by Emily Snow
He’d laughed, called me a spoiled, brainless bitch. And then what he said next had confirmed everything. “My attorney will be in touch with you this afternoon, Eleanor. It would be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut.”
I’m not expected to be at work until two today—Mr. Kyler has meetings all morning—but I wasn’t about to wait in my apartment for someone on my father’s payroll to show up and bully me into signing a gag order. So I came here. To another attorney. At least, that’s what she was before he talked her out of continuing law just after Zach was born.
“Eleanor?” Mom’s voice drags me back to the present. Inside an office in a multi-million dollar house. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I say huskily. I worry my fingers together in my lap and grimace at her questioning smile. “It might make you angry, but I’m just asking that you give me a chance without doing what you always do.”
Taking up for him. Brushing off his behavior. Or not reacting at all.
I’m not even sure what would hurt the most at this point.
“Do you promise to hear me out?” I ask.
Her expression changes, the smile melting into a scowl. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” When I shake my head, she presses a hand to her chest and filters out a shallow breath. “Thank God. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.” She pauses, then worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re not in any type of legal trouble? Is Zachary okay? I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday afternoon...”
“No, Zach is fine, I promise. And I’m not in any type of trouble. I need to talk to you about Dad.”
“I’ve tried to talk to him about Zachary.” Impatiently, she closes her planner and taps her manicured nails on the floral cover. “I’ve tried several times, though I doubt you—”
I’m about to open my mouth, to cut her off and tell her everything, but her office phone rings. She holds up one finger, answering it with a professional, “Cheryl Courtney speaking.” From her smile, that indulgent turn of her lips, I know exactly who’s on the other line and it forms a knot in my stomach. She listens for a few seconds and then lifts her eyebrows at me. “Well, yes, she’s here right now.”
A brief pause.
Another string loops and tangles in my belly.
“What do you mean tell her to leave?” Now, her forehead wrinkles. “What are you talking about?”
I grit my teeth. Feel the fury rise from my chest as I hear my father’s voice boom from the other line about what an ungrateful child I am. And then, before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet. Jerking the line out of the back of the phone.
For a moment, she just stares at the silent receiver, stunned. Then, slowly, she raises her blue eyes to mine. “Eleanor, what on—”
I grind my teeth. “He. Is. A. Predator.” I drop the cord and press my fist to my mouth. “Mom … he’s not who you think he is. Not at all.”
She doesn’t move, still doesn’t blink, as I sit back down. I wring my hands together and take a breath. When her cell phone vibrates on her desk, and she rips her stare from mine, I speak up. “If you answer that phone and buy his lies, I’ll never come back.”
She grabs it, and my heart sinks. But then she hits ignore. Holds down the side button until the screen goes black. “What’s going on, Eleanor? I’m listening,” she whispers.
She shows no sign of emotion as I tell her everything Graham had revealed last night. She doesn’t even move. Blue eyes burn into mine while I say that her husband is an awful man. That he had used his name and influence to force another woman into sleeping with him. That after Charlotte got pregnant, Dad had tossed a thousand dollars her way to take care of the problem she created.
“She quit on him,” I say, my voice breaking. “And then he went out of his way to make sure she couldn’t get another job. He ruined her life because he had the power to do it.”
Mom sucks in her bottom lip slightly but still, she says nothing.
“Can you just … respond?” Because if my father had done this to Charlotte, how many other women have there been in the past? And how many had only gone through with sleeping with him out of fear? “Do you at least believe me?”
Her hands are so shaky that she almost drops her coffee cup as she lifts it to her lips. She focuses on the glass on the office door, and for a long time, she watches as one of the women from the housekeeping service shuffles by. “He told her to take care of the problem she created,” she says, sounding ridiculously composed.
“Yes. Mom … do you—”
“Yes,” she cuts me off, and I almost reel back at the steel in her tone. “I do.”
“Okay.” My stomach twists again as the next question forms on my lips. “Did you know what he was doing?”
She snaps her gaze to mine. I’ve never seen emotion like this behind her eyes, raw pain and rage. It gives me my answer. Relieves me. “Do you think I’m that horrible, Eleanor?” When my shoulders shrug up, she presses her lips into a bitter smile. “I deserve that, I guess. After what happened with Zachary and the way he cut off the money for your school, you must think the worst of me.”
“Not like that. I mean, hell, I didn’t even want to believe the worst about him. Not when all he goes on about is monogamy and the value of life and—”
When she interrupts me this time, it’s in the form of a sharp exhale that makes her thin shoulders tremble. “That’s why I can see him doing this.” Her lips pinch together and she fists her hands as she struggles to find her next words. By the time she does, she has to squeeze her eyes shut to continue. “Your father and I weren’t married when Zachary was conceived.”
This is news. From the time I was old enough to care about the importance of dates, I’ve been told my parents married a year and a half before my brother was born. When I was younger, theirs was a romantic story—how they met at the same firm and immediately fell head over heels, how Dad followed her to Asheville just to propose when she considered taking a job there, how she made him hold his breath waiting for her answer. And now, staring across the desk at her tired expression, I know for certain it was just that.
