Unspoken (The Prose Series Book 1)

by Sofia Tate

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  17

  Aiden

  I can’t keep still. My palms are sweating. My heart is going to fucking burst out of my chest. I rush over to the minibar, whip out the tiny bottle of Jameson, and swallow the whole thing down like water, the burn of the alcohol warming my throat, giving me courage for what I’m about to do.

  Any minute, I’m going to hear that door open of the suite Bea reserved for us at the Bowery, and she’ll walk in, looking gorgeous as ever, that beautiful smile spread across her face. And then, I’m going to throw her life into a 180.

  I’m a fucking bastard.

  After our night at the Ritz-Carlton, I knew it was time to tell her everything. That night changed us both for the better and worse.

  In the back of my mind, I’m praying that maybe she’ll understand. Maybe she’ll understand why I pretended to be someone I’m not so I could get closer to her. I want her to know that she’s safe with me, that she shouldn’t be ashamed of what she shared with me because she was being her true self, the self that she keeps private and isn’t meant for public viewing. That I love her for everything she is.

  I stop moving when I hear the key in the lock. I turn around, and there she stands, the only woman I’ve ever loved, that wide smile across her soft lips, which I think is even bigger today.

  My Buzzy.

  Fuck, shit, fuck.

  She slams the door behind her, drops her tote bag, and runs to me, giving out an adorable girlish squeal. Instantly, she wraps her arms around me and kisses me so hard that I actually step back on one foot from the impact of her body hitting mine.

  I accept her tongue into my mouth. I’m so hungry for her, so ravenous. I take her head between my hands to hold her steady, to savor this moment for as long as I can.

  When Bea finally releases her mouth from mine, she gazes dreamily into my eyes. “Hi,” she whispers.

  I swallow. “Hi, yourself.”

  “Have you been waiting long?” she asks so sweetly.

  I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  She steps back from me, tucking my hand into her soft one. “Come with me. I want to tell you something.”

  I follow her as if in a trance, slowly because I want to stop time right now. Right fucking now.

  She leads me to the bedroom and sits down on the bed, patting the space next to her. I give her a slight grin to mask what’s really going on inside me. I do as she asks and ease myself down. She pulls on me to sit even closer so our thighs press together.

  I exhale loudly, waiting for her to take the lead.

  She takes my hand again and looks directly into my eyes. “Something happened to me today, Aiden.”

  “What?”

  “I was trying on wedding gowns with my mom and Mrs. Thorne when I had this amazing moment of clarity.”

  My eyes widen. “Hold on a sec. You were trying on wedding gowns? Why the fuck would you do that? I asked you to give me a chance. You’re still going ahead with this bullshit marriage?”

  “Hey!” she interrupts. “Could you let me finish?”

  I exhale, holding her hand tighter. “Fine. Go on.”

  “I stood on this pedestal and watched as my wedding was being planned for me. There was Meredith, pulling out reception ideas from her bag and my mom totally swooning and getting all excited, and then it hit me. This was what my life was going to be like until I die. Everything being planned right down to the place setting and fabric swatch, being married to someone I could never love, having children only for appearances and to carry on the family name.”

  I simply nod, waiting for the next sentence with a huge lump in my throat.

  “I don’t want any of that, Aiden. And now I know what I do want.”

  Tears appear in the corners of her eyes.

  Oh God. No. Please no.

  “I want a life with you because I love you, Aiden. I love you so much. These past few weeks have made me realize what’s been in front of me all this time, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to realize it. But now I know. And it’s going to be you and me from now on. Buzzy and Full Ride.”

  I shut my eyes in pleasure and pain. Finally, the woman I’ve loved for far longer than I can remember tells me she loves me in return, and now, I’m going to risk that love.

  “Aiden? Say something, please,” she begs me, barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d be happy about this. Unless you’ve changed your mind…”

  Her nervousness snaps me into action as I grab her face and kiss her so hard and deep because I want her to remember this moment. “I love you, Buzzy, and I always will.”

  Bea’s shoulders drop in relief. “Thank God for that. I was so worried for a second.”

  I rise to my feet and walk to the window, turning my back to her because I won’t be able to bear the look on her face when I say it. I’ve never been more scared in my life.

  “Aiden? What is it?”

  “Ecstasy,” I whisper to the window.

  “What?”

  “The Confession.”

  I hear her gasp audibly.

  “Quid Pro Quo.”

  I hate myself. I hate myself.

  “A Wall-”

  “-and a Pair of Pigalles,” she finishes for me.

  I finally allow myself to turn around, holding onto the smallest amount of hope that she’ll understand and see this as a good thing.

  When I find the strength to look in Bea’s face, all color has disappeared from it. She’s paler than the rest of her creamy flesh, the flesh I’ve licked and kissed. Her jaw is clenched, her lips forming a straight, hard line. And her eyes, those emerald eyes that resemble freshly cut grass, are now ice cold.

  “You’re GalwayPlayer?” she asks, the venom potent in her voice.

  I bore my eyes into hers, not hiding anything. “Yes.”

  “How did it start?” she hisses.

  “Your laptop was open in the library that day at your family’s Boxing Day dinner.”

