Cards of Love: Three of Swords
Willow Winters
Contents
Author’s Copyright
Blurb
The Card
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Second Chance
Prologue
Chapter 1
Sneak Peek of Possessive
Preface
Chapter 1
About W Winters
W Winters Reading Order
Cards Of Love
Author’s Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Willow Winters All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations within critical reviews and otherwise as permitted by copyright law.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental. All characters in this story are 18 or older.
Copyright © 2018, Willow Winters Publishing. All rights reserved. willowwinterswrites.com
Blurb
Cards of Love
Three of Swords
by Willow Winters
From USA Today bestselling author, Willow Winters, comes a seductive and emotionally captivating, second chance romance.
It’s impossible to get over what we had.
He was everything – irresistibly handsome, ruthlessly elite, and seemingly untouchable - while I was nothing.
Yet he protected me when I was at my lowest; more than that, he wanted me.
He devoured me… and I did the same to him.
Until it all fell apart and I ran as far away from Madox as I could. After all, the two of us were never meant to be together.
I never thought I’d see him again, years later. Let alone be under him in the way I’ve craved since we said goodbye.
The attraction between us still burns like fire, but time can’t change the past. And I don’t know if it’s possible for us to mend all of our broken pieces.
The Card
When the Three of Swords appears in a Tarot reading, obvious pain surrounds you. It’s the card of heartbreak, the card that symbolizes betrayal.
The Three of Swords is - simply put - the card of grieving.
Prologue
Madox
I didn’t know she’d left me until her plane had already taken off. That’s the shittiest part of it.
We fucked. We fought. We shared every part of our flawed pieces with each other. That’s the way it always was with us. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to keep her that night.
I didn’t get another word from her after the “fuck you” she spat at me and her front door slammed in my face. No matter how hard I banged on her apartment door, demanding an answer for why she’d done what she did. I can still feel the way the anger rolled off me as I stood there in the hall for far too long, wondering what the fuck I was even doing there. I didn’t belong in her world—just like she didn’t belong in mine. Shit, my Armani suit didn’t need to spend a second on that side of the bridge.
But I’d followed her there just the same. That’s what she did to me. We broke each other down to the raw bits that only acted on primal needs. Fighting and fucking. No one ever made me lose it like she did. No one ever made me feel as high, as needed… or as loved as she did, either.
Seeing her across the bar three years later does something to me I’ve never felt before. As I lift the whiskey to my lips, the ice clinks against the glass as the music fades to white noise. All I can see is the way her lips stay parted just slightly after she takes a sip of her drink.
It’s like slow motion.
All I can hear is the hum of satisfaction I know is about to slip from those pouty lips the second her glass hits the bar top.
She came back.
All I can feel is my cock getting harder by the second.
And I need her to love me just as much as I need to punish her for leaving me the way she did.
Chapter 1
Sophie
Some card meanings are obvious, like the Judgement card. It suggests exactly what you would expect; an impossibility of avoiding scrutiny and insurmountable obstacles waiting in the distance. But more than that, Judgement signifies a new phase is coming and it won’t wait for you—or anyone else.
There’s something about flying that makes me horny. Not full blown, not like that. Just… turned on a little. Like a smidgen.
Maybe it’s fear; the perceived danger, even though I know logically it’s the safest way to travel. Still, as the engine rumbles and roars in my ears, I feel the vibrations intensify under me. My eyes close, my breathing hitches, and I have to grip the edge of the seat.
Pathetic, aren’t you? Is your life really that boring? My inner voice is a bitch, but she’s not wrong.
The snide thought makes me smirk, even while my heart lurches as the plane finally leaves the safety of land. I almost laugh at my ridiculous response. Especially given I’m in the close confines of coach seating with so many strangers, all of us headed from San Francisco to New York.
It’s a long flight to sit this close to someone. I peek up after feeling the rush, offering a polite and tight-lipped smile to the elderly lady to my right, in the middle seat. The woman and the man next to her in the aisle seat, who I assume is her husband, are already preparing their neck pillows to nap and neither of them pays me any attention.
Thank God.
Leaning closer to the window to glance out, placing most of my weight on the armrest, I let the relief wash through me as my heartbeat slows back down.
Time ticks by, the droning sound of the pilot speaking muffled by the white noise of the plane, and as the plane settles, so does that feeling deep in my belly.
