by May Sage
There was no one in the open space in front of her. Ryn headed to the kitchen area, needing a glass of water. She found a covered plate of food on the breakfast bar with bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes. A hurried hand had written "Ryn" on a card and left it next to it, or on top of it, who knew. A small black cat was clawing at the plastic film protecting her breakfast, trying to get into it. The fluff ball could have moved the card.
"Hey you. I didn't see you yesterday," she said softly, reaching out to stroke his shiny coat.
Strategic error. The animal stiffened, its tail puffed, and he turned at the speed of light. Its small pointy teeth tore into her finger, and it leapt back, hissing.
"You're not very friendly," she told the cat, who was running away as fast as its small legs could carry him, across the kitchen and then up the stairs.
Ryn grabbed the card and turned it around, sucking on her bloody finger.
"I'm in the gym. Stay. Eat. We can talk later. PS: the cat bites."
She definitely should have read the card first.
Ryn's shoulders stiffened, and she found her stomach in knots now.
It wasn't like she hadn't known it was coming; she was here because he wanted her to talk about Wallace, help him find a way to put him behind bars. The prospect made her want to run away and hide. She knew she couldn't. Desmond—along with his lawyers and investigators—could destroy her, just like Wallace. Instead, he'd offered her an out, if she cooperated. And she wanted, needed, to do it. Help put the monster away for good. She had to ignore the shame and just do it.
Ryn removed the many layers of plastic film covering the breakfast—Desmond had obviously cat-proofed it—and put the plate in the microwave before hunting for a glass. She'd just found them in the cupboard above one of the many counters when she heard steps behind her.
"Grab another glass for me, would you?"
She pulled two tumblers down before making the mistake of turning around. Her grip loosened and her mouth fell open. Shit. She tightened her grasp on the glasses just in time.
"Good catch," said the Adonis who walked down from the curved staircase wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist, and another one wrapped around his neck.
Fuck. Desmond's torso had been modeled after a sculpture of Mars. He had clearly defined muscles, lean and natural on his frame—not the bulky, exaggerated frame that protein-shake-addicted gym-rats favored. Whatever his workout routine, it certainly included leg days, if she was to judge by his thick, well-carved legs. His hips were narrow, and a trail of dark blond hair led down from his navel to the towel.
She swallowed hard. Dammit, he was a businessman, not a fucking model. Businessmen weren't supposed to look like that.
"Grab me some water, would you?" he asked, drying his hair with the towel around his neck. "There's a filtered jug in the fridge."
Right. Sure. No problem. As soon as she remembered how her motor functions worked.
Feeling her cheeks heat up, she turned so that he wouldn't see her blush, and went to the fridge. Inside, everything was perfectly in its proper place; even the vegetables seemed to behave how they were expected to. The jug was right in the middle; she pulled it out and poured two glasses before putting it back in the fridge.
"You have a gym here?" she asked, forcing herself to talk in an attempt to murder the awkwardness.
"Yes, and a pool on the roof. I did some laps this morning."
That explained the drool-worthy body.
"There's one at the office, but I prefer to work out in the morning before starting the day."
"I don't think I've stepped inside a gym in my adult life," she confessed.
She'd been too busy with her various jobs and her courses back at college, then there had been the two jobs, and after, Wallace. He'd claimed all of her time, making it clear that if she wanted that fucking video to stay under wraps, she belonged to him twenty-four/seven, no stops. She'd been allowed to go home to sleep for exactly eight hours a day and, well, she'd crashed.
"I find that working out does increase my energy, overall. It also helps me sleep at night."
She itched to ask why he had problems with that, but it wasn't like they were buddies who could get into personal shit. Instead, she said, "Maybe I'll try someday, then."
It was normally just the kind of thing she said politely, because she knew she didn't have the time or the freedom to try anything she wanted to do, but it dawned on her. If Desmond had told her the truth, if they took down Wallace, she would be able to. She could go to the gym. She could take music lessons, dance, go out. Draw and paint. Maybe she could even afford to make friends. Travel, see the world.
She took a sip of her water and turned to Desmond, determined.
"About Wallace. Shoot whatever questions you have, I'll tell you everything I know. And I'll do whatever I can to get him away from me. Whatever it takes."
Desmond frowned, watching her closely. Was he anticipating another meltdown? There would be none. That had been yesterday, and she was over it. There was no more shock and numbness in her mind now. She just wanted to leap into action, make that elusive dream a reality. A dream of a future where her life belonged to her.
"You have a tight case, from what you said. What do you need to put him behind bars for good?"
He hesitated for an instant before telling her, "What we want to avoid is misdirection. He could argue that he wasn't pulling the strings, that it wasn't his plans, try to blame someone else; you, me, one of my brothers, the mafia, who knows? Eventually, we'll pin him down, regardless. Money and numbers talk. But for a smooth, unequivocal win, what we need is proof that he's the brains behind the fraud and thievery. Getting to his personal hard drive could do the trick."
She frowned. Wallace, like so many men of his generation, didn't use electronics when it could be helped. He made notes and printed out shit that he filed, instead of just saving them like a normal person.