A story.
Opening her eyes, Mom clears her throat. “We were married six months before Zachary was born. And the only reason that happened was because my father told Robert he’d have no career left—legal, political, flipping burgers, whatever—if he ever told me to take care of the problem I created again.”
It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying, but when I do, and I just blink at her, she continues, “He didn’t want Zach, either, so that’s what he told me. And then we had you and—” She pauses and lets out a low, tremulous exhale. “I let myself believe he was a faithful husband. That, in spite of his flaws, he was a decent man with only our best interests at heart. That he wasn’t going to alienate me from my children or go around bullying women into doing terrible things with him and then telling them to take care of the problem!”
When she reaches the last few words, she’s shouting. In twenty-two years, I’ve never heard my mother raise her voice and it’s terrifying. My throat is so tight I can’t speak, so I let the silence surround us, the only noise in the office our heavy breaths and her gently lifting and then lowering the coffee mug to the desk. She massages her temples.
“He’s probably left me a dozen voicemails,” she says, her voice back to normal, so calm it sends a chill down my spine. I expect he’s done the same to me. I’d left my phone out in my car, but no doubt my father’s called me a hundred times since she’s spent the last several minutes ignoring him while we gave each other a harsh dose of reality. “He’ll have an explanation.”
“He will. Will you … Mom, you’re not going to pretend this never happened and just accept whatever he tells you, are you?”
Her gaze settles on the screen of her phone. “No, Eleanor. I’m not.”
THIRTY-TWO
ELLE
“Car trouble?” my boss, Mitchel
l, asks several hours later. He plucks the blinds apart to get a better look at the parking lot, craning his neck as he witnesses the tow truck load my Fusion on the trailer. “You could have asked for time off, Eleanor. You have to be careful with who works on your vehicle in this town—tracking devices and hidden microphones, you know.”
I catch a glimpse of my keys on the corner of my desk and swallow down the lump in my throat. “No, I don’t need any time off. It’s all taken care of, and I’d rather be here.”
He scratches his balding head. Snapping the blinds back into place, he looks down at me. “If it’s not fixed by the time we’re done here tonight, I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”
Fixed. If only a bad transmission or faulty brakes was the reason my car is being towed. I’m sad to see it go—after all, it’s my only mode of transportation—but I don’t regret what I did for it to be taken. My father hadn’t warned me that he was going to do it, but I’d gotten a call from my brother an hour ago. Speaking in a hushed whisper, Zach had demanded to know what was going on.
“He just called me,” Zach had told me, his voice dazed because Dad hasn’t spoken to him since Thanksgiving. “He wanted me to let you know that he’s activated the tracking in your car and to find another way to get around and spread your shit. Elle, what the fuck? Is he still giving you problems about Jameson and me?”
I told him everything that had happened, leaving out that Graham was the one who gave me the truth about Charlotte or what Mom revealed about the events that led to her marrying Dad. I’ve always been honest with my brother, but when it comes to something like that—telling him our father didn’t want him—some things were better left unsaid. When I was finished, Zach was just as quiet as Mom for a painful pause before he whispered, “I’m proud of you.”
“She said she’s going to divorce him. She said she’s going to take everything from him and she’s going to enjoy every minute of it.” Repeating those words aloud made my body jolt because it was still shocking. Even hours later. I’d never heard my mother so angry, so vicious, but something in her shattered in her office this morning. She had left the house in McLean the same time as me, her phone against her ear as she canceled her lunch plans on the way to her Range Rover. She’d promised she’d call me later—after she took care of some errands.
I was positive that first errand took her right into the heart of D.C., to my father’s office where she’d confront him.
“Good for her,” Zach had said after he digested everything. There hadn’t been a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Fucking good for her.”
Clearing my throat, I glance up at Mr. Kyler and force a smile that makes my teeth feel like they’re breaking. “No, my roommate is going to stop by and pick me up tonight.” I swipe the keys off my desk and stand, nodding toward the window. “I’d better take these out to the driver.”
Because I’m not going to fight it. I’m not going to call Dad or beg for forgiveness. I’m not going to do anything but stand by my decision.
I’m in the middle of answering “Buzz Mails” when my phone vibrates in the top drawer of my desk half an hour before I’m supposed to leave for the evening. I check it, frowning at the unknown number and text.
Unknown: Are you still at work?
Another text comes through mere moments after I respond asking who wants to know. A smile tugs my lips at the single name on the screen.
Unknown: Graham.
Butterflies swarm my chest as I dial the number and lift the phone to my ear. “Did you change your number?” I’d spoken to him briefly a couple of hours ago just as he was preparing to leave his office to meet his accountant, but I haven’t heard anything since. “I’ll have to remember to program this one.”
“No, don’t do that. This is my business line. I must have left my other in my office.”
“You remembered my number?”
“I—” He pauses, and when he speaks again, he changes the subject. “I thought you said you were working late.”
