by Elodie Colt
With one hand still around my neck, his other wriggles down to open his pants, and I gasp when his cock jumps free, slapping against my thigh.
“Tell me that you know I love you,” he grits out. “Tell me that you know how much you mean to me.”
I rotate my hips, eager to find some friction, but he won’t grant me the satisfaction.
“Say the words, come on.”
“I… I know that you love me,” I finally manage to mumble.
“Good,” he says, a pleased smile on his face as his hand disappears beneath my dress to get my panties out of the way. “Because now I’m going to show you just how hard I’ve fallen for you.”
15
Ella
I watch my fresh dragonfly nymphs as they explore their new environment, crawling over the rocks inside my aquarium. They resemble brown bugs with fat nubs as tails, but in a few months, they will shed their skin and grow up to be majestic conquerors of the air. The southern hawker will grow a long body with lime-green specks, the common whitetail will get a tail so white it looks like someone dipped it in paint, and the ebony jewelwing will turn its body into a shimmering turquoise along with wings so black, they almost seem unreal.
A contented sigh wafts over my lips. I don’t know why, but this felt important somehow—to have six dragonflies in my aquarium again, true to my lucky number. Our lucky number.
Mom loved to watch the dragonflies buzzing around the pond behind our house. I remember her whole-hearted laughs whenever they landed on my hair, wriggling their tails in front of my forehead.
My phone pings with an incoming message, and my smile wavers when I look down at the picture. I called the cemetery gardener in Belgorod yesterday, asking him to plant new flowers on Mom’s grave in honor of her birthday and send me a picture. Now, it’s bursting with yellow Bidens and pink Zinnias—her favorite flowers.
Tears prickle my eyes, and I lock the screen, taking a deep breath. It would have been her fifty-eighth birthday. A day we would have spent with homemade honey cake for breakfast, a spa treatment in the afternoon, and a vodka-shot drinking game in the evening. A beautiful day she should have lived to see.
I amble over to my closet to pull out Mom’s shoebox. The alexandrite ring rolls loosely around inside, and I pluck it up to put it on my finger, watching the multiple colors refracting in the light. I’ve never seen Mom wearing it. What did this ring mean to her? What did the man who gave it to her mean to her? Did she love him? Hate him? Both?
A knock on the door resounds, and I quickly wipe a tear away as Zoya pops in.
“Are you ready? Oh, I remember that one,” she says when she takes in my purple halter dress with a tiered skirt, smiling. “Mom wanted you to wear it every Sunday for church.”
I utter a low chuckle. “Yeah. And no one ever saw it underneath my thick winter coat.”
“Well, you can skip the coat here.” She winks at me. “Come on, let’s get going.”
Mom made all the clouds that had darkened the morning hours disappear. The sun kisses my skin as we make our way to Zoya’s car, promising a beautiful, warm afternoon at the beach.
“I’m glad we’ve found the time to hang out,” Zoya says when we arrive at Coney Island Creek Park a few minutes later.
“Yeah. Funny that we’ve been living in the same house for weeks and haven’t shared a single day yet.”
“Was Nathan okay with you spending the day with me?” she asks when we exit her car to go for a walk. “Or did he go all caveman on you for not sleeping over at his place today?”
I chuckle, slipping off my sandals when the trail molds into wavy sand dunes. “No, he was very understanding. You know him…”
Zoya gives me a wry look. “Actually, I don’t.”
I bite my lip, my vacant gaze on the windsurfers gliding over the waves in the distance. The last two weeks went by in a blur. Work, sex, sleep, repeat. Complete emotional overload. The rare times I was home, I holed myself in my room to get my translation projects done. The rest, I either spent in the gallery or at Nathan’s.
“Hey, no hard feelings, Ella.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “I know you two have a lot of catching up to do. You deserve some peace for once.”
My gaze drops to my feet as I try not to step onto the rocky bits littering the uneven shoreline.
