Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  His irritation was palpable, wanting to know where the fuck I’d been, so I told him I bumped into Ava and he responded with a scowl, all but turning his back on me to talk to Helen.

  Then suddenly Jackson was there again, his eyes directing me to leave the room, and I did. His words, “Bear and Sparrow. They happened. They’re real. For both of us,” words I’ve longed to hear. It was like a dream. A dream that spiraled into a kiss that reawakened every cell and nerve ending that had lay dormant and dead since the last time his lips touched mine. For those few seconds, we were back in the woods, just me and him and a world of possibilities. But when he said those words, “leave him,” it was as if the world came crashing down, the dream splintering into a million reasons why the idea is so inconceivable …

  “Fucking eat something, will you. Stop pushing it around your plate.” Nick hisses as he points at my food.

  “Sorry, I’m a bit tired.”

  He shakes his head but then continues to enthuse to the others about a conversation he just had with a man named Wilde or something. The guy is a main player from what I can gather, one of the richest, most powerful business magnates in the country.

  “What Wilde doesn’t know about business and making money isn’t worth knowing, I can tell you.”

  Suddenly, the music stills and a familiar voice drifts through the speakers. Everyone turns to the source of it and my heart practically stops dead in my chest. Jackson stands in an elevated position on a makeshift platform and addresses the room.

  “Sorry to disturb you while you eat, ladies and gentleman, but your host would like to say a few words of welcome. Mr. Ethan Wilde, everyone.” He glances once at me before handing the mic to one of the most stunningly attractive men I’ve ever had the grace to lay eyes on.

  The crowd cheers as if the god of rock stars just entered the stage, and I wonder if the man is famous and if I should know who is. Furthermore, what is his connection to Jackson?

  “This is the guy I was talking about,” Nick whispers. “He’s like a fucking business guru.”

  Ethan Wilde begins to speak. “Thank you all for attending this evening, ladies and gentleman. I hope …”

  I’m distracted from his words because all I see is Jackson. He watches me from across the room, our eyes connecting, reaching inside the window of each other’s souls as if we’re searching for something we lost. It’s there, we can both feel it, but the gulf that’s formed between us, both physically and emotionally, seems impossible to bridge.

  Suddenly, the woman from before is by his side threading her arm lightly through his. He welcomes her warmly and my insides roil with an emotion so intense I can’t begin to name it. It’s like he left me there in the cold dank underground garage drowning in lies all over again. Glancing once at me, he turns toward the man speaking, Mr. Wilde, and escorts the woman to the platform to join him.

  “… So it’s actually someone else we should be thanking for organizing this evening,” Mr. Wilde continues. “It wouldn’t have been possible without her. Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome my beautiful wife, Angelica Wilde.”

  His wife?

  Jackson looks pointedly at me across the space, his brow hitching to emphasize his silent inference. I look from him to the couple on the stand and the chemistry between them is undeniable. The look they exchange and the way their entire selves seem to glow as they unite before their audience makes you feel almost as if you’re intruding on a private moment. Any fool with eyes can see the love that oozes from them both. There is no question as to the level of intimacy between these two people. I don’t know how, but I know without doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Wilde are the fairy-tale couple Jackson told me about when we were at the cabin. Now, of course, I understand the intense, mutual tenderness I witnessed between him and Angelica Wilde because I sensed, back then, how much this couple means to him—they’re like his family.

  My gaze flicks back to Jackson, and I’m engulfed in shame. I allowed my feelings for him to cloud my judgment, allowed jealousy to negate all reason. I had a single stolen minute with him and I wrecked it because I made assumptions. Again. My perception is abysmal. At least I think it is. His words, “How can I be grieving for something that never existed?” resonate in my head.

  Red faced, I turn away just as the couple leave the podium to a fervent round of applause. I want nothing more than to leave, but I can see from the way Nick and the others are sloshing back their drinks that the party is just getting started. I busy myself by picking at my food again and listen while they rave about the Wildes and their fortune and success, and how the connections they made tonight could benefit the company to no end. All the time, I scan the room for Jackson, warring with how I feel about our earlier conversation now I know who his companion is.

  Nick’s voice breaks through my private thoughts. “Savannah?” I look across the table at him as he reaches into his inside jacket pocket producing a neatly wrapped package tied with silver bow. “I know it’s way late for your birthday, but I had these specially made for you. I was waiting for the right time to give them to you.”

  A gift? From Nick … to me? I can’t comprehend.

  Marion claps her hands together and makes some odd cooing sound, while Helen raises a manicured brow, her expression suggesting she’s as taken aback as I am by the gesture.

  Tom nudges me from his seat next to mine. “Well, come on, don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Nervously I take the package from Nick, my fingers grazing the edges of the bow. “Thank you.”

  Nick is smiling when I glance up at him. “I hope you like them.”

  Not wanting to prolong the agony of having all the focus on me, I swiftly undo the bow and lift the lid. A pair of back fur gloves nestle against a red velvet background. They’re beautiful, in their own distinct way, though I’ve never seen a pair like them before. As I reach to take them out of the box I hear Helen groan.

