by Nadia Lee
If it were any woman but Belle, I would assume she was in a snit or a manipulative mood. I’ve had women pull stunts like this before, trying to get me to come after them or give them what they want in exchange for their “coming back.” Of course, they learn very quickly that I don’t play that kind of game.
But not Belle. If she’s mad at me, she tells me so. Jesus, she wouldn’t back down even when I was a total asshole after finding out about Grayson. I don’t see her changing her MO now.
“You okay?” Nonny asks, tearing me away from my dark thoughts.
“I’m fine. Waiting for a text from Belle.”
“I thought she was going out with her coworkers.”
“I thought so too…but something’s changed.”
She nibbles on the end of her pencil. “Huh.” She jots down an answer to a history question on her homework sheet then continues reading the textbook.
I give Belle ten minutes. When she doesn’t respond, I pull up the dossier from Paddington. It has Traci’s mobile, but not her address. Damn it. I call her. If she doesn’t pick up, I’m going to have Paddington locate my wife’s phone.
“Hello?” Traci answers, her voice low.
“This is Elliot Reed. I hate to bother you, but I’d like to come get Belle.”
She hesitates. “Yeah, she just passed out. I don’t mind if she spends the night here.”
I narrow my eyes. Although I can’t quite put my finger on it, there’s something in her tone. “That won’t be necessary. We’d hate to impose.”
“Oh, it’s no imposition.”
“It would be for me. I hate owing people one.”
“Elliot! I would never presume to call on this…like it was some kind of favor. I’m doing this for my friend.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m going to bring my wife home where she belongs,” I say, even as an internal alarm goes off. Who wants to look after a girl who’s blacked out when she can pass her off to someone else without an ounce of guilt? I put steel in my voice. “Your address?”
Traci gives it to me. She isn’t stupid, and she probably knows if she doesn’t give it to me, I have other ways of getting it.
I hang up. “I’m going out.”
“Okay,” Nonny says, oblivious, which is exactly how I want her. “But I may not be home by the time you’re back. I’m going out with Jennifer tonight.”
I scowl. I don’t remember that. “To do what?”
“Hang out…maybe watch a movie.”
“Okay. But text me when you get there and again when you’re on your way home.”
She gives me a careless salute with two fingers. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Now that guardian duty’s been taken care of, I go to Traci’s apartment. The drive feels interminable with the Friday evening traffic. I keep thinking about all the bad things that could happen to my wife, then tell myself none of them will, since she’s with a friend. Traci may have been a shitty friend—and I still don’t like her. However, she won’t do anything stupid when she knows I’m aware of who my wife is with.
By the time I reach her place, a cold sweat has filmed my back. Traci opens the door. She’s in a pink baby doll, her feet bare, and I raise both eyebrows.
“Come on in,” she says.
A section of her hair wrapped around her finger, she twists this way and that as I walk inside. Every time she changes position, she tilts her head and arches her pelvis. If she’s doing it on purpose, she’s trying way too hard to be sexy.
The first thing I notice is my wife, prone on the couch. Her breathing is shallow, and she’s so pale that I wonder for a moment if she’s fainted. Her brows pinch as though she’s in pain, and a hand is resting on her belly. There are smeared spoons and a couple of wine glasses on the table. The one nearest my wife is empty. Lipstick marks on the rim match the shade on Belle’s mouth.
The scene tells me everything I need to know about what occurred…except it can’t be right. I turn to Traci. “What happened?”
“Annabelle and I shared a bottle of Chardonnay, and she passed out after only two glasses. Cheap date, right?” Traci tries a laugh, but it doesn’t come off. “I should’ve been more careful and made sure she wasn’t drinking more than she could handle. I’m her friend. It’s my job to keep her safe.”
I merely stare at her. Her eyes are overly wide, and she keeps running her teeth over her lower lip. I don’t remember it being so fleshy, I note with clinical detachment.
When I continue to peer at her without a word, she clears her throat and shrugs, the gesture pulling the fabric over her braless tits. My eyes narrow at the display.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” she says. “I won’t tell anyone.”
I dismiss her with a nod and pick Belle up. She feels so slight and delicate in my arms. I open my hand. “Her purse.”
“Here.” Traci gives it to me, plus a plastic bag with Belle’s shoes.
I leave without a word, carrying my wife down to the car. As I arrange her in the passenger seat, I get a good whiff of alcohol on her and stop. What the fuck? I bring my nose closer to her and sniff. She definitely smells like some kind of dairy and wine.
Just what the hell happened? My mind refuses to believe she actually consumed even a drop of alcohol. To her drinking means losing control, and that has heavy consequences. She’d no more give up her full faculties than jump out of a plane without a parachute.
Something very fucked up took place in the apartment. I’m this close to barging back up and demanding the truth, but my wife needs me more.
Tomorrow. I’m going to hear what happened from Belle herself tomorrow.
* * *
Annabelle
I groan softly. My skull feels like it’s being pressed from all directions by a great, crushing force. The room’s too bright; I place a palm over my eyes, trying to prevent my eyeballs from exploding.
I’m on a bed. The mattress dips, and my stomach roils at the motion. A warm hand checks my forehead temperature, and I turn into it, moaning a bit.