“I know I’ve shut you out lately,” I say, my tone somber. “The last few months have been intense. New job, new love, new life… Everything made a three-sixty overnight, you know?”
Zoya stuffs her hands into the pockets of her frayed cut-offs. “And you should be happy it did.”
“I am.”
Judging from the way she cocks an eyebrow at me, I assume I didn’t sound as convincing as intended.
“Why don’t I see a smile on your face, then?”
She thinks I don’t smile. She never witnesses them. When I’m with Nathan, I smile all the time. Even in my sleep. It’s only when I come back home that the feeling of unease creeps up on me, a constant, disturbing sense of foreboding. The silence before the storm.
“It’s about Luka, isn’t it?” she concludes as she watches the emotions playing on my face. “Has he contacted you lately?”
I kick a tangled chunk of driftwood, making it land on the sand with a thud. “Not since I got myself a new phone.”
But I know he’s lurking in the shadows in front of your house every damn day.
“Really? Or are you just saying this to make me feel better?”
I purse my lips. “Mom had cancer, and she never talked about it. She wanted to cope with it on her own. It was hard for you and me, but in a way, we both understood.” The sea breeze throws some strands of hair in front of my face, and I brush them behind my ear. “I’m sick, too. Luka is my cancer. Always there and impossible to cure. I have to deal with it my way.”
She huffs. “I know. I just wished I could help you.”
I swing an arm around her, squeezing her. “You already do. More than you know.”
She sends me a sweet smile before her gaze lands on my hand where the alexandrite ring glitters on my finger.
“Is that the ring you told me about? The one your real father gave Mom?”
I nod.
“You never said anything about searching for him,” she muses. “Aren’t you curious who he is?”
I snort. “Hard pass.”
Zoya ignores my mocking tone. “We could go to a genealogist. See if we can find out who he is, and where he lives…”
I remain silent for a moment, watching the whitecaps slapping the shore. “He broke Mom’s heart. I want to kill him on principle, no matter who he is. And as it stands, my hit list is already full.”
A con and a cheater, that’s what Mom called him in her letter. Thanks, but I think we’re better off without each other, Daddy.
“I—” Zoya starts, but her phone buzzing interrupts whatever she was about to say. I recognize the ring tone she’s saved for Holly as soon as The Scorpions’ guitar riff from Rock You Like A Hurricane blares from her speakers.
“Hey, hun, how’s it going with… What?”
My head snaps to her when she halts mid-stride, her face slackening.
“Shit. How bad is it?” She rakes a hand down her face. “Okay, I’m on my way. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“What happened?” I ask when she ends the call.
“A water pipe burst in the tattoo parlor.”
“Oh no…”
She bites her lip. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined our afternoon.”
“Go.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll take a cab home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Alright.” She gives me a peck on my cheek. “See you later, then.”
I wait until she’s out of sight before I resume my walk on the beach, watching two seagulls as they dive down for food. The beautiful weather lured out joggers, fishermen, and families. Kids are building sandcastles while their pa
rents enjoy the sun on their towels.
I’m glad that Nathan allowed me some distance today, some time for myself and my thoughts. We’ve been inseparable over the last two weeks, and while I loved every minute I’ve been spending with him, I still enjoy my solitude.
A woman clad in neon pink running shorts draws my attention as she jogs in my direction, her sports bra pushing her wobbling tits almost up to her chin. It’s only when we lock eyes that I realize who she is.
Oh no, not her…
Just pretend you haven’t seen me. Please, just take a hike.
She doesn’t. Her eyes grow wide, and she slows down, plucking out one earbud and stuffing it into her shorts. She halts in front of me, and just like that, my earlier enthusiasm hits rock bottom.
“Ella,” Aiko says in a voice so honeyed, I can taste the revolting sweetness on my tongue. She cocks her hip, showing off her killer body and making sure I don’t miss her sexy abs. “Taking a run at the beach, too?”
With my pulse thumping in my throat, I throw her a flinty gaze. A brief glance at the phone in her hand tells me she’s currently getting off on her own Instagram feed.
