Undone by the Ex-Con

by Talia Hibbert

  It was unnatural. To be so manipulative—to be a liar in everything you did, in every single breath, to your fucking core. Isaac felt slightly sick.

  “Why are you here?” He gritted out, still stalking towards them.

  “Isaac,” Lizzie warned. “Don’t.”

  “What? Don’t what?”

  “Just don’t,” she snapped. Then she stepped away from Mark—towards Isaac. Where she belonged. He felt himself relax, just a bit. She reached out a hand, and he took it.

  “Good morning, Lizzie. Isaac.” Mark gave them both a genial nod, as if nothing untoward had happened, as if this was any other day. He strolled off, and as he passed them, Isaac had a vivid vision of himself ripping Mark’s head off of his body.

  Then Lizzie squeezed his hand, and he came back to the real world. He pulled her through the open doorway, shutting the two of them safely inside her room. Away from whatever the fuck had just happened out there.

  “What the hell was that?” He asked.

  “Nothing.” Her voice was terse. Strained. He loved her hair down, but for some reason the sight was making him uncomfortable right now. Maybe because it seemed like a sign of vulnerability on her. A sign he didn’t want someone like Mark to see.

  Too late for that.

  “Why was he here?” Isaac asked.

  “Can we… can we just leave it?”

  He stared in disbelief. “What the fuck? No, we can’t just leave it. Did he do something to you?”

  “Of course not.” Her robe was coming undone, and she tugged the halves together, holding them close to her chest. But he saw enough of her smooth, brown skin to realise that she was naked beneath.

  Bile rising, he looked wildly around the room. She didn’t have a suite like him. Just a bedroom and a bathroom. Her sheets were rumpled, but she’d probably just woken up. And yes, the pillows were all over the floor, and there wasn’t an inch of the bed that didn’t look like it’d been turned upside down, but maybe she was a rough sleeper.

  He wouldn’t know. She’d never slept with him. She’d never come close to spending her nights with him. And she’d never brought him to her room.

  Isaac stormed through to the bathroom, pulling up short when he found that the lights were off, candles glowing seductively through the darkness. He could just make out what looked like rose petals floating atop the steaming water that filled the bath. His face grim, Isaac returned to the bedroom, spearing Lizzie with his gaze.

  He waited for her to rush at him with explanations, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. She’d never lower herself.

  And so, it was his own voice that broke the silence. “You fucking him?”

  She turned her head towards him, so, so slowly. And then she said, her tone unyielding: “I know you did not just ask me that.”

  Grinding his teeth, Isaac shrugged. As though there wasn’t a ten tonne weight on his shoulders, dragging him down, sweeping him beneath the surf. “You could be anywhere in the world,” he said. “But you’re here. Teaching a few kids—”

  “His kids,” she said. “His children. With his wife. What do you think of me?”

  Fuck. Isaac dragged a hand over his face, his brain moving slower and slower by the second. Almost as slow as his mouth, as his useless tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Out of order.”

  “Yes you fucking are.” She wrapped her arms around herself as though holding pieces together, and he realised he’d never seen her do that before. He’d never seen her appear broken or even splintered. Either she was perfect, formidable—or she was wild beneath him, flawless in a different kind of way.

  “What did he want?” Isaac asked, jealousy fading, concern stampeding to the forefront of his mind. “You didn’t invite him here. Why did he come?”

  She ignored him, walking to stare out of the window. Usually he’d be just as eager to see the view. Today all he could do was watch the column of her spine, stiff as always.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” Isaac said. Because as always, she dragged the words from him without even trying. “Always has been. But it’s worse now. Closer to the surface. Can’t ignore it anymore.”

  She turned, probably outraged that he’d dare accuse the golden man. Her old family friend. Connections were everything to these people.

  Only she didn’t look outraged. She was staring at him with something he couldn’t quite identify. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

  His face heating, he finished gruffly: “Just... be careful with him. Alright?”

  “You really do see everything,” she muttered. “Like Blake, wandering through London.”

  “Don’t,” he gritted out. “I’m no poet.” But then, when she arched a brow, he realised his mistake.

  “You read the Romantics?” She asked.

  Fuck. “Not much to do when you spend all day locked in a cell.”

  A gentle smile softened her face as she moved towards him. “You think I don’t know you. I do. I didn’t mean to, but I do.” She slid her arms around his shoulders, and he held her close as though it were automatic. A reflex. And fuck, didn’t everything feel better now that the air he was breathing tasted of her?

  She was close, so close he could see those sweet little freckles beneath her eye. She moved closer still, pressed her lips lightly to his. When she spoke, she spoke into him.

  “You are a poet, Isaac Montgomery, whether you like it or not. I know there are entire galaxies inside your mind, and I know that you pour them into that little book of yours—”

  He kissed her. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, and felt the clouds of her curls against his fingers, and forced his lips roughly into hers with no delicacy and no art and no sophistication. He had to show her somehow, the only way he knew, that he was hers. Whether it made sense or not. She’d branded him in a way he couldn’t shake.