“Where am I?” I say, but given how thick my tongue feels in my mouth, I’m pretty certain the question is garbled beyond recognition.
“Home.” Elliot’s voice. Thank god. “Here. This should make you feel better.” He helps me sit up and drink some kind of flavored water. I make a face at the odd, artificial taste, but he’s relentless. “All of it. It’s electrolytes. You need ’em.”
“Why?” I croak.
He gives me a couple of aspirins and waits until I down both with the disgusting water. “Traci says you drank until you passed out. Two glasses of wine.”
I frown, but it makes my face hurt. Shaking my head is absolutely out of the question. “But I didn’t. I had an iced tea and some ice cream.”
He helps me lie down again and scoots over, pulling me into his arms. I sigh at how nice it feels to be held, and burrow my face into his neck, inhaling the soap and clean, freshly showered skin.
“Can we turn off the light?”
“There’s no light to turn off. I also left the blinds down.”
“Then why does it feel so bright in here?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he strokes my scalp and back, gently massaging the tender tissues. It isn’t often I’m the one being taken care of, and it makes me feel important…and loved.
“What happened after work? I thought you supposed to go to a bar, but you were at Traci’s apartment.”
“We were going to do happy hour, but something happened with the market, so most of the guys couldn’t come. I didn’t feel like staying and thought we should just reschedule, but Traci said we should go hang out at her place. Her roommate was out of town, so it made sense.” I place a hand over his chest, feeling the slow, even movements of his ribcage expanding and contracting with every breath. It comforts me for some reason, and I keep talking. “I had this super-rich ice cream and iced tea. She had wine with hers. But then I started to feel bad and wasn’t sure if I co
uld drive home because I was dizzy.”
“So that’s why you texted me.”
“I didn’t.” I know that for sure, although I have no clue how Elliot knew I was at Traci’s. “Maybe Traci did.” My memories are sort of unclear, like a scene playing out behind a thick layer of fog.
He goes still for a moment under my palm. “Remember anything else?”
“No. I just felt really bad, that’s all. But I swear I didn’t drink.” I bite my lower lip. “You know why I don’t…”
Elliot knows the whole sordid story. He is the only person—other than me and the boy who raped me—who knows what happened. Unlike my rapist, Elliot also knows what happened afterward—the unwanted pregnancy and the mess I made of my life.
“Shhh…” He kisses the crown of my head. “I know, beautiful. Don’t think about it. It’s way, way in the past.”
I close my eyes. “Sometimes it feels like it was just moments ago.”
His arms around me tighten. “Bad memories often seem that way, but don’t give them so much power over you. You overcame a lot, and you’re stronger for it.” He caresses my cheeks, the touch like a butterfly fluttering over a flower. “You are so much stronger than I am. I didn’t know what strength was until I met you.”
“I let people push me around. Mr. Grayson… Then you…” I flush then quickly add, “Not that I think badly of you.”
“It’s okay. I know I’ve been an asshole. But you didn’t just give in because you were weak. You made your deal with Grayson because you had Nonny to protect. And you pushed back against me as much as you could. I just happened to be better armed, and winning for me was like taking candy from a baby—unfair bullying.”
“Well I’m glad you did, because otherwise I would’ve never given us a chance. Despite what you think, you’re not a bad sort, Elliot. Otherwise I would’ve never felt anything for you.”
He sighs softly and kisses me on the forehead again. “Get some rest, Belle.”
Some moments later I go slack, secure in his arms. Elliot does not relax.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elliot
I leave my wife sleeping again and go into my home office. The idiots my client is employing have screwed up the model again. I have no idea how my client found them, but they have the logic of a two-year-old with a frog’s ass for a brain.
My phone is silent at the moment, but it won’t be for long. I turn my focus to the overall structure of the model. The analysts put in way too many damn exceptions, and of course if you do that, it doesn’t work. They were supposed to look for a pattern that fits the greatest number of people, not predict how everyone on the platform behaves. People with their idiosyncrasies are, on the individual level, unpredictable. And just like you can’t apply a general aggregate level behavior to an individual and have it match perfectly, you can’t apply an individual behavior pattern to a group with millions.
I suddenly sit back. Something hasn’t been right—other than my wife being passed out after drinking—and it finally dawns on me. How the hell can Traci afford a place like that? There is no way Gavin pays her enough, and from what I understand, her parents lost almost everything in Belle’s father’s Ponzi scheme.
Maybe she has a sugar daddy… But then why did she act so coquettishly around me?
Follow the money.
The anonymous tip comes back to me. Maybe it wasn’t about my wife but about the people around her. I had Paddington check Traci and Dennis out, but not do a detailed workup on their finances.
Quickly, I text Paddington, rectifying that. He confirms my request, as usual. I tap my fingers on my desk. How am I going to get my wife to stop seeing Traci until Paddington comes back with information I’ve requested? They work together, and I know Traci’s been ingratiating herself with Belle, who’s been too lonely and isolated over the last two years to reject her childhood friend.
My phone goes off, jarring me out of my contemplation. It’s Ryder.
