by S. Ann Cole
I hesitate. Once again, I have to make a decision. Do I choose Serena, or do I choose my mother’s freedom?
I’ve got a million reasons why I should choose the woman who turned her back on me, the woman who never stood up for me, the woman who lived perfectly fine not knowing whether her son was dead or alive.
Funny how the man who issued the ostracism decree didn’t actually let go of me. He always knew how to find me, where I was and what I was doing. As terrible a person as he is, if I should compare his love for me against hers, his would be greater.
He doesn’t hate me, I know that. He’s just mad he’s not able to control me. Ousting me was the only thing he could’ve done to really show me who was in charge. A power play. I own this family, and I can take them all away from you with a single command.
I hate him for taking my family away from me. But he only resents me for making him have to do it in the first place.
What’s my mother’s excuse? My brother’s? My sister’s?
Why should I put their happiness above mine when they didn’t do the same for me?
“I took some tests,” I say. “I’m…a match.”
He stares at me. Impassive. Then he drops his head. “Why tell me? To torture me? We both know you’ll never do the transplant. You hate my guts.”
I’m pushing thirty, and this is the first time, in my whole life, that this man has ever spoken to me without staring me dead in the eyes.
It’s an act of surrender. For the first time, I hold the power. Literally the power of life and death for him.
“Not give it you, no,” I agree. “But I am interested in selling it.”
His head sweeps up at this. “What?”
“Seventy million.”
“What do—” A harsh cough cuts off his words, one that goes on for a couple of seconds before he’s able to speak again. “What do you need that kind of money for? Are you in trouble?”
“Don’t worry about what I need it for,” I reply. “Just know that’s what it’s gonna cost for you to live a little longer to ruin more people’s lives.”
He stares at me for an extended amount of time, before he shakes his head. “The idea of living another couple of years is indeed wonderful, son. But I see what you are doing. You are trying to get out of running the company. But giving me one of your kidneys won’t make me immortal. I will die one day. And you will inherit all your responsibilities. You can’t run from them forever.”
Fucker. Apparently, what he said about my mother earlier stands for me, too. He’d rather die than set us free.
“Seven years,” he says.
“What?”
“We will draw up a binding agreement,” he explains. “We do the transplant and you get seven years before you assume your duties at the helm of Capshaw Holdings. Of course, if I die before those seven years are up, you will still have to assume your role. Is that reasonable enough?”
Reasonable? Reasonable is letting me live my life how I choose to live it. Not on his terms. But I know this asshole. This is the best deal I’m going to get out of him. He doesn’t even care about how much I’m asking for. That’s chump change to him.
I say, “With one stipulation.”
“Which is?”
“You give mom her divorce.”
His laugh is silent. Voice weak and hoarse, as he declines, “Deal-breaker. Big, big, deal-breaker, son. I’d rather die.”
“Why?” I ask him, shaking my head in disbelief. “Why do you want to keep hurting her?”
“That’s not what I want, son,” he tells me. “You know what I want? For her to goddamn stand up to me. To use her voice. To fight back.”
“Isn’t that what she did?”
“This?” He gestures his hand up and down his frail frame and shakes his head. “This is attempted murder. This is not fighting back. This is cowardice. She tried to kill me and I’m letting her get away with it. Why? Because I love her. I’ve loved your mother since I first laid eyes on her. But her docility, her timidity, her voicelessness…” He shrugs his bony shoulders. “It does nothing for me.”
This man is seriously screwed-up in the head. I’ll never understand him.
“What about your mistress?” I ask. “Figured you’d jump at the chance to be free of marriage. You have two children with this woman. You must really like her.”
“She’s not your mother.” He doesn’t even blink as he swears, “I’ll give up my life before I give her up. So, like I said, deal-breaker.”
Once again, I find myself deliberating. Mom or Serena?
My happiness or hers?
Driving through the gates of the Hidden Hills mansion feels a lot like driving out of hell.
I’ve officially shaken hands with the devil.
Forty - Serena
“Only fools fall in love.”
Three months later
“You’re shit company.”
I’m having lunch at The Modern with Alaric. And it’s true, I’m shit company. He has every right to be annoyed. I’ve been shit company since Kholton left.
After he disappeared, I became a woman on a mission, determined to find him. I went to all the places I knew he frequented, again and again. But no one gave him up. All I received were blatant lies.
“Sorry. I haven’t seen him. Try calling him.”
The same line repeated again and again, as if he fed it to them.
When I first dropped in at the high school where he gives lessons, Omari was overlooking the class while the kids took their big test.
“He said he wouldn’t be able to make it this evening,” he told me when I asked for Kholton. “He asked me to oversee the test, collect the papers afterward, and leave them at the Principal’s office.”
The second time I went there, the class was empty. A janitor told me the lessons were moved to a different location, but he couldn’t tell me where.
By week four, my steam had run out. I was exhausted, defeated. I rehired my private investigator to find him and threw myself into work instead.
Virginia and Angus are long gone, much to my father’s relief. I gave them what they wanted, and they gave him what he needed. Peace of mind.
