safe from him. I hadn’t let him into my heart yet. But he was the one who insisted I did, and now? Is this some kind of twisted game for him?
I look back at his face, hard and unflinching. No. I realize. It isn’t a game. He just sees me as expendable. Something to throw away when he’s done.
“Okay,” I say, forcing the tears that are building on the rims of my eyes to stay put. I squeeze my hands tight, digging the nails into my palm to channel the rage that is beginning to course through me. “Well, you should leave then.” I can’t even look at him.
“I’m sorry, Mel,” he reaches his hand out to touch me.
“Don’t.” My body tenses up as if to scream at him to not get any closer. “Don’t call me that, don’t get near me, and don’t give me some bullshit excuse. Just do me a favor and get the hell out of my apartment.”
With my head turned down, I can see him clenching and releasing his fists instead of moving to the door. I need him to get out before I completely and totally lose it.
“Please, just leave now,” I am begging.
He takes a big sigh and starts heading to the door. I get up suddenly and grab the lute, which is still packed in its case. He opens the door slowly and steps out. I drop the lute case on the hallway floor next to him and go to shut the door.
He holds his palm up to stop the door from shutting.
“Please keep the lute,” he practically whispers it. “Please.”
“I don’t want it,” I answer curtly.
He lets out a long breath. “Don’t you,” he pauses without completing the thought. “Could we just sit and talk about this a little more, so I can explain to you why?”
Now I finally let myself meet his eyes. They look enormous and terrified and a part of me wants to grab onto him and beg him to stay, beg him to explain, especially if it would take that pained expression off of his face. But that would be one too many times I let Lucien De la Roche get my hopes up. He wants to end this. There was nothing unclear about what he said, so nothing he could add would make it better.
“No,” I finally answer. “I don’t need Lucien De la Roche telling me yet again why I’m not good enough. Goodbye, Lucien.” I say and I force the door closed despite his mouth opening to try to say something. I run to my room, collapse on the bed, and finally let myself cry. The hot tears come streaming down my face and I’m reminded of the last time I was crying like this. It was because of the same man.
Never again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lucien
“I have the utmost respect for you, Mrs. Mavis.” I hear Cole’s voice getting closer to my office door. “But, I am going to disregard your wishes in this case and barge in on him. Consider it a wellness check.”
And with that, Cole is standing in my doorway with a very annoyed Barb trailing behind him with her hands on her hips.
“Do you want me to call security, Mr. De la Roche?” She asks, eyeing Cole.
“Not yet, but I’ll let you know if that changes. Thanks, Barb.” I say as Cole mouths, “sorry,” to her before shutting the door.
“Dude, what the fuck,” he says, plopping himself into the chair across from my desk. “Did you lose your phone in Finland and not get a new one? Or are you simply a huge asshole who has been ignoring me for a month?”
“I’m a huge asshole who has been ignoring you for a month,” I answer. Easy.
“Yeah, figured. Well, get your ass up because you’re taking me for a drink to apologize.”
“I’m not sorry,” I say while going back to the e-mail that I was in the middle of.
“Well you should be,” Cole stands up. “While you’re holed away doing whatever it is you’re doing, the world has been turning, anyway. Brooke is going through a hard time and you’re an absolute asshole for not knowing that.”
Shit. Brooke had called me a few times, and I ignored it because I thought it would be to ream me out for Melody.
“Is she okay?” I say, giving him my full attention now.
“I’ll give you the details over a glass of top-shelf scotch paid for by you,” he shrugs.
“Fine, you opportunistic ass,” I growl.
“Awe, that’s sweet that you see opportunity in it,” he smiles while looking back at his butt.
“Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
We go to a common spot of ours, a hotel lounge in Soho, and find refuge in two leather armchairs facing each other.
As promised, once I load Cole up with a pricey glass of whiskey, he explains one of the many reasons I’m an asshole. Brooke’s father had a heart attack. He’s home now, but it’s looking like he has some larger health issues that are concerning. My heart breaks for their family and I hate myself for not being there for them. Brooke’s dad is a ruthless businessman in the real estate industry, and an entrepreneur like my own father. It’s how they became friends. The difference is, Brooke and her father’s relationship was always much more loving than my own ever was with my fath
er. When I would spend time at their house as a kid, I dreaded having to go home to our soulless Manhattan apartment.
I escape to the balcony and leave Brooke a message immediately. I don’t blame her for not picking up, but hopefully my groveling helps. I text Barb to order a gift basket and work out a weekly time for my favorite private chef that specializes in healthy meals to go over to Brooke’s dad’s house. He won’t be happy about giving up steaks, so hopefully this will help.
When I get back, Cole and I exchange childhood memories of Brooke’s dad. We can’t stop laughing about one memory in particular when he was banging on Brooke’s door like a madman because he knew Cole was at the house and her door was locked. Before we could let him in he picked the lock, thinking he was about to discover his daughter breaking the rule of no boys alone with her in her room. Instead, he found me helping to zip Cole into one of Brooke’s dresses. She had let us raid her closet for Halloween and, of course, Cole insisted on going as Samantha from Sex and the City. Brooke wasn’t even home. He stuttered a nervous apology and then proceeded to compliment Cole profusely on his outfit before we left.
Before we can get lost in another story, two young women walk up to our table. They are both long and leggy and their short, tight dresses show that they are very aware of it.
“You guys mind if we join?” the girl with blonde hair tied up in a bun asks us. “It’s my friend’s first night in New York and I promised her we would find her some cosmopolitan men to go along with this cosmopolitan city. Lacy here is from the country and you guys certainly look like you’re from the city.”