Don’t play into her hands. She just wants to fuck with you to make you feel awful.
“Nah, not my cup of tea,” I say nonchalantly.
Offering her a tight smile, I draw myself up to my full height because frankly, jutting out my cup B peaches wouldn’t help my cause to compete against her cup D melons. I like that I have a full inch on her, though. It makes me feel a tad more than just dirt underneath her manicured nails.
“Huh,” is her toneless response, her eyes on her phone before they lock onto something on my hand. “Oh, what a beautiful ring. Can I see?”
Reluctantly, I stretch out my fingers, trying not to yank them back when she leans down so close, I fear she’s about to lick the gem.
“A six-millimeter alexandrite in a 14-karat, yellow gold bypass setting with tanzanite gems on the shoulders,” she fires off, bragging about her knowledge in the field. Lifting her gaze, she gives me a probing look I can’t decipher. “This one is worth quite a lot. Where did you acquire it?”
“It was a gift.” Scowling, I pull back my hand.
She taps her phone against her cheek, regarding me with an indifference that makes me wonder why she’s still wasting her time on me.
“So… You and Nathan, huh?”
I cross my arms, challenging her with a defiant glare but not gracing her with an answer.
She roams her cold gaze down my body. “You’re not really his type.”
I push down the growl threatening to bubble up to my throat. “Actually,” I say, mimicking her tone, “I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”
“Nathan Crawford was my husband.”
And I bet you’ve been dying to rub that sentence into my face.
“Yeah, I’ve heard…” I put on a thoughtful look. “Can you even call it a marriage when you’re divorced half a year later?”
Something evil sparkles in her eyes, but she keeps her composure in place. “Nathan made a premature decision. He knows it was a mistake.”
A snort of dismissive laughter bubbles out of me. “A mistake? You cheated on him.”
“Don’t be so naive, girl,” she drawls. “Cheating lies in their family. Vincent cheated on Brooke just the same, and don’t you think for a minute that Nathan is a saint. Handsome, rich, famous. Women are queuing up just for one taste of him. He can choose whoever he wants.”
“Yes, he can. A pity he didn’t choose you.”
The sneer on her perfect face tells me that I’m in for a backlash.
“Not yet,” is her catty come back, pretending to inspect her nails, “but things got quite heated in his office last time. If I hadn’t stopped him, we would have ended up screwing each other’s brains out on his desk.”
I become unplugged. Wow. This woman is a bitch you won’t find twice on this planet.
My stomach hardens, forcing fast, coarse breaths up my windpipe, and it’s all I can do to keep my face expressionless. Is she telling the truth?
Don’t be stupid. That man confessed his love to you more times than you can count. Give him some credit, will ya?
“Funny, Nathan told me a different story,” I say, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.
She just gives me a pitiful look as if I was a lost cause. “What a surprise,” she drones in a contradicting voice before she flicks her ponytail and stuffs her phone into her pocket. “Well then, see you around.”
God, I hope not.
I shoot her a glower, scowling at her pretty back as she runs off with the grace of an Olympic athlete and my dignity in tow. My shoulders hunch as something withers inside me.
Here I was, thinking my past was the only thing standing between me and Nathan. I was wrong.
Because Nathan has a past, too.
And it just caught up to me in spectacular fashion.
16
Nathan
“I can arrange that, Mr. Sharipova,” I say into my phone’s speaker, moving my pen over the paper in my notebook as I doodle along. “I’ll see to it that the pieces arrive at your place next week via express shipment.”
He thanks me for the millionth time while my mind wanders to my Russian beauty. I haven’t seen her for forty-eight hours, and I’m already suffering the withdrawal symptoms of a heroin addict—fidgeting, scratching, bouncing a knee. How far can a man’s obsession go?
Far enough to lose himself in the pits of madness, it seems.
“…insurance for building up my inventory and open my museum in Paris,” Sharipova goes on in his horribly broken English.