The truth was out, the monsters were gone.
I was traded for a brooch.
“Seriously, Serena,” Alaric snaps, breaking into my reveries, “you’re starting to depress the joy out of me. You make it hard to be around you with this melancholic vibe you’ve been having.”
I blink him into focus. “Oh…I’m sorry.”
He points his fork at me. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately, too.”
Alaric doesn’t know about the brooch, my biological parents, or that Kholton had been conning me the entire time. As far as he’s concerned, Kholton ghosted me with all my tuition and I’m upset about it.
I love Alaric to pieces, but I’m secretive with a lot of things. He knows when I’m prevaricating, but never calls me on it. Until now.
“You know what I don’t get,” he starts as he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “Why what he did affected you so badly. You deny falling for him and swear it was all for conception, but your behavior over the past couple of months just doesn’t mesh with what you’ve told me.
“So, okay, he ran off with your money. What’s the big deal? You’re stinking rich. You can’t expect me to believe that this is all about a little chump change and a bruised ego.”
I take a sip of my Aloe Vera water, peering at him over the rim. “Why don’t you tell me what it’s about then? Since you seem to know so much.”
He folds his arms on the table and look at me dead on. “You’re in love with him.”
“What?” I force a guffaw even as my heart hammers in my chest. “I-I’m not…You’re way off, buddy. I’m not ‘in love’ with anyone. Pfft. Ha.”
What the heck is wrong with my heart? Why is it going berserk right now? Almost as if it’s jumping up and down in my chest going, Yes! Yes! That’s what I’
ve been trying to tell you!
“Uh-huh, I think you’re in love with him,” he repeats. “I think you’re so blindly in love with this guy that you probably don’t even care that he scammed you. I think if he walked through those doors right now you’d run straight into his arms.”
This is preposterous. I’m not in love with Kholton. That’s not what we had. What I felt with him was…euphoric contentment. And, well, sure there may have been a handful of times where felt I was falling in love with him, but…
We fought more than we kissed. I lied. He lied. I conned him. He conned me. I’m defiant. He’s rebellious. We’re compatible at best. But I wouldn’t say a match made in heaven.
I’m melancholic because…well, he made me happy. I laughed a lot when I was with him. I was virtually always laughing with him. He’s a dork with a huge heart. Too humane for his own good.
He likes to tickle me, tease me, make fun of me. He’s obsessed with touching me. Feeling me up no matter where we are. And he always, always emits a soft sigh whenever I touch him.
I like his eyes, how bold they are. I like his teeth, the sound of his laughter. I like his mind, how brilliant it is. I like that he watches Disney and shuns overly violent or depressing entertainment. I like the way he looks at me, like I’m all he sees. I like…him.
Love, though? That’s…strong.
Then again, I didn’t know I loved Max until after we broke up. And…yep, it was also Alaric who woke me up to that fact, too.
Am I being oblivious all over again? Am I in denial? Or am I just too damn scared to admit it?
“There she goes again,” Alaric grumbles.
My work phone rings, saving me from this conversation. It’s my assistant.
“Serena Bentley speaking.”
“Hi, Miss Bentley. I’m sorry to disturb your lunch,” she begins, “but some, um, courier guards stopped in to make a delivery. Mr. Bentley came down on your behalf, but they will not allow him to sign for it. Should I ask them to come back tomorrow?”
Guards? What the heck? Please let this not be anymore drama. I’m tired. “No,” I reply. “I’ll be there in a few.”
I wrap things up with Alaric, much to his irritation, and head back the office.
Three burly men loiter in the reception area of my floor, one holding a metal briefcase. Their uniforms hold the emblem of some private courier company.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I say, snagging their attentions. “I’m Serena Bentley and I was told you have a delivery for me?”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Bentley,” the burliest one greets. “Could you sign right here for me, please?”
I take the stylus pen he offers and scribble my signature across the screen before handing it back to him.
“Who’s the sender?” I ask. “And why is it necessary for three big men with guns to make a delivery?”
“When the contents being delivered exceeds one million dollars in value, it is our duty to ensure the delivery is made safely, Ma’am,” he explains. “It is both in your interest and ours.”
The one with the metal briefcase then scans his fingerprint on a small detached device and the briefcase snaps open. Cushioned inside, is a black micro safe box.
“Miss Bentley, please remove this box.”
With both hands, I lift out the cool metal, holding it so gently it might as well have been an egg.
Closing the briefcase, he tells me, “The sender requests that you check your email fifteen minutes after the delivery is made to receive the code that will open it.”
“Okay.” This is so weird. “You still haven’t told me who the sender is.”
“Oh, um…One second.” He gets out an iPad from the black pouch that also holds the signature device, and swipes across the screen a few times. “Our records here show a Mr. Kholton Sharpe as the sender.”
Just like that, I’m flipped over like a coin and toppled onto my head again.
Kholton Sharpe.
After four months of misery, hearing his name like that is a soothing balm. I’m furious with him, but I have a gaping Kholton Sharpe hole in my chest and I’m desperate to fill it.