  “Oh, Lord. Which poor animal had to die to make those, Nick? I’m assuming they’re real fur?”

  In that second, I know exactly what my gift is made of and repulsion strikes me like a fist. In horror, I drop the gloves on the table, pushing myself back in my chair to create some distance from them.

  “What’s the matter, Sav? You feline okay?” He sneers. “There’s a sudden grayness to your complexion, almost like you’re standing in a … shadow.”

  “You bastard!” I hiss the words with as much venom as I can muster and the whole table goes quiet.

  Nick’s smile morphs into a straight line of fury, his skin tone changing to a deep mortified red. I have never, EVER called him out in public before and his shock is palpable.

  “Nick murdered my cat and now he’s had gloves made from her. Isn’t that right, Nick?” I continue boldly.

  Everyone, even Helen, is astounded by my words. “Nick?” She prompts a response from him.

  Nick shakes his head, his expression now crestfallen. “Her cat died and I tried to do something nice for her to remember it by.”

  One glance around the table and I see they believe him, their expressions relaxing into ones of pity. The bastard has managed to make me look like an irrational fantasist, and I know exactly why he’s done it.

  Anger floods my blood as I sit rigid in my seat staring at him, my hands clasped tightly over the ends of the chair arms. “You’re lying.”

  “Why don’t we check out dessert, everyone. Let Nick and Savannah have a minute in private,” John says, pushing his chair back and standing. The others follow gratefully, leaving Nick and me staring at each other across the table.

  The second they leave, I see the edge of his lip curl in triumph. I watch as his gaze drifts over me, assessing me, before looking over my shoulder, no doubt to ascertain the proximity of the others before he speaks. But to my utter horror it’s not a barrage of insults and threats that assail me, but sheer indescribable pain. In one swift move, Nick grips the table and rams it into the fingers of my left hand stil
l clutching the arm of my chair. Agony rips through my fingers, up my arm to my shoulder into my head, an unconstrained wail spilling gutturally from my chest. I feel the blood drain from my head as nausea grips me, and I can hear Nick apologizing with exaggerated concern and remorse, making believe to whoever is watching that it’s an accident.

  Somehow, I get to my feet. Cradling my injured hand, I stumble to the exit, down the hall to the bathroom. Mercifully, it’s empty, and I make it to the stall just in time before I vomit the contents of my stomach into the bowl. When I’m done, I stand dizzily and move to the washbasin to run my hand under the cold water faucet. The pain is overwhelming but the icy water soothes it, and as I breathe deeply through the urge to collapse, I inspect the damage. The edge of the table has caught me between the second and third knuckles of three fingers, turning them blue. The skin is broken, but it isn’t deep, the skin scuffing just enough to draw blood.

  Just as the pain is becoming bearable, the door opens and Angelica Wilde appears at my side, genuine concern etched in her features.

  “Are you okay? I heard you scream. What happened?”

  “Oh.” I feel embarrassed. “No, don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m sorry if I caused a scene out there.” I switch off the faucet and reach for a hand towel, folding it carefully around my hand.

  “Let me see. It may need medical attention.” She moves closer.

  “No, really, it’s just a scra—”

  “Please, Savannah.”

  The mention of my name crossing her lips startles me, and I look up to find her smiling kindly. “I’m Angel, by the way.”

  “I know who you are.”

  I allow her to take my hand and gently she unfolds the towel, wincing as she catches sight of my rapidly swelling fingers. Then saturating the towel in freezing cold water, she squeezes out the excess and covers my hand again.

  “You should get them checked. They could be broken.”

  I nod, knowing I have no intention of taking a trip to the ER tonight or any other night. I’ve suffered worse and recovered on my own.

  “I owe you an apology,” she says suddenly. “Tonight was my idea. Jackson didn’t know anything about it, I promise you. I just wanted the two of you to get a chance to talk.”

  “How much do you know about us?” I ask, not sure what I’m really dealing with here.

  “I’m aware of how you met, and about your circumstances. And I know that Jackson is devastated about how it all came out, and I can totally sympathize with you about how that must have made you feel—I’ve told him so. But, please, never be in any doubt about what he feels for you. Jackson is the most dependable, honest man I’ve ever met—on par with my husband, even. I know that might sound laughable right now, given the circumstances in which you met, but I know him. The real him. If you give him a chance, he won’t let you down.”

  “Thank you.” I’m not sure what else to say, but it’s as clear as looking through a window that Angel Wilde is a kind and sincere woman who wants nothing more than to help, and for that I’m grateful.

  Just then, the door opens and Helen appears. “Savannah?”

  Unfolding the cold towel, I turn to drop it into the used container and miss, so I stoop to pick it up. The action causes my head to swim so I pause for a moment in the crouching position and the strap of my dress slides down my shoulder. Angel reacts instantly, correcting the strap and helping me to my feet.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” She presses a clean, dry hand towel into my good hand and gives it a little squeeze.

