Don't Leave Me (My Secret Boyfriend Book 3)

by S Doyle

  Not that having the name Campbell wasn’t a constant reminder that for a short time, I’d been his wife. There also had been a sense of satisfaction by writing that name on Daniel’s birth certificate. Danny was a Campbell, and he always would be, whether Marc knew of his existence or not.

  Only now, Marc did know. and, truly, I didn’t know what that meant.

  I left the nursery and headed for my bedroom. Danny and I lived modestly, in a one-floor bungalow, in a planned community only twenty minutes from the bakery. Sandra was my nanny because I could afford the luxury of not having to put him in daycare. A result of planning my escape well.

  I got into the bed, Danny’s monitor on the nightstand next to me, and thought about what it meant now that Marc had found us.

  It was easy to see how, in these last few months, I’d become complacent. Relaxed in my life where any new drama couldn’t touch me. I now owned the bakery, purchased from the woman who’d given me a job when I’d first arrived in Tampa. A short, stocky, older German woman, named Helga. She’d taken one look at my useless résumé and my round belly, snorted, and told me to put on an apron.

  I had to admit to her I’d never baked so much as a cookie, but she didn’t seem to mind. Every day for months she showed me her recipes. Explained her technique. Hammered in the importance of absolute precision when measuring.

  In a short amount of time, partially because I was a fast leaner, and partially because I was desperate to have something for myself before my son arrived, I, for the first time in my life, had a skill to be proud of. A job. A single mother who hadn’t taken the easy way out, but who had built something from scratch, so when I eventually told Daniel the story of how he came into being, he would be proud of me.

  When Helga was ready to retire, I’d surprised her by having the money to buy her out. She’d assumed I was pregnant and penniless. There’d been no reason to correct her. Working wasn’t about money for me. Working meant standing on my own two feet.

  Then Daniel came, and she gave me three months off to figure out how to be a mother, and, when I was ready, I could come back and run the business myself. I had the health certificate transferred to my name…

  “The health certificate,” I muttered, to the empty bedroom.

  I hadn’t asked Marc how he found me. I’d been too overwhelmed at seeing him again to think about asking.

  Careless, I thought.

  Or had I done it subconsciously? One last bread crumb I left. Because there were no other traces of Marie Campbell anywhere else easily searchable.

  Yes, I took Marie Campbell’s name because I wanted Marc to come looking for me someday, but after that day at the prison, when I’d asked him if he loved me and he didn’t answer… it was the first time I believed he might not.

  Not the way I’d loved him.

  How could he? I’d been the reason he’d been sent to prison. The reason all his plans for a successful future were put in jeopardy.

  I didn’t tell him I was pregnant with his child.

  If George were here, he would say it wasn’t my fault. That it was Arthur and Evan’s, but, as many times as he said it, I couldn’t make myself believe it. If I’d been nothing more than the girl next door Marc happened to grow up with, none of what my father and Evan did to me would have impacted him.

  If I’d been nothing more than the girl next door Marc happened to grow up with, I wouldn’t have Daniel.

  There could be no regrets. I’d done what I’d done to protect my baby, and I would continue to do it. At the time, I had no choice but to keep Marie’s name. But the truth was, I changed my identity once. I could do it again now.

  If I really meant to make a clean break from Marc, then the sensible decision was to leave Florida. Pay for a new identity, take Daniel away to some place new, where no one could find us. This time, leaving no breadcrumb trail to find. Because if Marc attempted to exact revenge from Evan and failed, I was in trouble.

  I wasn’t sure why, but I had this sense that if Marc followed through with his plans to expose Evan, and was successful…I was still in trouble.

  I could get up right now and start looking for places I could hide.

  Instead, I rolled over to my side, closed my eyes and tried not to think about anything at all.

  7

  Benfield Estate

  Marc

  I showed up unannounced, so I was grateful that the butler, or whatever the hell that guy was, wasn’t too much of a dick. Dean was on the estate and just finishing up a call, apparently, but I was more than welcome to wait in his study.

  I glanced around the room where Entwhistle and Benfield had told me to take the deal, to serve my time, then, once that was over, go after what I wanted. There was a sense of purpose now. I was actually doing it. Like prison, the plea deal, the time inside was really finally behind me.

  “Marc,” Dean said, as he entered the study. “Let me guess. You’ve come to your senses and you’re willing to accept a job from me.”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  He walked to the wet bar in the room and poured himself a splash of something brown. “A drink?”

  I shook my head. It felt important, from now, until this thing with Sanderson was over, that I always be clear-headed and alert for any trouble.

  He sat in a leather chair and I perched on the edge of a sofa across from him.

  “I have evidence against Sanderson.”

  Benfield frowned. “Marc, I told you to drop it.”

  “And I told you I couldn’t. Hear me out. The guy is into fucking young girls. I mean, seriously young girls. Ones as young as twelve, and I have proof he did.”

  Benfield took a sip of his drink and carefully set the glass down. “There were always rumors. Some sex club in New York that brought in virgins. Auctioned them off or some shit. There were hints about his connection to the ownership. It was so incredulous to me, I never believed any of it.”