  But just as he started to feel anchored again, just as the frantic panic of confusion faded, she pulled away. Put her palm against his chest, as if to push him back. He let go of her and his confusion returned. He felt like he was floating away. Like he’d be lost in the sky forever, unable to get down again, because the woman he’d come to need refused to ground him anymore.

  “I can’t,” she choked out.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She looked up at him, and her expression was so empty… she was barely recognisable. He couldn’t bear to see it.

  Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut, running his hands over his hair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Done what?” She asked dully.

  “Kissed you. I thought you—”

  “Isaac. I’m not talking about that.” Something in her tone made him look at her again. The sight was like a punch to the gut.

  She was different. Completely different. Just like Mark. A minute ago she had been smiling for him, teasing him, telling him she knew him. Whispering exactly what he wanted to hear. Now she looked disgusted. She pressed a hand to her stomach as if she might be sick, and her warm, brown skin seemed grey and waxen.

  “What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice a whisper.

  She shook her head. “This is wrong.” Her breath shuddered through her body, and for a moment he thought he saw tears in her eyes. But it was just a trick of the light. She looked right through him as she said, “I need you to leave.”

  Isaac stood there, the words playing over and over in his head. She opened her mouth to speak again, and the sight spurred him into action. He wouldn’t make her ask twice.

  He turned away from everything he’d ever wanted, heading straight to the door without looking back.

  Apparently he’d been alone this whole time.

  He was Lizzie’s. But Lizzie would never be his.

  Twenty-One

  Everything was ruined, and it was entirely her fault.

  She knew that. She accepted it. She wanted to cry and scream and punch a fucking
wall, but she’d never do anything so utterly ridiculous.

  There was no time for childishness. She was going into battle.

  As Isaac shut the door softly behind him, Lizzie threw off her robe. She grabbed her phone from the bedside table before heading to the bathroom, turning on the lights.

  Dialling with one hand, she used the other to put out all these fucking candles. Each one burned for a precious instant before it snuffed out beneath the pressure of her finger and thumb. The whisper of pain was necessary. This was all necessary. She needed to remember that.

  As she sank into the bathwater, her brother finally picked up the phone.

  “Keynes,” he said, voice brusque.

  “I’m coming home early.”

  “Liz.” She could hear the frown in his voice, the surprise. “You are?”

  “Yes. If you’ll lend me the money so I can fly home today.”

  “I’ll give it to you,” he said, as always.

  “I don’t want it. Lend it to me.”

  “Whatever. You okay?”

  She wouldn’t bother answering that. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Ooookay…” She heard voices in the background, what sounded like cars passing in the distance. “Do you need me to come home now?”

  He was probably busy. In fact, he was definitely busy. And she didn’t like to bother him, didn’t like to interrupt the little place he’d carved out for himself in the world—or rather, the places he’d carved out worldwide.

  But he was her brother. Somewhere along the line, the real meaning of that word had become lost to her. Only now, she was starting to remember.

  Us against the world. Together.

  “Yes,” she said. “I—I need you to come home.” Her voice cracked, and hot tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

  “Lizzie,” he muttered, lowering his voice. As if he were in the middle of something. Whoops. “Are you crying?”

  “No,” she sobbed.

  “I’m coming home. Heathrow. Wait for me.”

  “O-okay,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Trying to fend off the tears. Too late. They were there to stay, it seemed.

  “See you soon. Love you.”

  “Love you,” she sniffed.

  The call ended. She reached up to put her phone on the counter. Then she sank beneath the hot, scented water, the water she’d thought might help her sleep after last night’s painful insomnia.

  She didn’t need to sleep anymore. What she needed now was to continue with her plan. Of course, she wasn’t entirely sure of the plan just yet. But she had a goal, and the sadness she’d just seen in Isaac’s eyes—the sadness she’d put there—was motivation enough to achieve it.

  Lizzie gave herself five seconds to remain immersed, surrounded by the water, a world apart from the mess that was her reality. On the sixth second, she rose up, her hair streaming down her back. Her hair was the first thing she needed to deal with. The first part of her armour.

  She grabbed a comb and some conditioner, almost emptying the bottle as she squeezed it over her head. Dragging her way through the tangles, Lizzie combed and combed until her hair was as soft and sleek as it was ever going to get. Which wasn’t very. But it was enough.

  She washed herself, got out, stood before the mirror armed with a hair-tie, a thousand grips, and half a ton of hair gel. She scraped her hair back, brushing it into submission, remembering the look of grim determination on her mother’s face every time Sunday—wash day—came around. The nanny didn’t know how to do Lizzie’s hair. Said it was too much to handle. So Mother had learned, and hated every minute of it.

  Lizzie held that hate close to her heart as she pulled and tugged and twisted until her hair was devoid of texture, tightly bound atop her head. She smiled at her reflection, the expression sharp. Already she felt like herself. Like the kind of woman who could deal with this situation. Not just do as she was told to survive—but handle it.

  Next, she tested her blood sugar. Her body was her ally, not her nemesis; she knew that now. And she couldn’t charge into battle unprepared.

  She ran through the now-familiar motions: pricking her finger, watching as crimson bloomed, spilling her blood onto the test strip. Numbers were good. She was in control. She’d been looking after herself, and now her body was looking after her. Lizzie almost felt proud.