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you.” I smile, nodding my head gently in acknowledgment of her kindness, and grateful that she’s had the foresight to be discreet in front of Helen.

  “Nick’s organized a car. It’s waiting,” Helen says, smiling and trying to make eye contact with Angel.

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, hoping she gets the hint and leaves, but she doesn’t.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Angel says.

  Helen watches her leave, her eyes openly assessing her from head to foot. “God, she’s even more perfect close up. She doesn’t seem stuck up about it though, does she?” Her gaze leaves the back of the closed door Angel left through as she turns her attention to my hand, her nose curling in distaste. “Ouch! That looks painful.”

  Moving past her, I head down the hall toward the exit.

  “Savannah?” Helen lays her hand on my arm to stop me. “What happened?” She nods at my hand.

  My immediate reaction would typically be to shrug it off, make an excuse, like I did with Angel, but I don’t. These friends, these colleagues of Nick’s—or whatever he likes to call them—would have to be blind not to see the deformity of mine and Nick’s marriage. Once, I might have forgiven them for not noticing, blame myself for hiding it so well, but not now. They don’t see because they don’t want to.

  “Nick happened, Helen. But I think you already know that.”

  I push through the crowd, my eyes alert for any sign of Jackson, but I don’t see him. Nick is waiting outside by the open rear door of the car that picked us up earlier, a deadpan expression on his face. He makes to grab my arm, but I snatch it back out of reach and climb into the backseat. When he joins me on the other side, I clear my throat and as loudly as I can, I state, “You lay one more finger on me tonight and I’ll call the police.” I turn and stare with purpose into the eyes of the driver through the rearview, making it clear that I intended for him to hear. His eyes shift to Nick, narrowing, then back to me.

  “Everything okay, ma’am?” His tone and expression are loaded with concern.

  I snatch a glance at Nick’s beet red face, stunned into silence, and then I turn back to the driver. “Yes, thank you. I think we’re ready to leave now.”

  As he starts the engine, I glance at the door of the restaurant just as Jackson emerges, his face etched with concern. Angel is behind him, grabbing hold of his arm to prevent him moving any closer to the car. We pull out into traffic just as he reaches my door.

  I feel like there’s a massive part of me that I’m leaving behind right there on the sidewalk—a life full of possibilities, love, and hope. I see the same reflected in those crinkly brown eyes as we drive away. Questions, promises, despair. But as much as I long for that part of me, I know there is an even bigger part that I have to go out and find. A part of me that was lost long ago. And though I know with every inch of me that I will never have another chance to be loved in a way that I know Jackson is capable of loving me, I also know that it won’t be enough.

  Because until I learn to love myself, I have nothing to give in return.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jackson

  “TELL ME AGAIN WHAT HAPPENED.”

  I listen as Angel repeats the story of how Savannah screamed out and then rushed off to the bathroom, her hand bruised and battered, and how when she caught up with her to check on her wellbeing, she took the opportunity to speak on my behalf.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t hear her scream. It was loud,” she says.

  “I was saving Ethan from that Parker Holden guy before he bored him half to death.”

  “Sorry, mate, but I do appreciate it. He was boring me rigid.” Ethan fills my coffee cup before walking across the room to refresh his wife’s cup. She’s sitting in her favorite spot in their whole grand apartment—right by the huge aquarium that holds the lookalikes of the entire cast of Finding Nemo.

  “Do you think they’re broken, her fingers?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know, but they looked painful. I’ve seen grown men crumble for far milder injuries. She was definitely braving it out.”

  “What else? How did she seem on the whole?”

  She shrugs. “Guarded, maybe, but that’s to be expected, given that I just introduced myself by telling her I know about her affair.”

  “I mean physically.”

  “Oh, right. She looked a bit woozy. Oh, and she had some other bruises. They looked quite
fierce.”

  “Other bruises?” This pricked my attention. “Where? Did they look old?” My mind flicks to the one on her hip, but I know, realistically, that would be healed by now.”

  “No, fresh, I think. On her back, between her shoulder blade and spine. She bent down to pick up a towel and her strap slipped off her shoulder, making her dress sag at the back.”

  My insides grow icy cold as words form in my head …

  The encumbrance now a weight

  Dead

  Between my shoulder blades

  … Words penned from Savannah’s own hand.

  “He’s beating her.” Both Ethan and Angel stare at me, wide eyed and appalled. “And I think maybe raping her, too.”

  Finally, the words are out there, fully formed and hard as stone, like boulders in the road, their sheer physicality overwhelming. I can’t ignore them. I can’t go round them or through them or even over the fuckers. All I can do is face them.

  “Jackson, you don’t know that—” Angel hisses, horrified.

  “Yes! Yes, I do. I’ve seen that look. The one in her eyes … and the one in his. I recognized it, several times, when she spoke about him at the cabin, but I couldn’t place it then. The whole misperception as to why we were there was clouding my judgment, but I see it now clear as day. And then him tonight, that arrogance, the way he was knocking back the liquor, that dark emptiness in his eyes. Evil. Pure fucking evil.”