"His filing cabinet would work better than a hard drive. He's a paper kinda guy. But I don't think he's stupid enough to keep track of the money he stole in there."
Desmond thought it out. "I'm going to have to call my lawyers, and Nate—Nathaniel Kingsley. My brother hired him for this case. His company specializes in intelligence and security. He's seen cases like this, he might have some insight."
"How about a confession?" she prompted.
One of Desmond's eyebrows hiked up. "That certainly would be handy, but most criminals don't go around screaming from rooftops about what they did."
She chuckled humorlessly. "You don't know Wallace like I do. He's arrogant. Very much so. He's mentioned the money out loud to me, many times. He loves to remind me of how powerful he is, how worthless I am, how he can make me do anything. I can make him talk. I bet your intelligence and security guy can install some sort of surveillance equipment."
Desmond gave the matter some thought before settling on, "That's risky. If he realizes you're playing him, it could get dangerous."
As he apparently hadn't understood her the first time, she repeated, "Whatever it takes."
Her business phone rang, the ringtone loud and obnoxious. She rolled her eyes. "Speak of the devil."
She'd left her bag close to the sofa the previous evening.
"That's him?" Desmond asked, frowning.
"Yeah, that's his ringtone." She dug into the pouch until her hand wrapped around the device. "Got it."
Ryn was about to answer the call but Desmond had other ideas.
"Wait." He frowned. "He'll want you back at his place now."
Oh. Yes, of course he would. Why else would he call?
Wallace's willfully ignorant wife was home most weekends, but she welcomed Ryn's presence, convinced that it was quite natural that her pig of a husband would have his assistant staying at their place most of the time. She didn't question when her husband disappeared in Ryn’s bedroom, to "talk about work."
He hadn't been at leisure to touch her the previous day,
so he'd want her now. She froze, the prospect of touching him again unbearable, now that she'd spent hours pondering freedom, believing it possible, achievable.
"Oh. Yes. He will." She bit her lip.
"Do you have anything essential at his place?" Desmond asked her.
She had to think. "All my work clothes, but that's about it. I have my wallet and passport on me." The phone stopped ringing, only to start again right away. Wallace Clarke, persistent as ever. She sighed. “It's okay. You're throwing him in jail soon. It'll be okay. I can—”
Before she finished talking, Desmond snatched the phone from her grasp and answered it. His tone was jovial, friendly, while his eyes remained ice.
Ryn stared at him in disbelief.
"Hello, old friend. I apologize for answering on your delightful assistant's behalf, her mouth is currently otherwise engaged."
She couldn't hear Wallace's reply.
"Oh, yes, she's very, very busy. In fact, I have in mind to keep her to myself for a little while, if you can spare her." Desmond waved his hand to get her attention and mouthed something that looked like "giggle".
She did as she was told, chuckling a little awkwardly.
"Thanks, old friend. I'll make sure she's ready for work Monday. I'm in your debt."
On that note, he hung up.
"Fixed. Let's get to work."
19
New Circles
Now
Ryn visited her sister once or twice a week these days, as often as her schedule permitted. On Thursday evening after work, she took the time to stop by a florist and grab a bouquet before heading to the hospital. Something with sunflowers, Bexley’s favorite.
When she got to her room, Ryn stilled, surprised to find her with company. Their parents. They did visit occasionally, but they'd mostly managed to miss each other the last few months.
"Kathryn, dear! Look at you. You're so very radiant," said her mother.
Her formal and proper upbringing had survived decades of marriage with a drunk, poverty, and so much more. Ryn managed a smile for her hard-working, beautiful mother. Once upon a time, she would have added "strong" to that list of qualities. Now, she knew better.
A stronger woman would have ended her toxic relationship with her husband, for her well-being as well as that of her children. David Woodrow used up a fair bit of her meager salary on booze. When they couldn't afford it, he yelled, threatened, and insulted. She had very little patience left for the man who wasn’t much of a father.
"Well, look at you, wearing those fancy clothes and all. If you're doing so well, you should give something back to your old man, now shouldn't you?"
Diana Woodrow lowered her eyes, shame evident on her features. She'd long ago stopped attempting to make apologies for her husband. Bex rolled her eyes.
"She gets a business allowance for her clothes, Dad. Most of her money goes to paying for my care, as you're well aware."
She mouthed "sorry," and Ryn shrugged in response. It wasn't like any of them could control their father.
"I'm so glad to see you, Kathryn," said her mother with a sad smile.
"Yeah. Maybe you should come visit us some time," David added sourly.
Right.
Time to go.
She waved. "I just saw these and thought of you, sis. Let me put them in water, then I have to get going."
"Where would you be going at this time of the night, young lady? A wealthy man we don't know about?"
She yet again ignored her father, moving as quickly as she could.
Sometimes she wondered how Natalie had turned out the way she did. Selfish, bitter, nasty. Then she spent two minutes with her family and she remembered why.
Once upon a time, David had seemed normal enough. When he'd held a job and had everything he wanted at his fingertips, he'd even been a decent father, for a few years she couldn't even clearly remember. Some people weren't meant to lose. Struggling brought the very worst of them to the surface. Some people were born weak.