  She nods in comprehension, her lips pressed together in a hard line. “You must’ve had some good laughs over what I wrote.”

  I take a step toward her. “No, baby—”

  Bea thrusts her shaking hand into the air, palm facing me to keep me from coming any closer, and I obey her.

  I watch as she jumps to her feet. “What were you going to do? Sell my fantasies to the highest bidder?” she snarls.

  “Fuck no, Buzzy!”

  “DO NOT EVER CALL ME THAT AGAIN! I want you out of my life! You’re going to tell Seb that you can’t be friends with him anymore. I don’t give a shit what reason you give him. You are nothing but a fucking liar, some worthless piece of working class trash who’s used my family long enough. I guess you finally lived up to your nickname, didn’t you, Full Ride?”

  I shake my head, not at all surprised that she used the class card to validate her excuse for ending things.

  “You know that’s bullshit, Bea!” I yell back at her roughly, too upset to keep myself in check. “Do you know why I joined Prose? Because I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to show you that I could be the man you want, the man you need. You just have to give us a chance. Please. I am so sorry that I did it this way, but those fantasies, they made me love you even more. Can’t you see that?”

  I can only stand by helplessly as full, body-wracking sobs overtake her body. She wraps her arms around herself to keep her steady. “Get out! Get the fuck out! I hate you, Aiden! I fucking hate you!”

  Her words push me over the edge. Not only is my hope gone, but it’s been replaced by anger at her, at her fucking family, her fucking world, and her cowardice in not being able to hold her head up high and admit what she truly wants.

  “That’s fucking fine! I’m out of here!” I shout back at her before rushing into the living area to grab my jacket, throwing the door open, and slamming it shut behind me.

  The hotel guests in the elevator give me odd looks, seeing the fury in my eyes, but I could fu
cking care less. When I finally make it onto the street, I inhale a gulp of air and start walking south. I cross East Houston Street when a neon sign catches my eye. I walk into the small dingy space that smells of mold and age, hauling myself onto a stool.

  “Whiskey,” I order from the biker chick behind the bar. “And don’t stop until I’m facedown on the fucking floor.”

  18

  Bea

  I can’t open my eyes. My eyes are glued shut. I gently touch them with my fingers.

  No, they’re not closed from an excess of eyelash glue.

  My eyelashes are glued together thanks to the layer of salt crusted on them. I wince as I slowly peel them apart. When I finally see what’s around me, I’m cocooned in a duvet, sunlight streaming through the window. I carefully unfurl myself to reveal a large red cursive B embroidered on it.

  Where am I?

  And then, it all comes back to me.

  Last night. The Bowery Hotel. Aiden. GalwayPlayer.

  I must’ve cried myself to sleep without even bothering to change because my silk blouse and wool pants are now wrinkled beyond belief.

  I can barely move, my limbs lying limp on my sides like wet noodles. I stretch my legs until I feel the burn in my muscles. My strength is depleted.

  I reach over to the phone on the nightstand, pressing the number for room service.

  A perky assistant answers on the other end. I order a double espresso and buttered toast because that’s all my stomach can handle right now.

  When I spot my purse on the floor next to me, I grab it, cringing in pain.

  Powering on my cell, it lights up like a Christmas tree. I have missed calls from my parents and two texts from Seb asking where I am.

  I quickly call home.

  “Good morning. Parker residence,” Sinclair answers in his usual authoritative tone.

  “Sinclair, it’s me. Please tell Mom and Dad that I’m fine and that I’ll call them later.”

  “They’re having breakfast now. I can just call them to the phone,” he offers.

  “No, no, really. I’m okay. You can tell them that I’ll be home later today.”

  “Very well, Miss Beatrice. Are you in need of anything?”

  I smile at his concern. “No, Sinclair, but thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I lie back on the soft pillows, burrowing once again into the duvet.

  Aiden’s face won’t escape my mind.

  Queens. Ha! As if I could really live there. I’m a Parker. Parkers live in Manhattan on Park Avenue.

  In the end, Aiden didn’t know me at all, not the real Beatrice Parker. He knew 10280girl. She was a façade. There was nothing real about her.

  I come from an important family, and I’m destined for great things, not to be some construction worker’s wife in Astoria. Please. I’m going to be engaged to the son from one of the most prominent society families in Manhattan.

  I grab my phone once more. I google the schedule for Acela trains to Boston and book myself a ticket, then I text Marisol.

  Three sharp knocks at the door almost make me spill my espresso all over the white hotel robe I’m wearing.

  I pad to the door, revealing Marisol on the other side, panting and holding her phone screen out to me with the text I sent her: 911! Bowery Hotel.

  “Christ, Bea, it’s one thing to send a 911 to meet you at Vera Wang. But for your booty call, couldn’t you have met him someplace closer to us like the Carlyle or the Mark? Since when do you go below 42nd Street? And you ask for a fresh set of clothes! And you know it’s rush hour so Uber charges…”

  She stops talking when she takes a longer look at me, seeing my bloodshot eyes and pale face.

