by Shen, L. J.
A sharp kick to my stomach followed, coming from the blanket of darkness. I collapsed on my stomach, gagging. Craning my neck to look at my assaulter, I shot my arm forward, patting the floor to find my bag in the dark and reach for the pepper spray in it.
A heavy boot flattened over my fingers. A cracking sound filled the air as my attacker put his full weight on my hand.
“Think again, bitch.”
For the first time in my life, fear had a shape and a taste. My attacker kicked my bag away, sending it spinning across the floor until it hit the wall. I took the opportunity to claw my nails onto his ankle. I felt my nails bending backward as I desperately tried to hurt him. I used his leg for leverage, pulled myself up, and sank my teeth into his shin, clamping on it viciously until I felt my gums bleeding.
“Fuck! You whore!”
A dirty green army boot kicked me off. I only knew one man who wore this type of footwear.
Kaminski.
“Tom,” I croaked, using his first name as if it would help. Warm, metallic blood filled my mouth. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and every cell in my body prickled with panic. “Please, Tom. Get off me. I can’t breathe.”
Another kick found me. This time, he hit my jaw. My face throbbed, and I bit my tongue in the process. More blood filled my mouth.
Kaminski could end me right here, right now, and no one would ever know. The only person who knew about the mobsters after me was Cillian, and between almost letting me poison myself and refusing to help me, it was safe to say bringing me justice wasn’t high on his to-do list.
I started crawling up the stairs, frantically trying to get away, but Kaminski grabbed my foot, pulling me down the three stairs I managed to take. He spun me around, unzipping himself.
“Why don’t we see what you’re worth, huh?” His menacing laughter rattled the air. “Seein’ as you’ll be sucking a lot of cock in a few days to pay back Pax’s debt.”
Rearing my body back, I sent a kick to Tom’s groin, smacking my sneakers against his heavy erection. He tripped backward, screaming in pain as he cupped his groin. I turned around and climbed up the stairs on my hands and knees, like an animal, guttural screams leaving my lungs. I knew Belle wasn’t home, but we had four other neighbors in the building.
A hand wrapped around my hair, pulling my head up with a violent yank. Kaminski’s rancid breath skated over my cheek, the scent of cigarettes and plaque hitting my nostrils.
“Saved by the bell. You killed my hard-on, but that just means I’ll take you up the ass next time. You’ve got a week, Mrs. V. One week before I turn all your nightmares into reality. You better believe it.”
He let go of my hair. My face hit the floor with a thud. The entrance door slammed behind me.
I lay there, allowing myself a rare moment to break. For the first time since Paxton had left, I cried, pressing my swollen, hot, and bruised face to the floor.
Curling into a ball, I bawled like a baby, the agony rocking me back and forth.
I cried for making all the wrong choices in life.
For being deserted by my husband.
For paying for his sins.
For cycling in the storm, wet and cold and desperate, and for being so freaking, unbelievably, pathetically stupid.
For wasting Auntie Tilda’s precious Cloud Wish on Cillian Fitzpatrick, who turned out to be the villain in my story.
For believing her stupid miracles in the first place.
Minutes, or maybe hours had passed before I peeled myself from the floor, slapping the dirt and blood from my scraped knees. I dumped my bag into the trash can outside the building, shoving my wallet into my panties to hide it, then went upstairs to Belle’s apartment.
My sister had to believe I had been violently mugged.
I couldn’t drag her into this mess.
A week. I wanted to scream.
Seven short days.
Before my life would be over.
“Employee compensation within the oil and gas industry is currently on the rise, and we came up with a great plan to preserve key staffers and encourage potential prospects to apply to Royal Pipelines…”
My mind drifted as my HR director, Keith, delivered what was surely one of the most boring pitches I had ever listened to in my lengthy corporate career.
Across from me, Hunter was on his phone, probably renewing his Pornhub Premium subscription.
Devon sat next to me, dutifully fulfilling his role as the head of my compliance department by scowling at his phone and ignoring the out-of-country calls that kept going through to his answering machine.
The man was going to inherit a dukedom in a few years (if he ever bothered to show his face in England), yet he refused to set foot in England.
I tapped my Montblanc pen on the table, staring out the window.
Three days had passed since Persephone had shown up at my door, accepting my offer.
Three days in which I had time to reflect on the fact that, indeed, a storm had paralyzed most of Boston’s public transportation that day.
Three days in which I’d completely forgotten Minka Gomes existed.
Three days in which I’d imagined Persephone birthing me babies that looked like little replicas of her—with blond curls and cyan eyes and sun-kissed skin—and wasn’t half-disgusted with the prospect.
My phone pinged with an email notification while Keith continued boring the room to death.
I slid my thumb over the screen.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hiiiiii Mr. Fitzpatrick,
Just wanted to let you know the jeweler was sent to Ms. Gomes’ apartment earlier this morning for the ring measurements, and I have them here with me.
Should I proceed to pick the engagement ring on your behalf, or would you like to take a look after all? Please let me know. ☺
Relatedly, Ms. Diana Smith, the PR director for Royal Pipelines, would love to schedule a brief meeting with you this week concerning the official announcement of your engagement to Ms. Gomes to make things official.
