by Portia Moore
Found
Portia Moore
Copyright ©2021 by Porsche Moore
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
1. Rain
2. Zach
3. Rain
4. Zach
5. Rain
6. Zach
7. Rain
8. Zach
9. Rain
10. Zach
11. Zach
12. Rain
13. Zach
14. Rain
15. Zach
16. Rain
17. Zach
18. Rain
19. Zach
20. Rain
21. Zach
22. Rain
23. Rain
24. Zach
25. Rain
26. Rain
27. Zach
28. Rain
About the Author
Also by Portia Moore
1
Rain
I fell in love with a monster.
I thought I was Cinderella when in reality, I'm Belle, and the man I loved—thought I loved, and who I thought loved me in return—was just a lie. My prince is really a real-life beast, and not the one in the Disney version, either. Even now, lying with my face buried in my pillow to try and block it all out, I can still hear his words from the night before echoing in my head.
Of course I have other women. I want them, and that's my right.
All the times that I dreamed about my future, I never imagined this. From the outside, it looks like a fairy-tale, but now I know that I'm just trapped, in a modern-day version of a palace with a prince who's anything but charming.
I wish it were a nightmare, that I just woke up from a terrible dream, but it isn't a nightmare. It's real, and this is my life now.
They're just fun. A diversion.
If you would just be grateful for all I've given you…
Do I need to remind you of everything that you'll lose without me?
You're going to be my wife. We're still getting married.
Who the hell am I marrying?
I don't know this man, and I maybe never did. I only knew the carefully crafted façade that I ignored the cracks in. Now I'm trapped, locked in a beautiful prison with a handsome, charming jailer.
I should leave.
I need to leave right now. It's what I planned on doing a dozen times last night, but reality hit me in the face each time I tried to think past walking out the front door.
I have nothing without Vincent.
My father is dying of cancer, and the only person who can pay for the treatment that might save him is Vincent. My mother will have to take off of work to take care of him—who is going to step in and pay her bills in the meantime? Her sick leave, vacation days, and state medical leave aren't going to help much, if at all. Vincent's money is what allows me to send her the funds every month that Vincent just oh-so-generously offered to increase while my father is sick.
And my sister. Thinking of Erin makes me want to cry all over again. She's about to graduate high school—she'll be ready to apply to colleges soon. Her outlook is going to be just as bleak and hopeless as mine was at her age; if I leave, I can't help them anymore. Maybe even worse, because my mother might lose the house after all of this—she could lose everything.
Staying with Vincent solves everything for everyone except me. But they need my money, our money.
I laugh at myself. It's a joke because none of it is really mine. The checking account is joint, but Vincent has already proven more than once that he has no problem closing and reopening accounts, moving our money, and canceling cards without asking or even telling me in advance. It's money that I'm allowed to use, but in the end, it's his money.
I have to be smart, but the truth is that I can't see any way out of this anymore. I've tried to leave before, and Vincent sucked me right back in with his promises and his lies. How could I have been so blind? Now I can't even try to leave, because it's not just about me anymore. And I can't help but think, now that everything is out in the open, that everything is about to get so much worse.
He's given himself permission to be his true self now, the person he hid before. But now, there's no reason for him to hide since the cards are all out there. This is better for him, not me. The truth is, nothing about this was ever for me to be happy, no matter what I once believed. I made him happy, for some reason, and now he expects me to fall in line.
I slowly sit up in bed, burying my face in my hands. I have a massive headache from crying—my whole body aches. My heart is broken, my pride shattered. At least Vincent can't read my mind yet—I have no doubt he'd be even more furious if he could.
He's not in bed, and I'm thankful for that. Last night I pretended. I tried to remember the man who I thought he was, the one who I thought would love, protect, and take care of me. I pretended that man—the one I now know is just made-up--was the man beside me. I don't know what I'll do when he wants to be inside of me again. All the desire I had has been replaced with a sinking pit in my stomach of how he's not mine, but I'm his, and I have no idea how to change it. I don't know where Vincent is now, if he's still home and just in some other part of this stupidly huge penthouse, or gone to work, or to another flower. The thought of that last possibility still brings tears to my eyes. Still, I'm grateful that I have time to pull myself together, even if it's just a few minutes. To figure out who I need to pretend to be, in order to survive this.
