But she’d had one or two nights that had tipped over that edge, hadn’t she? When they’d simply taken what they wanted. And the way he’d looked at her then, she knew that he knew it.
Yes, she’d hissed at him. Lucky is exactly how I feel. I’m overcome with gratitude.
You will be, he’d assured her.
Years had passed and she still couldn’t get the ring of his laughter out of her ears, erase that vicious smile from her memory.
Hello, Zoe.
He’d surprised her backstage in the green room of one of the nighttime shows that taped locally that time, where she’d been shepherding a client as part of her first job in PR. She’d stared at him, hoping he’d disappear the way he sometimes did in the nightmares she’d refused to admit she’d been having since her escape from Treffen, Smith, and Howell.
But, of course, he’d only smiled at her.
It wouldn’t kill you to be polite, he’d said, kindly, but she could see the monster in his eyes.
In fact, she’d said, it might.
His smile had only deepened, turned friendlier. Jason Treffen at his most dangerous.
Enjoy that sassy spirit of yours, he’d said, as if he’d been bestowing a gift upon her. It won’t last.
Some of her coworkers had burst into the room then and had been wowed at the sight of Jason Treffen, saint of New York, standing there with a lowly new PR associate like Zoe. She’d had to smile politely while he took pictures with them. When he’d slung an arm around her shoulders. While he’d chatted with them, doling out his usual host of platitudes and insights, all of which took on a nightmarish hue should you happen to know what lurked beneath it.
He’d engineered that meeting, she knew he had. To remind her that whenever he so desired, he could reach out and make her feel slimy and cheap. Used.
Zoe had already vowed she’d take him down some day. After that run-in, she’d determined that she wanted it to hurt. And her desire for revenge had burned in her, a naked flame, hot and bright. Eclipsing everything else.
You exist because I allow it, he’d told her at a charity event not five years ago, cupping her elbow in his hand and making her feel as if a thousand insects swarmed over her skin. Everything you own, all you’ve accomplished, is mine. I gave it to you and I can take it away, Zoe.
She hadn’t been quite so young then. And she hadn’t much cared that she was dead inside.
I can’t imagine why you’d bother, she’d said, and she’d been so proud that she’d stood there as if turned to stone, as if it didn’t matter that he was touching her.
Why do I do anything? Again, that nasty laugh. He’d dug his fingers into the tender place above her elbow, making her whole arm numb. She’d remembered that he’d liked pain. Inflicting it, watching others suffer it. But she’d only stared back at him, cool and unimpressed, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of reacting. Because I can, Zoe. I can do whatever the hell I want. Remember that.
The last time she’d seen him had been some months ago. She’d been in a very fancy restaurant celebrating the birthday of one of her former clients, who also happened to be a heavyweight in New York politics. She’d expected to see Jason there, working the party in his usual way, and she hadn’t been disappointed.
She’d braced herself for the inevitable encounter—but he hadn’t approached her. He’d been reveling in a crowd of admirers until a young woman appeared at his side and whispered something in his ear.
Zoe had seen the way Jason let his hand rest a moment too long on the young woman’s arm. She’d seen the way he’d turned to look down at her, seen the flash of that repulsive smile of his that had made her stomach lurch from all the way across the room. She’d seen them turn toward the door, the woman stepping out to walk in front of him, so he couldn’t see her face any longer.
That face which had been a blank except for her eyes, which were dark with self-loathing and sheer, stark misery.
Zoe knew that expression. She knew. It had been like a kick to the gut, so hard she hadn’t been able to breathe, and she’d had to stand still and watch.
Then she’d felt something else—that creeping, sickening feeling that told her he’d seen her. Sure enough, when she’d jerked her gaze away from the young woman who hurried from the party and out into the fall night, Jason was watching her.
He’d held her gaze across the crowd. So arrogant. So superior. She’d clenched her fingers so hard around the stem of her wineglass that she’d left deep grooves in her own flesh. She’d worried that she might be sick where she stood.
Jason Treffen had merely smiled. Pleased, as ever. Winning, as usual.
Zoe sucked in a breath now, snapping herself back into her own bathroom. You’re safe, she told herself, again and again, until her heart rate smoothed out. She stepped into the hot water, and sank into its silken embrace until she was submerged up to her chin.
At last, it was time. The whole country was gearing up to celebrate Jason Treffen and his many years of humanitarian “service” to all, and that was where Zoe came in. It was time to take him down. It was time to hit him where it hurt. Past time.
It was time to do some winning of her own.
And Hunter Grant—who had dated Sarah Michaels back when Zoe and Sarah were both caught in Jason’s trap, who had broken that poor girl’s heart, who had flaunted another woman in Sarah’s face on the night she’d died, and that was assuming he hadn’t been doing something far worse—was going to help her do it.
Or Zoe would destroy him, too.
No matter how he made her feel.
* * *
Hunter hated Midtown with a passion.