  “Believe everything you heard,” I said, pulling out a copy of the thumb drive and setting it on the coffee table between us. “Dates, names, cash exchanges, pictures. And that’s just the start. I have information that suggests there is also video.”

  Benfield frowned. “Okay. So, what do you want from me?”

  “I need to make sure this gets done right,” I said, feeling all the urgency Ash must have felt when she begged me not to screw this up. “I need to make sure some dirty cop doesn’t make all the evidence go away. You said it. I have no connections, no resources. Nothing that can touch this guy. I need legit FBI agents. He was bringing girls from New York, into New Jersey, and back. That makes it a federal crime. Pair that with hardcore, fearless prosecutors who will not back down until this guy is in a cage for life. I need a billionaire to take down a billionaire.”

  Benfield huffed. “He’s not a billionaire, he’s a criminal. It doesn’t count when you and your family steal the money. Only when you earn it.”

  “Okay then, I need a legitimate billionaire to take down a crook. You got me the best lawyer, which is the only way I survived Sanderson’s frame-up. Now, I need the best cops to take him out.”

  Benfield seemed to consider this. “Seriously, they’re still pulling shit like auctioning off virginity? That’s actually true?”

  I nodded. Landen had documented everything. Almost as if he’d been building his own case against Sanderson, even though he knew there was no way to take Sanderson out without going down himself.

  “No wonder some women think all men are scum. Let me look at the evidence. See what you’ve got. If I think it’s tight enough, there are FBI resources I trust, that we can go to.”

  “It’s a copy,” I said, standing, ready to leave.

  “Marc, even if you succeed, it’s still not going to bring her back.”

  “No,” I said, feeling my heart pound heavily in my chest like it had off and on since leaving Florida. “Ashleigh Landen is dead. I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for all the girls he corrupted
, abused and hurt. He needs to pay for that, at the very least.”

  Dean nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  We shook, and I thought I’d done it. I’d convinced him I was right. All men weren’t scum. And girls, women everywhere, needed to learn that.

  But I was lying to myself if I thought that was the only reason.

  “…there were bigger things at stake.”

  She was right. There were.

  Florida

  Three weeks later

  Ashleigh

  I was at the bakery, pulling an apple strudel out of the oven, when Candy burst through the door. She was chattering about something, but I wasn’t really listening.

  I was still in Florida and I was still Marie Campbell. For now. There had been no word from Marc, and no sign of George, which meant Marc hadn’t told him I was alive.

  Nearly every day since Marc left, I’d considered taking Danny and running, but, every day, I decided to go through my normal routine instead. Like I was stuck between what I thought was right, and what I really wanted deep down inside.

  Sandra showed up at the house at five o’clock in the morning, and usually napped there until Danny woke up. I was at the bakery by five-thirty to start baking. I made a great strudel and to-die-for Berliners, which were basically German beignets, and killer crullers. There were also cinnamon buns and cupcakes.

  The coffee, which had been Helga’s special recipe, brought people in from the business parks all around. Many eschewed Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts because ours was better and cheaper. Usually once I got a customer in the door for coffee, they left with something sweet to accompany it.

  The bakery generated a decent revenue, if not reaching its fullest potential because I didn’t spend any time or money on marketing. I had my regulars. My word-of-mouth newbies. And the occasional customers who happened to be dropping off the dry-cleaning next door and thought they’d stop in for a treat.

  I didn’t do wedding cakes, too much pressure. But I would do the occasional custom black forest cherry cake for birthdays and other events.

  At two o’clock every day I closed shop, went home to my son. And we lived our life together.

  I read books on parenting. On being a single mother. On child development. I also read books about trains to Danny, because trains were his favorite—

  I should have told Marc about the trains.

  I closed my eyes any time the pain became too much. When it overwhelmed me. What I’d done. What I’d kept from him. Maybe even stolen from him.

  There were times I’d played it out in my head. Telling him I was pregnant, telling him my plan to fake my death. Telling him to find me. Find us.

  Sometimes, when I had those thoughts, about how I should have, could have told him the truth, I would see yet another burden added to his shoulders. All those burdens I’d added to his whole life.

  Protect Ashleigh. Save Ashleigh. Protect Ashleigh’s son. Do the right thing, the honorable thing, but never the thing he wanted. Never the woman he chose for himself.

  I told myself letting him go was noble. Self-sacrificing.

  I told myself I was brave, when secretly, I wondered if I was a coward.

  Why was I still here? What did I think was going to happen? This wasn’t letting him go. This was clinging on to hope. A hope I thought I’d crushed.

  “Marie? Marie, did you hear what I said?”

  I looked at Candy. I’d been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t heard any of what she’d been saying. Something about a breaking news story, but it wasn’t like that wasn’t happening every minute these days.

  “I’m sorry, just got a lot of stuff on my mind. I was zoned out. What’s going on?”

  “Another big perv scandal going down. This time a politician running for office. Likes to fuck with underage girls. Well, let’s see how he likes getting fucked in prison. I heard they do that to those guys especially.”