I'm supposed to be marrying him. Thinking of that, of how I'm going to have to pretend forever, fills me with such a bleak emptiness that I feel like disappearing, like dying, like giving up. But I can't do that, either. My presence in Vincent's life, and my compliance with his desires and whims and orders, is the only thing keeping my family cared for.
I take a quick shower, throwing on the silk robe that I know he likes afterward, and take a deep breath before heading to the kitchen. I don't know if Vincent will be there, and the nervousness feels like a weight in my stomach the entire way downstairs.
I'm grateful to see that he isn't, but April, my bodyguard that I know now is really just a glorified babysitter, is waiting there instead, sitting at the table with a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. She glances up when I walk in and quickly stands, crossing the room. I think back to when she first showed up and how stupid I was to not see the glaring red flag then—that she's not a guard, but a watcher, to make sure I'm behaving and obeying.
"Good morning, Ms. Carlisle," she says quietly. "Mr. Jamison left a note for you."
I take the folded piece of paper numbly from her hand. A few months ago, I would have been elated, excited to open it up and see what sweet message he left for me before going off to his meetings for the day. Now I can just feel my stomach twisting into knots; my appetite was completely gone. I don't know how I'm ever going to get used to this, that the man who twenty-four hours ago I believed I was madly in love with, and he with me, could have betrayed me so completely.
Poppy,
When you've finished your breakfast, you're to go to the gym for an hour. You'll want to be able to fit into your wedding dress. I expect you to be the most beautiful bride anyone in this city has ever seen. The cook has already
left a prepped meal for you.
Vincent
I can feel my face turning red. I'm a size four and have been since I was sixteen. Sure, I could probably use some exercise just to be healthier, but how can he say this to me?
How could he do any of this to me?
I reluctantly make my way towards the fridge. I'm pretty sure there's a leftover egg, cheese, and bacon sandwich from my favorite breakfast place in there. When I open up the refrigerator, I see that it's gone. And not just that—all of the foods that I like and picked out at the store have disappeared overnight. My favorite doughnuts, the dip that I got for chips for our movie night, the cherry Coke that I always keep there.—it's all been replaced with bottles of water, fruit, low-calorie plain Greek yogurt, and prepped overnight oats in individually labeled plastic containers. To my horror, I see the same thing has been done for lunch as well. All the deli meat, condiments, and other fattening foods are gone, replaced by vegetables, avocado, and awful prepped meals…I can only imagine what's in them.
I yank open the freezer and see the same thing—all of the ice cream is gone. There are low-fat fruit bars in there now.
Before I can stop myself, I burst into tears. I can't help it because it all happened so fast, without warning, and it feels completely overwhelming. I grew up with an empty fridge, without the foods I liked, and sometimes not even enough food at all. Since I moved out on my own, grocery shopping was always my favorite day of the week because even if we were broke, I could at least get myself a couple of treats and make sure I had food. And since I'd lived with Vincent and had access to an unlimited grocery budget, I'd admittedly gone a little crazy with the rich desserts and fattening foods--but I still fit into my jeans!
But it obviously doesn't matter. What I want doesn't matter. Everything is Vincent's rules now, and it sends a shock of anxiety through me that makes me start to sob harder, the tears welling up in my throat and choking me. I hit the refrigerator with my fist once and then a second time even harder before I hear April clear her throat.
Shit.
I'd forgotten that she was in the room, and at that moment, my humiliation feels complete. I wipe at my face as quickly as I can, trying to regain my composure, but when I finally work up the courage to turn around and look at her, an expression that I can't quite read crosses April's face. I can feel the awkwardness between us, and it's plain that she's incredibly uncomfortable.
She backs up quickly towards the door, clearly intent on stepping out, even though I know very well that she's not supposed to leave me alone. "I’ll just…give you some time to yourself, Ms. Carlisle,” she says and quickly disappears from the room.
The despair and unhappiness, and anxiety overwhelm me. I take one more look at the fridge, the door still hanging open, before I drop down to the tiled floor, back against the cabinets, and try not to hyperventilate as I start crying all over again.
I manage, somehow, to pull myself together in time to make it to the meeting with the trainer. The building we live in has a gym, probably nicer and more well-equipped than anything in the city, although I wouldn’t know. I never had the money to have a gym membership before Vincent, much less a trainer. When I did them, any workouts I did were YouTube videos or Mallory shouting instructions at me from what she’d pulled up on her phone.