"Here we go," she said, smiling at Bex as she placed the bouquet on her bedside table. "Can I get you anything? A book, maybe?"
"I could use a thing or two," David grumbled.
Bexley shook her head, as she always did, refusing to take more from her.
Ryn still checked her list of favorite authors every week, and brought their new releases whenever she could.
These days, it was every week. Not having to worry about rent or clothing had freed up a lot of her disposable income. Besides, the executive assistant to Callum King earned a lot more than Wallace Clarke's.
"I'd better get going."
"Please do. See you soon, sis."
At the door, she hesitated for a moment, turning back to her mother. Diana caught her look and walked closer to her.
"What is it, sweetheart?"
"Are you guys okay? Is there anything you actually need?"
Diana shook her head, squeezing her forearm. "We manage just fine. It's not your job to take care of us, whatever he says, sweetie. You do more than enough already." She then caressed Ryn’s cheek with the back of her hand. "You truly do look very well, you know. Did you change your diet?"
She laughed humorlessly. "No, not really. I changed my job, though. I'm still with King Industries, but I was…transferred. I work for one of the big guys. It's keeping me on my toes, but it's far less stressful than my previous job, in many ways."
Diana's eyes widened. "A promotion? Well done, sweetie. But, well, don't let your father hear you say that."
She nodded. Sad, but true.
"I'm glad to see you. And so sorry we lost touch."
Ryn hesitated. "I have a little more free time. Maybe we can hang out from time to time." She bit her lip, wondering how she could say it.
"Without David, you mean?" Diana whispered.
Ryn shrugged. She wasn't going to apologize for the fact that she refused to put up with his bullshit just because they shared blood.
“Preferably.”
Diana nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll call you.”
“I’d like that.”
As she'd planned to spend the next few hours with her sister, Ryn walked aimlessly through the streets of the city, reluctant to return to her barren apartment. She found herself looking at Lillie's number in her phone. They'd exchanged contact details before parting ways earlier that week.
The woman was probably busy, right? She was married to a fucking movie star. For all she knew, Luke Ryker had whisked her away to the other end of the world or something.
Yet, she pressed the call button.
"Princess! Good surprise. What are you up to?"
"Nothing." She looked up to the familiar stores. "I was supposed to spend some time with my sister, but that was cut short. I think I owe you a drink or three, if you're free?"
"Perfect! I'm visiting an adorable little art gallery in Brooklyn, they've just opened. I'll be done in about an hour if you want to meet up."
"Oh. Can I join you? I don't know, is it one of those ticket types of events or something?"
Lillie laughed. "Of course it is, but yes, you can definitely join me, sweetie. I know the owner. And guess what? They do happen to have a bar. Sending the address now. Buzz me when you get here."
Half an hour later, Lillie met her at the entrance of a revamped warehouse, and the bouncer let them in, ignoring the long queue in front of the doors.
"Are you into art, princess? I can't say I know much about it, but some pieces just talk to me. Luke loves art, though. And I'm very fond of the creative type in general."
Ryn hesitated, but figured out that admitting to it outright was probably the way forward.
"I went to school for accounting because I wanted a job, but I took as many art courses as I could as electives. I've been drawing since before I can remember, and I love painting. I'm not very talented, but letting me into an art gallery opening is basically like inviting a kid to a candy store."
Lillie was ver
y enthusiastic. "Oh, you must show me your work, princess. Now, come on through. There's a theme of sorts to this exposition; evolution, I believe. Beginning to end, so to speak."
Ryn understood what she meant as she entered the first room, filled with paintings, pictures, and objects representing every possible interpretation of "beginning".
To her left, there was a child cradled in arms without a body attached, and to her right, a painting of underwater creatures of old. Children, kittens, the Greek letter for alpha. In the next room, different artists portrayed the next step, and the next, until the last room. There was a portrait of a wrinkled grandma, a picture of an ethnic ancient with golden jewelry weaving painted tapestries. A painting of a dying star. The artist who’d drawn alpha in black and white now had an omega canvas, still monochrome, but black and white were inverted: a black background and white lettering.
To see the entire gallery, taking her time and stopping in front of each piece that called to her or to Lillie took less than an hour, but she felt as though she’d been taken on a journey. She was babbling about it at the bar, when an entirely unexpected voice pulled her out of her monologue.
"Lillie Ryker."
Ryn froze.
"Desmond King." Lillie turned on her heels and got up on her tiptoes, offering a cheek to the approaching Adonis.
For the very first time that Ryn’d seen him, Desmond wasn't wearing white; he was in a normal black tuxedo. The custom-made suit clung to his frame, showing off his large shoulders and sculptured torso. His hair wasn't as neatly parted and combed as usual, either; it had been ruffled and fell on his forehead.
Ryn wondered if she was drooling.
Desmond's right arm circled Lillie's waist and he dropped his lips to her cheek. Ryn watched the whole thing and told herself she wasn't envious. Nope. Not even a little bit.
20
Friction
She dropped her eyes to her drink, avoiding everyone's gaze, but the next instant, Desmond let go of Lillie, and placed his left hand on Ryn's shoulder.