  I blinked as her words registered. A sex scandal. Involving a politician. I didn’t have a television in the shop—I didn’t like the thought of depressing people with the news when surrounded with so much sweet, gooey goodness.

  “That was the last of the fresh baked goods,” I said, pointing at the strudel. “Think you can handle the morning rush for a bit?”

  “Sure. It’s always slower on Tuesdays.”

  With that, I popped into the small back room that served as my office, and pulled my phone out of my purse. I checked CNN first, and there it was. Breaking news. Evan Sanders, senatorial candidate from New Jersey, arrested on federal charges of sex trafficking minors.

  The picture showed him in handcuffs, flanked by two suit-wearing FBI agents.

  There was a video of a news anchor providing coverage. I hit play.

  “A search warrant was granted to federal agents who found video evidence of sexual acts with underage girls. Apparently, Sanderson would video himself in bed with these girls so he could watch the sex tapes at a later time.”

  I smiled. That last part wasn’t true. But I knew there was video evidence.

  Marc had done it. He’d swung at Evan and he hadn’t missed. Instead, he’d knocked him out.

  Three weeks later

  Southern District of New York Courthouse

  Marc

  I sat on a bench overlooking the courthouse to watch the scene unfold. Reporters had been camped out all along the steps since before I got here. Today was Sanderson’s arraignment. He was sure to plead not guilty. However, a week ago, he’d made an attempt to flee the country, which had failed. Because I wouldn’t let him out of my sight the second he posted bail. One night, I followed Sanderson out of the city, to a remote airport in the Hamptons, where I knew one of his larger campaign donors kept a private jet. As soon as I knew where he was headed, I alerted the FBI. Two agents intercepted him before he could take off. From that point on, he was given an ankle monitor. Which meant it was likely the judge was going to overturn bail.

  Evan Sanderson was going to jail today. With the preponderance of evidence against him, it was doubtful he would ever leave prison alive.

  In the end, the takedown had all been handled by Dean. He’d examined the contents of the thumb drive, and agreed there was enough evidence on it alone to nail Sanderson to the wall. Once Dean had committed to doing it, we’d worked out a story that made sense.

  An ex-con with a grudge wasn’t a good source for where the information had come from. Instead, Dean took that burden on himself.

  His story: Landen had sent a letter to Benfield before his suicide. As a long-time enemy, Benfield had dismissed the letter out of turn. Only recently, upon cleaning up old paperwork, had he stumbled on it again. This time, realizing it had been sent immediately before Landen’s death, Benfield opened the letter to discover the thumb drive inside. He reported it to FBI agents at the New York field office, which led to the issuance of search warrants for Sanderson’s homes in Manhattan, Harborview and East Hampton.

  A video camera was found hidden in Sanderson’s bedroom in the Harborview house. On it, evidence of several acts of sexual assault against minor girls. Three of the victims were willing to testify against Sanderson.

  A tight noose, from which all his money would not help him escape.

  His family, who must have had some understanding of what he was, quickly disowned him.

  My phone rang and I immediately answered. “Dean, I’m waiting for him to show up now. I want to see the fucker walk into the courthouse, knowing he’s not walking out.”

  “Sorry, Marc. You’re not going to get that opportunity. Evan Sanderson hanged himself last night. He’s dead.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. As if the phone was responsible for the bad news, and not Benfield.

  “Marc? You still there? Marc?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “That fucking coward. Landen, too, for that matter.”

  “Cowards and weak individuals. They tend to be the type to prey on young women. B
ut it’s over now. Behind you. What are you going to do next?”

  I didn’t know. I had put blinders on to accomplish this mission. I hadn’t thought about Florida. I hadn’t thought about who was in Florida. I had thought only of Evan Sanderson and what I needed to do to end him as a threat, and ruin his life.

  I would have been satisfied with prison for life. A quick death was too easy for him. But there was nothing to be done about it, which is why I now had to think about what came next.

  “I have an idea,” I said, vaguely.

  “Yeah, well, me too. Given everything that’s happened, I spoke to Entwhistle. He thinks he might be able to get your record expunged.”

  I snorted. “What’s the point? I already served the time.”

  “The point is, on job applications you’ll no longer have to check the box that you committed a felony. He can’t promise anything, but he’s going to try. Figured maybe there can be some justice for you. And remember, you need a job, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Dean. For all of it.”

  “Happy to take the scumbag off the street. In fact, so happy I thought I might track down these disgusting sex clubs and see if I can’t find a way to put a few more dirtbags in jail.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Don’t need it. I’m a billionaire.”

  He ended the call. The news must have broken, because, as I watched, all the reporters who’d been camped out immediately started to scramble.

  My work was done. My task was complete. Suddenly, I had this longing for a home that didn’t exist. Not really. That’s when I knew what had to come next. I needed to see George, and he needed to know that the girl he’d basically raised, was alive.

  8

  The next day

  North Carolina

  Marc

  I pulled up to George’s cabin and immediately spotted Ash’s car. I sat in my truck, uncertain what to do. Of course, she would have come back to him. I wondered how he took the revelation. Did he faint? Did he clutch his chest? Did he cry?