As the couriers leave, I walk numbly past all the stares and wagging lips, straight into my office, slamming the door behind me.
I don’t make it to my desk. I drop to my ass on the carpeted floor in the middle of the room, legs splayed, suspicious box snuggled between them.
I want to believe that I already know what’s inside, but it would be impossible. Improbable. Highly unlikely. No way. Just…not possible.
The last time he left a metal box for me, I never saw him again. Is this his final goodbye?
Getting my phone from my purse, I place it on top of the box, and I wait.
Someone knocks timidly on my door. “Miss Bentley? Are you—Do you need anything?”
It’s my assistant.
I don’t answer. I’m focused. Counting the seconds. Marking the minutes. Waiting.
It feels like forever. Forever. Fifteen minutes of forever.
Then, it’s there. I see the email come in before I hear the ping. Light before sound.
With shaking, clumsy fingers, I open it.
0809342
That’s all.
Seven naked numbers.
No introduction, no conclusion.
I feel punctured. Pricked and bruised. But I punch in the code. The box beeps and unlocks.
With closed eyes, I open it, terrified of what I’ll find.
Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes.
Immediate tears blur my vision.
My chin wobbles.
A single rivulet of liquid salt streaks down my face.
I hate him. I hate him so freaking much. I hate that he can reduce me to this weak, pathetic person, making me feel as if I need him to breathe, to smile, to live.
With fumbling fingers, I pick up the phone and hit reply on the email.
Serena Bentley: How?
Kholton Sharpe: I have my ways.
Serena Bentley: Did you steal it? AGAIN?
Kholton Sharpe: Bought it.
Serena Bentley: From them?
Kholton Sharpe: Yes. Not easy to fence a 70-mil piece of jewelry. Very few people have that kind of money sitting around. And if they hacked it up or melted it down, they’d get less.
Serena Bentley: So they sold it to YOU?
Kholton Sharpe: Nah. They thought they sold it to a museum.
Serena Bentley: Where did you get the money?
Kholton Sharpe: Just wanted you to have it back. It’s yours.
Serena Bentley: WHERE DID YOU GET THE MONEY?!
He doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t.
Where the heck did he get that kind of money from?
Then it hits me. No wonder my PI can’t track him. He’s not here. He went home. Back to his California mansion and affluent life.
Did he decide to take over the company after all? Did his father die? What did he have to do to get back into their good graces in order to be able to afford a seventy-million-dollar brooch?
Serena Bentley: You’re in California, aren’t you?
He doesn’t answer. I lay back on the floor and rest the phone on chest. Let the radiation kill me. I’m already dead inside. Tears keep coming, falling into my ears now.
After several prolonged minutes of ugly crying at the ceiling, I pick up my phone again.
Serena Bentley: Why?
Kholton Sharpe: Had no idea who they were to you. Not until it was too late.
Serena Bentley: So, what, this is something you do on the side? Lie and steal and con unsuspecting people?
Kholton Sharpe: Not anymore. But yeah, I used to. Picked it up after I was disinherited. Got me through college. Paid for all my fancy degrees.
Serena Bentley: Not anymore??? You just robbed me!
Kholton Sharpe: Had hung up the gloves, yeah. But Brian needed some cash for an investment. You were a big job. 15% commission. So I took it, to help hi
m. Backed out after you were abducted. But then you came knocking on my door…
Serena Bentley: So now it’s my fault I got conned?
Kholton Sharpe: Well, kinda.
Serena Bentley: Are you serious right now????
Kholton Sharpe: If you’d stayed away it wouldn’t have happened. I dropped the job. You showed up…made it easier.
Serena Bentley: You’re a piece of shit fraud, you know that?
Kholton Sharpe: Yeah. I know.
Serena Bentley: GO TO HELL, YOU SCUM! PHONY! FRAUD! LIAR!
I pelt my phone across the room, curl up in a ball, and cry.
Deja freaking vu.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep on the floor until I hear a key turning in my office door.
I jackknife up, confused.
The door pushes open and my father walks in.
He watches me for a long moment with a sad expression, before he asks, “Are you ready?”
“What?” I rub the bleariness from my eyes. “What time is it? I have a meeting with KTK Rentals.”
“It’s almost five o’ clock, sweetheart,” he informs me. “I had all your meetings canceled.”
“Wha—” I start to feel around for my phone to verify the time, until I notice it smashed to pieces at the foot of my desk. Well, hell.
I check the clock on the wall instead and yep, I’ve slept the day away.
“Come on, ‘Rena,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
In the back of the car on our way home, he strokes my hair while I sniffle on his shoulders. He doesn’t ask why I’m sniffling. He already knows it’s Kholton.
I haven’t told him what Kholton has done, though. And I probably never will. He’s been having better days, getting over his paranoia and reclusiveness, so the last thing I want to do is tell him that Kholton has turned out to be the male version of Virginia. He wouldn’t take it well.
Dusk Til Dawn by Zayn starts spilling from the car speakers, and it makes me even sadder.
“What was in the box?” my father asks.