“My mother can be of assistance here.” I flick my wrist, using crosshatches to draw Ella’s eye in more detail. “She’s an insurance expert and can help you with all kinds of legal issues.”
“I would be very grateful for that, Mr. Crawford. I was thinking about…”
A knock on my office door draws my attention to Janice stepping in, an apologetic expression on her face. She gesticulates with her hands, agitatedly communicating that someone wants to see me who is too impatient to wait until I’m done. Keeping my phone pressed to my ear, my lips form a ‘Who?,’ and I grimace when she mouths ‘Aiko.’ I mutter a few ah’s and hm’s into the speaker to keep Sharipova on the hook, shooting Janice an irritated look that she answers with a shrug as if to say, ‘What am I supposed to do?’
My lips press into a slash before I jerk my head, motioning for her to invite her the fuck in. She opens the door wider to let Aiko swagger inside with her usual determined strut that makes her heels clicking on the hardwood sound like the blows of a hammer.
I don’t grace her with a closer look, tearing my gaze away from her flashy, fuchsia -pink business dress and spinning my chair to admire my priceless Big Apple view.
“…hoping to see you at our first exhibition,” Sharipova ends his monologue.
“I’d be honored to attend.”
Aiko snaps to a halt in front of my desk, making no move to sit down.
“Good. Thank you for your help, Mr. Crawford. Have a nice evening.”
“You, too.”
I end the call, slowly turning back to the front and narrowing my eyes at my ex-wife who somehow doesn’t seem to get that I want her in my office as much as I want a thief in my gallery.
“This floor is for staff only,” I deadpan without preamble, slapping my notebook shut. “Last time I checked, your employment contract with Crawford Crescent has expired.”
Raising an eyebrow, she folds her arms in front of her chest—as usual, a movement meant to draw attention to her second pair of eyes. Too bad my attention is elsewhere, and that is on the clock which I’m hoping will tick six soon so I can spend my evening with Ella.
She huffs when I turn to my laptop, clearly annoyed that I’m not giving her the time of the day, and switches gears by parking her ass on my desk, about an inch away from my hand.
&nb
sp; The cords twang in my neck, and I slowly point a finger to the chair opposite me. “Sit.”
“Why are you so—”
I slap a hand on my desk. “This is not your workplace anymore and certainly not your home. Get the fuck off my desk and sit down.”
Raising her hands in surrender, she slides off the wood and lowers down onto the leather chair. I take my time settling back in mine, demonstrating my annoyance with a blade-sharp gaze.
“I met your fiancée yesterday,” she starts in a blasé tone.
A vein in my forehead throbs. “I told you to stay the fuck away from her.”
Ignoring my sharp remark, she jerks her head to the art niche in the wall where nook number six is still empty. “I’ve never seen the alexandrite ring because it went missing way before we met, but you showed me pictures, remember?”
I just throw her a blank look, not sure where she’s going with this. Keeping her eyes on mine, she pulls her phone from her Louis Vuitton bag, presses a few keys, and slides it over to me. I hold her challenging gaze for a second longer before I glance down.
The picture cuts off a purple skirt over a pair of slender legs, and it’s only when I notice the hand peeking out from the corner, and a dragonfly tattoo on the wrist, that I notice it—a ring.
I blink, spreading two fingers over the screen to zoom in. My mind goes from sluggish to racing within a second, and I enlarge the picture once more until the screen produces angular pixels.
The gem. The setting. The cut. The absorption spectrum…
My alexandrite.
My hands clench, and my gaze clouds over as I scramble to find a logical explanation. I can sense Aiko’s stare on me as I’m fighting the emotions threatening to break out on my face, but I don’t twitch an eyelid, schooling my features like I learned to do that day Vincent took me with him to negate my first deal.
I slightly slant my body away, sending Aiko a frosty look despite the heat damming up underneath my clothes. “And?”
“And?” she repeats in an incredulous tone. “Isn’t that the ring you’ve been looking for the last fifteen years?”