He hated the streets crammed full of grim worker drones, so self-important and brusque. He hated the building that housed Treffen, Smith, and Howell, an architecturally uninspired black box indistinguishable from the rest of the block it stood on. He hated the press of the crowds on the streets outside. The ubiquitous hot dog vendors, the stink of the subways that rose up through the grates at his feet, the black sparkle of the listless fountain that dominated the courtyard entryway to the building and stood waterless this time of year, like a metaphor.
He hadn’t set foot in this building since the night of that terrible Christmas party ten years ago.
But he was under siege from at least three different lawsuits these days thanks to his antics, and so he’d finally agreed to meet his legal team today in this hateful place. This grand, gluttonous monument to so many lies.
Hunter knew he could very well run into Jason here. And probably would. The man’s name was etched into the wall, after all. He didn’t know what he’d do if that happened.
He knew what he wanted to do, what he should have done ten years ago: punch the smug, insufferable bastard in the face, which was only the smallest part of what Jason Treffen deserved.
Maybe it was time to make sure he got it—but, of course, that would require action.
Austin had spent the time since their ghoulish little December anniversary dinner exposing his father for the monster he was to his family. Alex had spent it plotting out ways to further make Jason pay, publicly. Austin and Alex had plans. They wanted to take Jason down and they had ideas about how to do it. Austin had already done his part. Alex was working on his.
While Hunter was avoiding the entire thing, as if that might make it go away. Along with most of the texts and calls he received from his old friends, while he was at it.
He didn’t bother scowling at his reflection in the gleaming elevator doors before him as he rocketed up toward the firm. He knew what was looking back at him. If anything, Zoe Brook had been too conservative in her rundown of his flaws.
The doors slid open, and Hunter wasn’t at all surprised to see a young woman standing there, looking sleek and polished and delighted to see him.
&n
bsp; Looking like déjà vu.
“Hello, Mr. Grant,” she said, smiling. “I’m Iris.”
If he had to guess, he’d say she was the latest incarnation of what Sarah had been. The title had been Legal Assistant back then. But if this one was another of Jason’s girls, doing paralegal work was the very tip of the iceberg.
And that twisting, nasty feeling in his gut told him he knew exactly what that iceberg entailed, and that this girl was part of it. Up to her neck and drowning, no doubt.
One more victim he couldn’t save. How many were there now? How many more would there be before he actually did something about it? How many people could say their blind inaction had an actual body count?
“Nice to meet you, Iris,” he said, and he could hear the gravel in his voice. That banked fury, as toothless as the rest of him. He forced a smile. “Are you here to make sure I don’t get lost?”
“Mr. Treffen sent me to collect you,” Iris said. “He wanted you to drop in and say hello before your meeting.”
If she noticed the way Hunter froze, or the way his smile vanished from his face, she was too well trained to comment on it. And God help him, he didn’t want to think about Jason fucking Treffen’s training program.
“It’s this way,” she said.
But he didn’t follow her when she started to move. He stood there by the bank of elevators, wishing he was a different man.
“Mr. Grant?”
“Please tell Mr. Treffen I don’t have time to see him today,” Hunter said, his voice clipped. Because I don’t know if I’ll try to kill him with my bare hands. Or if I should try to stop myself if I do. Or if—even worse—I’ll do nothing at all. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Iris’s polite mask never altered. “Of course,” she said smoothly.
And Hunter let her walk away, straight back into hell, the way he’d let Sarah ten years ago. He even told himself it was better that way.
Because he made every single thing he touched that much worse.
* * *
That evening, Austin escalated to all-caps texts.
Having avoided one Treffen today, Hunter thought he’d do well to avoid the other, too. Not that it was fair, precisely, to lump the two together.
Good thing Hunter didn’t care.
The winter night had slammed down outside, dark and frigid and uninviting. It wasn’t much better inside his mausoleum of a penthouse, which seemed to loom all around him tonight, swollen black and thick with all his sins. He sat in the dark, watching SportsCenter on his laughably huge television that took up the better part of one vast wall.
He blew out a breath when Jason Treffen appeared on-screen, remembering that this was one of the reasons his old friends were so motivated to act. Now, when Jason was a few weeks away from being celebrated on national television, and every other advertisement seemed to trumpet his smiling face, as if he was running for office. Unopposed. The coverage was relentless.
Treffen, tireless advocate for women, in his first and most in-depth interview!
Treffen, defender of the downtrodden and personal benefactor to so many, opens up at last!
It was almost a relief when the regular programming returned, and one of Hunter’s former teammates—who happened to be suing him—appeared on the screen. Hunter muted him, not wanting to hear, yet again, a rundown of the ways in which his ejection from the NFL was a blessing for all concerned.
But, “He’s never been a team player,” he could see his former wide receiver say, directly into the camera, as if he knew Hunter was watching him, sound off or not. This was all part of the same song and dance that every single person in pro football had been performing since mid-December, whether they were filing lawsuits against him or not. Hunter could recite it himself, nearly word for word.
Out for himself. Not a team player. Prima donna. Waste of potential, waste of resources, narcissistic—
Blah-blah-blah.