My grip goes from white-knuckled to loose, and my pulse returns to normal. The jitters that hit me for a brief moment, that tiny moment when I questioned if I would be all right, those jitters eventually subside. The desire fades too.
It’s not always like this.
I know part of the reason I feel this way is because I’m going back to his city. The hints of apprehension and thoughts of him make for a deadly concoction.
It’s odd to think of New York as if it’s dominated by a single man. But he’s the only one who’s always ruled it in my eyes. Even when we were just teens.
Madox Reed takes what he wants, he always has. Irresistibly handsome, ruthlessly elite, and seemingly untouchable, there was nothing that he couldn’t have back then. And so New York simply belongs to him in my eyes. Even if it’s an utterly ridiculous thought.
Although, I wish he’d stay in the past where he belongs. It’s fucking killing me that I’m letting the thoughts of a man I once knew bother me so damn much.
I cross and uncross my legs, pretending like he doesn’t matter and as if this anxiety I’m feeling is solely because I’m flying. I’ve always been shitty at lying to myself though. Yeah, these nerves aren’t from the plane, they’re because of him.
He’s been on my m
ind ever since I packed my final bag last night. If I’m honest with myself, ever since the phone call saying I got the job and learned I’d be moving back to New York, I’ve been thinking of him. But this has to stop. This is about new beginnings and my past will stay right there, where it belongs. In the past.
Trisha’s dropping off my boxes at the post office today and with those last three shipped, everything I own will be delivered to 55 Thompson Street, apartment 617 in gorgeous SoHo. I owe her more than a few drinks when she finally comes to visit me. And for that matter, she freaking better come visit me.
I’ll be alone in the city, and my one friend is all the way across the country now.
Trish’s brother is technically a friend as well, and he’s always been kind to me. But he’s also technically in New York and friends with Madox, so there’s no fucking way I’ll be contacting him. They were a tight crew back then, and I know he’d tell Madox I’ve come back. So that shit’s not happening. No matter how much I miss everyone I left behind. I left our entire group of friends – they were basically my family, and I up and left without a word. Gah, I don’t even want to think about them. So yeah, I won’t be reaching out to any of them, but if worse comes to worst, I know Brett would be there for me.
At the thought of what I left years ago – and why - the knots in my stomach tighten and I have to readjust in my seat, pulling out the magazines I’d bought during my two-hour wait at the terminal.
I’d rather think about Madox and all the dirty shit he did to me than what his group of friends – my former friends – would think of me coming back.
The plane dips and so does my stomach, as if it’s some sign to stop thinking about him, but in true fashion, it only causes a blush to rise to my cheeks. When all’s said and done, I’m left feeling like I’m hiding a secret from however many people are on this plane, holding a wrinkled cover to the most recent edition of Elle Décor in my hands.
Oops.
I take a minute to smooth it out, trying to pull myself together. Soon I’ll be able to afford something in these glossy pages.
The clouds stream past on the other side of the cool window and I watch until they’re beneath us and we’re riding in nothing but a vibrant hue of blue.
It’s better for me that I take this position. I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that. It’s best that I work for a company with an established background and clients lined up. I’m damn good at what I do, and things are finally going my way.
I know how to turn failing businesses around and I can spot an error in marketing faster than a new bakery can post to Instagram with a rookie mistake – perfectly decorated cupcakes, plus a sink full of dirty dishes in the background. Love is in the details, and I know every fucking detail that matters.
But I’m young for the industry, in my mid-twenties. San Francisco was … expensive. Bills added up and I’m ashamed that I couldn’t afford it all myself. I took a risk investing everything that I had into myself, my brand, my company.
I have to swallow hard after the next breath. Pride is a lumpy fucker. I was going to let Trish keep bailing me out and covering my half of the rent. But this is a stable job with no risk. It’s where I could hope to be ten years from now on my own. This job is a blessing, even if it’s coming after falling a little short on my own.
I’d do it all over again if I could. I’ll always invest in myself and my passions. Even if I had to work for free just to fill out a résumé. That’s where I went wrong, I think. I felt bad for people I knew could succeed, if only their branding were more on market, if only they invested in advertising… if only, if only, if only.
At least word got around that I’m good at what I do. It was worth it. For a position as a branding advisor, in this company, Candor Designs, the most sought-after marketing firm in the country.
It was worth it, and everything happens for a reason.