  “Oh, fuck,” she whispers before pulling me into a tight hug. She takes me by the elbow, leading me to the love seat in the living area where she settles me down, dumps a tote bag on the floor, and grabs the bottled water that came with my coffee.

  I tuck myself into the robe, ready for her questions.

  “What happened, chica?”

  I blurt it out. “Aiden is GalwayPlayer.”

  She shakes her head in confusion. “Wait a sec. The guy you’ve been writing to on that website is Aiden?”

  I nod silently.

  “What…How?”

  I take a deep breath. “Apparently, he saw the site open on my laptop the day he came over for dinner after Christmas. Then he joined Prose to get to know the real me, so I could see that he was the right man for me.”

  “Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath. “What happened after he told you?”

  I laugh derisively. “What do you think? I told him I hated him and I never wanted to see him again. He actually had the nerve to tell me he loved me.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmmm,” she murmurs contemplatively.

  “What?”

  “Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate here, but don’t you think his heart was in the right place? You’ve been at each other’s throats for all these years, so you didn’t exactly make it easy for him. He wanted you to let him in, and you did. Okay, granted, it wasn’t the best way, but now he does know you, the real you. Don’t you think that it’s worth a shot with him?”

  I shake my head vehemently. “He lied to me, Marisol. He lied. I let myself be vulnerable with him, and now he’s humiliated me. I can’t see past that.”

  She replies with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Then what now?”

  “I’m taking the noon Acela train to Boston to talk to Porter.”

  Marisol leans back in shock. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go through with the wedding?”

  I take a final sip of my espresso, rising to my feet. “Yes, I am. I can’t believe how stupid I was, joining that fucking website. What did it get me?”

  She jumps up from the love seat, her eyes fiery. “It brought you the love of your life, Beatriz! I can’t believe how stubborn you’re being. So what if he wasn’t raised on Park Avenue? So what if he didn’t go to the proper schools? I get that your pride is hurt, but he loves you, chica. Do you know how fucking rare that is?”

  I do.

  I clench my fists, willing myself to remain strong “Look, it just wasn’t meant to be. And I’m going to take over the magazine. Hopefully, it’ll give me some purpose in life besides being the perfect wife and mother. I have to go shower.”

  “Ugh! Fine!” my best friend growls at me. “Even though you’re being completely loca, I still love you. And while you’re in the shower, I’m going to invade your minibar and it’s all going on your bill for dragging me downtown at this ungodly hour.”

  “That’s fair,” I concur.

  I turn around to head for the bathroom when Marisol’s voice calls me back. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes,” I instantly reply.

  Like I have a fucking choice.

  “Name?” the young security guard asks.

  I pull out my passport. “Beatrice Parker. I’m Porter Thorne’s fiancée.”

  He glances at my photo, then me, picking up the phone on the desk. “Just a sec… Professor Thorne, a Beatrice Parker is here to see you…Okay.”

  The guard hangs up the phone. “Go on back. Third door on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  The white cold concrete hallway matches the exterior of the building—drab and impersonal.

  I knock on the door. Porter opens it dressed like what I would expect—white lab coat, pocket protector lined with pens, glasses that need cleaning on the bridge of his nose, which I watch him push up after he opens the door.

  “Beatrice. This is a surprise. Is everything all right?”

  “Could we talk?”

  “Ummm…yeah…sure…of course,” he stammers. “Let’s go into my office.”

  I follow him, mesmerized by everything around me—the other men and women dressed the same as him, microscopes and notebooks strewn about on black marble-topped tables, and the s
ound of liquid bubbling in beakers over Bunsen burners.

  We end up in a small, cramped, windowless office. Bookshelves are crammed, file folders piled high on his desk.

  He picks up a dog-eared collection of Scientific American off the chair opposite his desk, offering the now-empty seat to me. “Please.”

  I settle myself in while he sits in his desk chair. “What’s going on?”

  I clear my throat. “I’m here to apologize. I wasn’t the nicest person when our parents brought us together, and I feel badly about that.”

  He gives me a quick smile. “It’s okay. You were getting your revenge on all those times I stepped on your feet in dance class.”

  I laugh to myself. “You’re kind to say that. Look, I’m going to cut to the chase. I think we should go through with the wedding.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. “You do?”

  I nod. “Yes. We both love our families and we want to do what’s right, don’t we?”

  “I agree,” he replies cautiously, “but what about my work here?”

  “I wouldn’t stand in your way. I know your research is important to you, so you can spend as much time as you need here, and I’ll be back in Manhattan.”

  Porter leans back in his chair, looking at me curiously. “What about that guy who was at the ball?”

  I bite down on the inside of my lower lip. “You don’t need to worry about him. He’s no longer in my life.”

  He watches me for a full minute. “Beatrice, are you sure about this? You were so adamantly opposed to the marriage when our parents got us together.”

  “I am sure. One hundred percent.”

  He twitches his head. “Huh. Well, all right then.” He tugs on his desk drawer, searching for something. He hands me a business card. “This is all of my information. You don’t need to consult me about anything regarding the wedding. Just tell me when and where to show up. I’m sure our mothers will handle the rest.”

  I glance up at him, the image of our mothers back at Vera Wang crossing my mind—conferring, plotting, micromanaging.