I’m enclosing your weekly schedule. The highlighted slots could be secured for the meeting.
If you need me for anything (and I do mean anything, LOL) else, let me know <3
xoxo
Casey Brandt
Executive Personal Assistant to Cillian Fitzpatrick, CEO of Royal Pipelines.
I glanced up from my phone, frowning at Hunter.
He glared back at me, mouthing fix it from across the board desk.
Maybe I did need to fix this.
My brother was pitifully soft and cared not only about his average-looking wife, but also about her hang-ons.
Then there was Aisling to think about. She had a gentle soul and didn’t deserve to mourn Persephone if the latter was murdered by some street punks.
Then there was Sailor. If Persephone was found chopped into minuscule pieces, floating in Charles River like stale tofu in a miso soup, she could lose the baby.
Choosing to ignore the fact I’d never previously shown signs of conscience, integrity, or consideration to anyone other than my dick, I’d decided to give Persephone one more chance to redeem herself.
This would be my pro bono.
Marrying a girl to save her from sure death.
Flower Girl was going to owe me so much after the solid I was about to give her that she was going to be indebted to me for eternity. That meant I could shape our relationship any way I chose, and what I chose was to see her three times a year, for important holidays, company events, and an annual sex-a-thon (if I was going to pay for her and her future boy toy’s luxury lives, I would make sure he knew who she really belonged to).
My fingers flew over my phone screen.
Cillian: Get my driver ready immediately.
Casey: Mr. Fitzpatrick? Are you texting me?! <3
What was it with people stating the obvious?
Cillian: Headi
ng out of the HR meeting now. If he is not there by the time I exit the building, you’re both fired.
I stormed out of the boardroom without so much as an apology. Keith stopped mid-speech, his mouth slacking. Hunter and Devon exchanged looks.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t want to marry Minka Gomes.
I didn’t want to marry Persephone Penrose, either, but at least I knew what I was getting out of the bargain. Namely, photogenic children, a doting mother to them, and a wife who would look good on my arm.
All I needed was to keep Persephone at arm’s length and away from me after we tied the knot.
Casey: Your day is booked back-to-back, sir.
Cillian: You mean my day is clear and wide open because you used your three working brain cells to shift things around, which is what I’m PAYING YOU FOR.
Casey: Absolutely, sir. What should I do regarding the engagement ring?
Cillian: Send Ms. Gomes a fat check and an apology note. I will not be marrying her.
Casey: OMG really?
Casey: Sorry, I mean, is the vacancy still open, sir? ;)
Casey: I will make a good wife. I promise. I know how to cook, how to fish, babysat like, a ton of kids in my life. And I also know other things…
I got out of the elevator, my brogues clicking over the marbled lobby. I could see the Escalade waiting at the curb from the floor-to-ceiling window, the subzero blizzard its backdrop.
Sliding in the back seat, I barked Persephone’s work address to the driver.
Casey: Never mind. Sorry. That was totally out of order. If you don’t intend to marry Ms. Gomes, should I cancel the PR meeting with Diana?
Cillian: I said I’m not marrying Ms. Gomes. She is not the only woman on the planet.
Casey: Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand. ☹
Cillian: Don’t be afraid. Ignorance is bliss.
The staff at Little Genius Academy recognized me the second I set foot inside. An eager receptionist rushed to help me find my way to Ms. Persy, accompanying me down a corridor full of drawings, art projects, and squeaky toys.
The place smelled like a warm fart and applesauce. It was a dire reminder of the fact that having heirs required raising them first. I supposed I could do the whole remote-dad gig Athair was so good at and limit my communication with my spawns until they were fully formed and didn’t require any ass wiping.
“There it is, Ms. Persy’s class.” The receptionist stopped by the classroom door, swinging the door open for me.
I watched as Flower Girl pranced around a room full of kids. Her hair—honey highlights tangled in bright yellow—was gathered into a Dutch braid, and she wore an ankle-length white dress and flat shoes that looked about a decade old.
She was dirt-poor, in deep shit, and still happy to go to work every day.
Unbelievable.
She held the hands of two shy-looking four-year-olds as the class danced in a circle. Every few seconds, the music would stop, and the kids would freeze in place, a funny expression on their faces, trying not to crack up.
I leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in my front pockets, and observed. It took her three minutes to notice me. Another two to lift her jaw off the floor, straighten her spine, and turn scarlet.
Our eyes met across the room, and that nagging murmur in my chest happened again.
Get that checked. If you drop dead from a heart attack at forty, you’ll have no one else to blame.
She winced, looking like I physically slapped her.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Miss Penrose.”
“Veitch,” she corrected, just to spite me.
“Not for long,” I noted dryly. “A word?”
“I know many. My favorite one right now is—leave.”
“You want to hear me out.” I cracked my knuckles. “Now say goodbye to your little friends.”
She looked back and forth between the kids and me, then turned and murmured something to the teacher next to her, and hurried my way, dunking her head down.