“Did you see that what-the-fuck article?” His words ring loud and clear through the Bluetooth piece hooked to my ear. “I say article. It’s more like…tabloid diarrhea or something.”
“I thought you didn’t read tabloid trash.”
“I don’t, but my publicist forwarded it to me since it involves you and Wife Number Three.” Ryder curses under his breath. “I haven’t shown it to Paige—no reason to upset her—but god. ‘According to an unnamed source,’ my ass.”
I press my lips together. I appreciate the outrage, and I don’t want to fess up to being the unnamed source. If any of this shit blows up, I don’t want Ryder dragged into it. “Well. What can you do?”
“I have an excellent attorney for this kind of stuff.”
“There’s the Streisand effect,” I point out.
“Argh. Well…I don’t know. But you gotta make them pay.”
Hmm. Maybe Ryder has a point. Besides, I do want as many people as possible to read the damned article. “Maybe a lawsuit is just the thing. Make it as big as possible.”
“No,” Ryder says. “You’re supposed to make it go away quietly.” He pauses. “That’s what you want, right?”
“Hold on a minute.”
I open a browser. The “article” is more like a titillating gossip piece with the photos I supplied. The “reporter” did a good job of spinning everything into an over-the-top exposé with a salacious undertone suggesting a fucked-up and forbidden obsession on Annabelle Underhill’s part. I skim the writing. The piece starts from our initial dating, then to her marriage to my father, her divorce, her second marriage to Stanton and now her quest to break Belle and me up so she can take her place by my side as Mrs. Elliot Reed. The photos add authenticity.
I check some social media sites. There’s no point in putting something like this out there if nobody hears about it. Thankfully, it’s one of the top trending topics. Given the unexpected market movement yesterday, I’ve been bracing myself for disappointment.
Smiling with relief, I pour some scotch and silently toast myself.
“Are you there?” comes Ryder’s concerned voice. “It’s not that bad.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
“Who did you piss off to get that shit smeared everywhere? My team had no clue somebody was going to do this. They never noticed anybody digging.” The terse note in his words does not bode well for his people.
I feel bad, since they couldn’t have known. They most likely never suspected I would betray myself. “I’m actually relieved it all came out.”
Ryder doesn’t speak for a moment. “Uh…what?”
“Everything in the article is true.”
“Jesus.” He huffs out audibly. “Even the closet incident?”
“Yup.”
“What the fuck. Does your wife know?”
At the mention of my wife, tension creeps into my neck and shoulders. I roll my neck around. “Does it matter?”
“That depends. Do you care?” Ryder knows why I married Belle in the first place. He married his assistant Paige for the same reason, although that’s a moot point now that he’s in love with her and they’re having a baby together.
“Of course I care,” I say. “Look, this may work out for the best.”
“How come?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“About what?”
Huh. Maybe Paige hasn’t told him. “Number Three threatened Belle.”
“With what?” Ryder sounds incredulous.
“She said she’d release more dirt on her.”
Ryder snorts. “Like you would care.”
“I don’t, but my sister-in-law does.”
“Aw, shit. I totally forgot about her. Nonny, right? Nice kid, but a little sensitive.”
“Typical teenager. Everything’s life or death.”
“I was never like that.”
“Because you have the sensitivity of a mule on morphine. And she’s not used to the kind of lifestyle we lead.” I lean back in
my seat. “I don’t want her hurt. Aside from Nonny being a nice kid, it upsets my wife.”
“So…I guess you actually have feelings for her?”
“I’m starting over with her.”
Ryder is quiet for a moment. “As in?”
“We don’t have a contract anymore.”
“What? You voided the prenup?”
“Yup. Gonna see where things lead.”
“Damn. You’re serious.” Ryder sounds incredulous…almost aghast.
I scowl. “Got a problem with that?”
“No, I think it’s wonderful…assuming that’s what she wants too. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“Hey, pretty boy, you’re talking to a genius here.”
“Don’t damage yourself for her,” Ryder says seriously.
I have to smile. “So you do know.”
“I suspected when you didn’t seem too upset about the article. Now you just confirmed it.”
I shift in my seat. I forget Ryder is extra perceptive when it comes to me. We’ve been tight for a long time, and he knows me better than most.
“Women don’t care if you have a wild side or if you do stupid shit, like fucking your new stepmom in a closet, when they’re doing a temporary thing for fun. But for something more permanent, they want a guy who’s more stable. The article damages Number Three, but it doesn’t exactly help you either. Dad’s gonna be pissed.”
“Fuck Dad. He’s already pissed. Why do you think we all have to marry like this?”
“Number Three’s going to retaliate.”
“Not a problem, so long as she moves against me.”
I hear someone walk by on the other side of my office door. Nonny went out with her friends after breakfast, saying she wouldn’t be back until dinner time. What’s Belle doing up? She should be resting.
I go outside. My wife is in a robe, cinched tightly around her waist. She sinks onto a couch, her phone clutched in her hand. She looks up at me.
“Gotta go,” I tell Ryder, and hang up.
Her dark green eyes are unfathomable as she raises her phone. “Is this all true?”
Damn it. I shove my hands into my pant pockets. “Yes.”