It seemed like the perfect time, then, to call an old friend he didn’t want to talk to, to discuss a subject he still didn’t want to think about.
I know about Sarah, Zoe Brook had said. Which meant he hadn’t stopped thinking about it, no matter how little he wanted that.
“Stop texting me.” Hunter grunted into his cell phone when Austin answered—profanely, as expected. “You’re like a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what, playing hard to get?” Austin let out a short laugh. “Because last I checked, you don’t have a job.”
“I have shit to do. Didn’t realize I had to clear my schedule through a social secretary.”
“You’re sitting in your lonely bachelor pad, all by yourself, weeping over your glory days on ESPN On Demand,” Austin said disparagingly. “Aren’t you?”
Ouch. “I’ll repeat—stop texting me. When I’m tired of my glory days, you’ll be the first to know.”
“News flash, douchebag, this isn’t even about you. It was never about you.”
“Then you have even less reason to harass me.”
“Of course your reaction is to disappear.” Austin sounded exasperated. “Why am I surprised? Why did I think this time would be any different?”
“Because you’re such a giddy optimist?”
“This is what you do,” Austin said, as if he hadn’t heard Hunter’s sarcasm. “You did it ten years ago, you’re doing it now.”
“This conversation is reminding me why I don’t do girlfriends. Should we talk about where our relationship is heading? Do you feel fat? Are you going to tell me about your hurt feelings next?”
“I think you exhibited your feelings all over the football field, and the tabloids, for the past ten years,” Austin retorted. “All while keeping as far away from this cesspool as you could.”
Hunter didn’t say anything, because it was true. After Sarah’s death, he’d bailed. He’d moved out of the apartment he’d shared with Austin and Alex in New York, without a word. He’d gotten himself transferred to Dallas by the start of the next season, and he’d never had any intention of coming back to New York. Or to these old friendships that had once been more important to him than his own family.
“Do you have something in particular you wanted to talk about, Austin?” he asked now, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Or did you just want to reach out and sweet talk me? I appreciate it, I do, but next time, no need to call. Flowers would be fine. Don’t really like roses, though.”
“Is this what happens to you if you’re not playing football? Stop talking about flowers.”
“Tulips would do. I also like stargazer lilies. And the occasional hydrangea.”
He had no idea what he was talking about. But he was also smirking into the darkness all around him, which felt like an improvement. It reminded him of those long-ago days when he would have called Austin a brother.
“Did you get hit on the head today?” Austin asked. “Harder than usual, I mean?”
It only made Hunter want to talk about, say, shrubbery. Lawn ornaments. The little-known joys of vegetable gardens. He restrained himself, barely.
“I get it,” Austin said with a familiar edge in his voice, when moments ticked by and Hunter remained silent. He’d sounded much the same the last time Hunter had seen him, in some swanky bar or another, where Hunter had pretended he was the kind of man who cared about...anything. “This is the part where you hide in plain sight, right? Pretend you’re not involved? Just like you did back then?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter lied, and it was impossible to imagine he’d been making jokes about flowers only moments before. As if he and Austin were still close. He needed to remember that he’d lost everything the night they’d lost Sarah. Every single thing he’d ever thought was important. “I’m right here. Having this phone call,
when usually, that number of stalkery texts leads straight to a court order.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Is there anyone in your life you haven’t let down, Hunter? Anyone at all?”
He thought of his deeply appalled parents, who had never understood his desire to play football, much less his penchant for public scandals involving his notably bad temper and far worse decisions. His brother JP, the mogul in the making, who only shook his head at Hunter’s antics, but certainly didn’t depend on Hunter for anything. Even his younger sister, Nora, who had once looked at him with all that hero worship in her eyes, had spent all of their traditional Grant family Christmas up in Maine sighing heavily every time she’d found herself alone with him. As if his expulsion from football had finally forced even her to see him the way everyone else did.
“You should have sent a bouquet, Austin,” Hunter said now. “Much less drama and disappointment all around.”
Later, he sat in the dark, with only the television for company, and told himself he liked it that way.
He was thirty-three years old and he’d alienated every single person who’d ever meant something to him. Some men earned their lives of quiet desperation, their solitary confinement. An empty house, an abandoned life, another long winter all alone.
Zoe Brook was kidding herself: there was no rehabilitating him. There was no point pretending.
Hunter had never been destined for anything but this.
Chapter Three
“Is this why you missed another appointment, Mr. Grant, or is this just a little bit of wallowing on a weekday night? Self-indulgence, perhaps? I hate to mention it, but it looks like self-pity.”
For a moment, Hunter thought he was dreaming that sharp, amused voice that could belong to only one person. But he wasn’t asleep. He’d driven himself crazy on his couch for a while after speaking to Austin, and had then taken himself off to his extraordinarily expensive health club to sweat it out on the treadmill. Mile after brutal mile, until his legs felt shaky and weak. And then he’d sat in the whirlpool tub with the jets on high, pretending his mind was perfectly fucking clear.
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