“What are you doing here?” She closed the door behind her, whisper-shouting.
I’ve been asking myself the same question since bailing on Keith and his snooze-fest speech.
What the hell was I doing here?
Hunter?
Aisling?
Something about Persephone getting potentially offed by the mafia?
The reasons blurred, but they seemed valid when I sat in the boardroom, considering a future with a woman I didn’t know and didn’t interest me. A woman who wanted an Aspen cabin as if it was the flipping nineties.
“When are you done here?” I demanded.
“Not for another four hours.”
“Take the rest of the day off.”
“Are you crazy? I can barely afford my lunch breaks.” Her eyes widened. “I only take them because I have to by law. I asked the director to stay after school hours to help clean up and get some extra money. I can’t bail.”
The woman was as stubborn as a mule.
And I was about to marry her.
Marry a manageable woman, Athair said.
It wasn’t too late to turn around and walk away but having this moron’s death on my conscience made me suspect I had one after all. The thought made me shudder.
No. Not a conscience. You just don’t want a big mess.
“Take the rest of the day off, or you will have no job to return to,” I gritted out, about to turn around and make my way outside before I got secondhand food poisoning from the smell here alone. I paused, examining her closely for the first time.
“What the hell happened to your face?”
Her lower lip was swollen, her cheek was bruised, and under the thick layer of makeup, I could see a prominent shiner circling her left eye.
She looked away, tilting her face down to hide it from me.
“It’s nothing. None of your concern, anyway.”
The loan shark had finished with his threats and moved to actions.
My pulse quickened. I cracked my knuckles. I didn’t understand my reaction to her face. She was clearly alive and in general good health.
But the idea of someone touching her…hitting her…
“You have ten minutes to wrap this up and meet me outside. You should know by now that I do not like to be kept waiting.”
I turned around and sauntered back to the Escalade, already regretting the decision to marry her. There weren’t enough painkillers in the world to save me from the headache Flower Girl had in store for me.
She appeared minutes later, wrapped in a cheap coat with holes in two different places. I opened the back seat door for her. She climbed inside, and I followed.
“Drive around,” I ordered my chauffeur, clicking the remote to raise the partition.
Persephone fumbled with the seat belt, avoiding eye contact.
I stared at the leather headrest in front of me while I spoke. Looking at her face in its current condition made me angry, and I was never angry.
“We will live in separate houses. I’ll remain in my estate, and you’ll live down the road. There’s a new construction on Commonwealth Avenue. A four-bedroom, thirty-five-hundred-square-foot condo. I asked my realtor to secure you the penthouse for a rental. You can discuss your permanent residence with her and tailor it to your preference.”
She whipped her head in my periphery, staring at me in shock.
“What?”
“I said, there’s a new estate on Commonwealth Ave—”
“I heard what you said.” Her brows knitted. “I thought you wanted to marry someone else.”
“Want is a big word. I decided to settle for you since the other woman is not on the brink of extinction.” Unbuttoning my pea coat, I crossed my legs and lit a cigar, stinking up the entire back seat. The hail pounding on the tinted windows meant she had to sit in the small, confined space and breathe in my poison.
A good exercise for our future.
If she r
efused me again, I was going to drive us across the Canadian border and pay someone to marry us just to spite her. Never in my life had a woman made me feel edgy, but this assertive little shi…female had somehow managed just that.
She folded her arms, smiling triumphantly. “She said no, didn’t she? Couldn’t stomach being your wife.”
I puffed a cloud of smoke directly in her face, not gracing her nonsense with an answer.
“Smart girl.” She ignored the screen of smoke skulking between us.
“Judging by the state of your face, turning me down is not a luxury you can afford.”
She stared at me with her California sky eyes. Her complexion was so smooth and dewy that the need to sink my teeth into the side of her throat just to tarnish its perfection made my fingers twitch.
“Can I try your cigar?” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
“I’m offering you a twenty-million-dollar condo, and you are asking me about a cigar?” I shot her a sidelong glance.
“Paxton never let me try them. He said cigars are manly.” She licked her lips, her eyes on the thick brown roll of tobacco.
Paxton was an idiot. For more reasons than I could count.
Reluctantly, I passed her the cigar. She clasped her pink lips around it, her heavy-lidded eyes blinking back at me. She inhaled, almost coughing out a lung, and passed it back to me, waving her hand around. I didn’t take it, still preoccupied by the way her lips wrapped around the thing. This was an entirely new side of me—a fourteen-year-old one, presumably—I wasn’t eager to explore.
“It tastes like burning feet.”
“You’re not supposed to inhale.” A wry blade of amusement colored my tone. “Nor are you supposed to lick burning feet. Now suck on it like it’s a dick, not a joint.”
She cocked her head sideways, squinting at me in amusement.
“Sounds like an audition.”
“Don’t flirt,” I warned. “It’s not your affection I’m after.”
My desire normally wasn’t directed at a specific woman or individual. Rather, it was a prickly sensation I needed to squash. The women I’d used were merely vessels.