  Almost. But not quite. All these tiny victories didn’t mean she’d won the war.

  She would, though. Lizzie dressed carefully, methodically, in the kind of clothes she hated to wear—the kind her mother loved. A neat little skirt suit, patent leather heels, a cardigan to soften the look. She should wear pearls, but she hadn’t brought any with her.

  Lizzie folded her comfortable leggings and leotards up neatly, arranging her luggage with care. Then she called the front desk and asked for someone to come and collect it. Then she called the airport and booked a one-way ticket on the next flight to Heathrow. And then she called a taxi company and arranged for them to pick her up.

  There. All of her phone calls were done. Now it was time for some real conversations.

  It was beyond painful, smiling and air kissing the girls as if nothing was amiss.

  Audrey reigned supreme over the drawing room, her sprained ankle propped up on a velvet-upholstered stool, her sisters crowding around her. For once, she and Ava weren’t even bickering. And Clarissa was present too, because that was just Sod’s Law, wasn’t it? The girls were often too wrapped up in themselves to notice the little things, but Clarissa, for all her airy ways, was sharp as a fucking tack. She hadn’t married Mark by accident, after all.

  “You’re leaving early, then?” She murmured, voice languid—but her eyes like a hawk’s.

  “Unavoidable, I’m afraid,” Lizzie replied. “Family emergency. And since Audrey is indisposed—”

  “Oh, of course, of course.” Clarissa waved her hand. “It’s no issue. I do hope your emergency is resolved.”

  “I’m confident that it will be.” Lizzie swallowed, hard. “I was hoping I might speak to Mark, before I go?”

  “If you run up to our suite, darling, you might catch him before he hits the slopes.”

  Lizzie winced internally. She didn’t want to be anywhere so private with Mark—not after he’d let himself into her room yet again this morning, and never mind the fact that he swore he didn’t want her. A man didn’t have to want in order to take.

  But this was her only chance. And she had to do this just right, perfectly, if she was going to buy herself some time.

  “Thank you,” she nodded stiffly. “I’ll be off, then.”

  “Do you have to go?” Ava pouted.

  “Yes,” Audrey said. “It’s a family emergency. We’ll see her soon, anyway, won’t we Lizzie?”

  All three girls looked up at her, eager as puppies. Lizzie smiled woodenly. “Of course.”

  But the truth was, she wasn’t certain. She wasn’t certain at all.

  The Spencer suite was on the hotel’s highest floor, and there were only four doors to choose from. Of course, Lizzie didn’t have to guess—she knew their room number—but still, she hesitated.

  And the memory of the last time she’d hesitated outside a hotel room brought heat to her cheeks.

  Isaac.

  She stiffened her spine. No time for that now. No time at all.

  Lizzie knocked firmly on the Spencer’s door, waiting for an answer with her heart in her mouth. She almost hoped he wouldn’t be there. But she needed him to be.

  And he was. After a few long minutes, the door swung open, and Mark appeared. He scowled, probably still smarting over the events of that morning. But she didn’t have the time to soothe his ego. Lizzie pushed her way past him into the room, walking with purpose. Mother always said, a woman who walked with purpose could take over the world.

  The narrow doorway widened into a charming little sitting room, and she helped herself to a seat, watching Mark as closely as she would a viper.

&nbs
p; He let his gaze flit insulting over her body before he followed her, coming to sit in the loveseat that faced her chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms. Keynes?” He asked, sounding almost bored.

  The patience that he’d been wearing on for so long finally tore.

  “Olusegun,” she corrected sharply. “My name is Elizabeth Adewunmi Olusegun-Keynes, and I’ll thank you to use it.”

  For a moment, Mark appeared slightly unbalanced—though he tried valiantly to hide it. Didn’t matter. She saw through him. Oh, his lip curled derisively, but her senses were suddenly so sharp, her nerves so on edge, that she couldn’t miss the way he hesitated before speaking. “Quite,” he murmured finally. “Miss... Olu...”

  “O-lu-se-gun.” She sounded it out slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Don’t worry. Your tongue may be lazy, but you’ll get the hang of it.” She gave him an acidic smile, and in that moment she felt just like her mother.

  In the best possible way.

  He cleared his throat. “Why are you here?” He demanded. As though he hadn’t been invading her space every chance he got.

  But she couldn’t let her disgust run wild now, even in her thoughts. If there was one thing she knew, it was that a performance must be done with the whole heart, or not at all.

  So Lizzie forced fear and subservience into her own soul, and let it shine through as she spoke. “I—I need to leave early.”

  He arched one dark brow, imperious. “Have you completed your task?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Then why should I allow you to go?”

  “Because it’s an emergency. And because I can prove to you that I’m close.”

  “Close?” He leaned forward, and she resisted the urge to shy away. “What do you mean?” He demanded, his gaze lit with something grasping and desperate.

  “I know what happened with the journalist.”

  Mark grinned. Not the cheerful, open smile she was used to seeing—the one that she now realised had always been fake—but the horrifying, face-splitting grimace of a monster closing in on its victim.