As I’m toeing my satchel back under the seat in front of me, I barely look up and catch the flight attendant telling me about the drink cart and how only cards are accepted. The smile on my face is a genuine response, but I still open the magazine pretending I’m not still thinking about my first love and how every minute that passes, I’m getting that much closer to him.
Our memories are what make us who we are. The majority of mine from when I grew up are consumed with Madox, although I’ve been able to avoid them since I moved away.
That giddiness, that fear I felt only moments ago when the plane took off is familiar to me. It’s the same thing I feel when I think of Madox. Every time. I’ve never stopped loving him, but sometimes fate simply doesn’t let love be enough.
I’m not going to spend the entire flight thinking about him. I’m starting over, not looking back. My resolve is firm as I turn the pages of the magazine.
I just hope I don’t see him again. After all, New York is filled with so many people. And there’s just one of him. Even if he rules the city.
Chapter 2
Sophie
Some say there are no bad cards in Tarot. I think those people are wrong.
The Tower is a card you want to avoid if you could choose the cards yourself.
The ominous card means only one thing—everything you’ve built, everything you thought would stand forever, your entire world—is going to collapse and crumble around you, leaving you surrounded by nothing but dust and rubble.
I’m here.
It’s all I can text Trish. My phone instantly buzzes with a response and then another as I gaze out of my brand-spanking-new apartment front window and then look back to the expansive dining room. I feel sick and anxious. None of this is me. It feels too expensive, too chic.
Too much like a woman trying to fit into a world that doesn’t belong to her. From the thick silk curtains lining the floor-to-ceiling windows that could have come straight from that Elle Décor magazine I ruined with doodles trying to pass the too-fucking-long seconds of the long-ass plane ride, to the accent pillows that will be stained with makeup if I dared lay my head on them.
There’s too much white. Too many hard lines.
Too much money being spent on me that I didn’t earn.
My finger hovers over the send button to the message to Adrienne, the woman who hired me and told me this place was covered by my employer. No matter how many times I read the text I wrote, rewrite it and read it again, I sound like an ungrateful bitch.
It really is too much though. I can’t believe a company would give all this to me when I haven’t even worked a single day yet.
My cardboard boxes, filled with IKEA merchandise, don’t belong here.
I took a slow walk around the first floor and a faster one on the second floor. It’s ready to live in. Even the fridge already contains milk and eggs. At first I thought I must have been mistaken. Although the key fit, it was obviously someone else’s house. But the parchment on the dining room table read: Welcome Sophie, make yourself at home. We start on Monday.
Signed by the one and only Adrienne Hart.
The tips of my fingers are numb as I shove my phone into a wristlet. The sky is gray and rain is most certainly looming, so I dig through three boxes marked “closet” until I find one with a hoodie in it and head straight for the door.
I didn’t earn this. It makes me feel like I’ve missed something or the expectations they have for me are higher than I anticipated. Maybe this is what having cold feet feels like.
Trish has already called three times, so I call her as I head downtown, searching for a place to eat or grab a drink. I look like shit; feel like it too. But this is New York. You can look like whatever you want here, and as long as you can pay the bill, no one gives a shit.
As the phone rings, I start thinking more about drinks and less about food.
Because that’s what I really need, a giant chill pill at the bottom of a martini glass.
“You’re freaking out,” Trish tells me the second I say “Hi.”
“Yeah.” I breathe o
ut the word, feeling the energy of the fast-paced city move around me. It’s dark, getting darker by the second and it’s true what they say; the city comes to life at night.
“What’s going on?” Trish asks and I can hear another question lingering, but she doesn’t voice it completely. With cars beeping and everyone else on their phone all around me, it’s hectic, but I love it. I blend in with this city. A person can get lost here in the crowds.
I like fading into the background. I prefer to go unnoticed.
“It just seems like so much pressure, or…” I pause, making a left as I take a larger step to avoid a puddle and quicken my pace so I can cross before the green man on the sign changes to a bright red hand. “It just happened really quickly and it seems like too much.”
“You don’t think you’re worth it.” Trish’s voice carries through the phone with equal amounts of hardness and insight.
I almost stop in the middle of the street, even as the green man symbol starts to flash, a warning that the mean red hand is coming.
“You are worth it. If you can find someone willing to pay you an obscene amount of money to do what you love, you’re worth that amount. Period.” Trish’s self-assurance comes from a different upbringing than mine. She lived here too, three years ago. Two different family lives though. I imagine Trish could have grown up on these very streets.
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