“I am. I’ll be here until eight answering emails. I was just about to text Blake to come and get me so—”
“Why does your roommate have to come get you?” I cringe at the question. “And where’s your car?”
I trace my tongue over my top lip. “My dad had it towed this afternoon.”
A deep grumble escapes his throat. “Come outside, Elle.” High beams flash outside the window of my office. I lift the blinds, and my heart leaps into my throat at the sight of the BMW parked in the lot. It’s the only vehicle out there. “I see you looking at me. Just come out.”
“You come in.” At his low groan, I continue, “Mr. Kyler had a dinner meeting so he won’t be back until late tonight. I’m alone, so it’s safe, I promise.”
He disconnects the call without another word, but by the time I reach the front of our suite, he’s standing outside the glass door, the expression on his bronze features unreadable. As soon as I unlock the door and he steps inside, the questions start.
“What the hell happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. He’s close behind me as I walk to the back of the building and to my desk. “I confronted him about Charlotte. And then I told my mother. She started throwing around words like divorce and ruin and—”
I gasp when he grasps my waist and jerks me around, crashing my body against his. His dark eyes pierce mine as he stares down at me. “You spoke to your father about Charlotte?”
“Yes.” I rest my hands on the lapels of his dark blue business suit, stroking the wool material. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Oh, Elle,” he exhales. He sinks his fingers into the back of my white sweater, separating it from where it’s tucked into my mustard-colored pencil skirt. “Sometimes, you really do surprise me.”
“Is that a good, I-don’t-hate-you-for-interfering surprise?”
His laughter is rough. Soothing. He pushes his face closer to mine, fanning my face with the scent of mint and bourbon. “I wish I could hate you, dove.” When I lick my lips, he raises his other hand to my cheek, fanning his fingertips gently over my skin. I close my eyes and struggle to maintain an even breath. “That was … incredibly good of you.”
“Did you think I could just forgive him?” My lashes flutter together as he skims his thumb down to my mouth. He traces the outline of my lips as I continue talking. “Because if he did it to her, there’s no doubt in my mind he did it to someone else. And I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror if I let something like that go. It doesn’t matter if he’s my father—if he’s the type of man to use someone so cruelly, I can’t—”
“Don’t.” His voice is so low it shoots electricity through my skin. I moan, my lips parting when his hand on my waist dips lower, to my ass. “Don’t finish that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve used you, Elle.” I’m already aware of that. The difference between what Dad did and the lengths that Graham had gone to get me into his bed are night and day. I had the option, the power, to tell him no at any time. He was still wrong, so wrong and screwed up, but he’s not my father. “I’ll buy you another car. I’ll buy you ten fucking cars, whatever you want.”
“You’re not him,” I say. “And I don’t want you to buy me a car. I’m just sorry for what he did. I’m sorry that he hurt Charlotte. I’m sorry that—”
His mouth meets mine, teeth dragging anxiously at my lower lip as he claws my skirt up my hips. “Stop talking. Just don’t fucking speak.” A sigh of pleasure slips past my lips as he spins me around and bends my body over my desk. I grip the edges, closing my eyes as he rips the back of my panties right down the center.
“Graham—” When I turn my head to look at him, his lips are set in a grim line. He jerks his head to each side. Presses a finger to my lips and pushes gently. He tenses as my tongue darts out to lick his skin.
“Don’t,” he orders again, voice deeper, the look in his brown eyes sucking the air right out of the ro
om. “I can’t stand it when you look at me like that. Eyes so trusting.” He palms my ass before he wedges his hand between my thighs, circling a fingertip over my clit. “Everything you say so forgiving.”
He nudges my feet far apart with one foot, and I splay my palms flat on my desk. “So don’t say a fucking word.”
I purse my lips together and bob my head. Then, I turn my gaze forward. Focus on the glow my open laptop casts on the wall behind my desk. I shiver when I hear his pants unzip. Bite my lip when I feel the heat and weight of his erection against my bare ass cheek. And then I arch my neck when he plunges deep inside of me.
I’m foolish for doing this. For pretending I’m not in my office, where we might be discovered. For grinding against him and loving the sensation of his body moving against mine. For moaning softly, a nonverbal plea for more. And for falling—so fast, so far—for a man’s who’s admitted that he’s used me.
I know I’m screwing up, that I should feel guilty for losing myself, but it goes back to that first night. When I turned around when I should have just kept walking. I can’t stop myself from getting caught up in him. Not when his hands stroke down my arms and cover mine, linking our fingers. Or when his full lips tickle my ear, the shadow on his chin scratching my delicate skin.
“You feel like heaven, Eleanor,” he growls, and I tighten around him. He warns me. Tells me not to do it again, so I repeat. Because if he doesn’t want me to use my words, I’ll use my body as a weapon. I’ll use him like he’s used me, and we’ll both benefit. I clench my sex once more, and he releases a guttural noise that slices through the silence of the office. “Look what you’ve done. God, Elle, look what you’ve done.”