A flash of almost painful nostalgia slices through me. It seems ungrateful that I can’t help but miss those days, the ones where we sweated in our poorly air-conditioned, tiny apartment, doing sit-ups and planks and whatever else and then immediately downing a bag of chips afterward while we watched shitty reality TV. But how can I not, knowing everything I know now, knowing the truth behind the glamorous life that has seemingly been handed to me on a silver—no, a golden platter?
At the end of the day, none of that matters, though. My family needs Vincent’s money and connections. I want to believe that there’s a way out of this, but I can’t see it. Not right now.
Maybe I can delay the wedding. I think wildly as I take the elevator down to the recreation floor, where the gym, indoor pool, and sauna are located. Maybe I can convince Vincent, somehow, to put it off until my father is better. And then it won’t matter if I call the whole thing off.
The trainer is waiting for me in the gym, and I’m momentarily taken aback. She’s a tall woman, easily six feet if she’s an inch, with a side shave and the rest of her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. I’ve never seen a woman so muscular—she’s clearly a bodybuilder. She looks more like she trains soldiers for the military than women needing to look more slender in their wedding dresses. I’m immediately intimidated by her. If it were up to me, I’d run in the opposite direction. But I don’t have those kinds of choices anymore. So I walk in, take a deep breath, and hold out my hand. “Hi,” I say, willing my voice not to shake. “I’m Rain.”
“Nice to meet you.” Her voice is clear, firm, and professional, with a hint of a Russian accent. “I’m Alexandria, but you can call me Alex.”
The sound of her accent hits me, and for a brief second, I feel a fresh wave of nostalgia, but this time for an entirely different reason. It takes me instantly back to high school, to the boy I first loved, to the sound of his mother’s voice in their warm kitchen, with a steak pie baking in the oven. I can almost smell it for a moment, the sweet floury scent of pie crust and savory aroma of meat, the lingering hint of engine oil on his skin, and the smell of laundry detergent on his mother’s apron. It makes me feel almost dizzy for a moment, transporting me back to a time that I, for the most part, have succeeded in not thinking about anymore.
It passes just as quickly, leaving nothing but the hint of an old, familiar ache in my chest. I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present, and force a smile onto my face. “Nice to meet you too, Alex,” I tell her. “So, what do you have planned for me today?”
Over the next hour, I find out exactly what she has planned for me. Boy, do I ever find out. In my entire life, I’ve never done a workout like what this woman puts me through. She puts me on the treadmill for twenty minutes to “warm-up,” barking at me to pick up the pace every three minutes until I’m panting and sweaty. She shows me exercises I’ve never even heard of, all of them involving weights. Then it’s back on the treadmill for another twenty minutes, back to the weights, and back to the treadmill again. By the time it’s over, an hour and a half later, and she’s got me stretching on a mat with a foam roller, I’m pretty sure that I’m in hell.
“You’ll meet me here five days a week, Monday through Friday,” she begins as I half sit, half lay on the mat panting, and I stare at her, unable to say anything. I think I’ve actually lost the ability to speak.
Five days? Is she crazy?
“You’ll do an hour of cardio on Saturdays, as well as a private yoga class with my co-trainer Maria, with one rest day on Sundays,” she continues. I feel like I might throw up. I’ve never worked out this hard in my life! I feel like I’m going to die, and I’m supposed to do this five days a week plus cardio and yoga?
It’s clear Alex isn’t joking, though. There’s not a trace of humor in her no-nonsense expression or in her tone. “Your meal plan for this week will be emailed to you,” she tells me while I’m still trying to balance on the foam roller. “There are instructions in that email for an app that you’ll download, which you can use to log all of your meals and snacks. Mr. Jamison had me send a copy of the meal plan to the house manager so that the meals can all be prepared or ordered for you in advance. You won’t need to do anything other than eat them at the appropriate times.”
I feel like crying all over again. It’s not like I’ve never felt like I should probably try to eat a little healthier, but the idea that I’m being forced into this makes me want to burst into tears. Not to mention the fact that I like going out to eat or ordering takeout to have at home. One of the perks of being with Vincent has always been the insanely good food that I suddenly had access to. Now he’s going to be tracking and watching everyth
ing I eat, like some kind of a jailer instead of a fiancé. It makes me feel desperate and scared, like I’m a little kid again with no way to help my mother afford more groceries for the week.
I hate this feeling more than anything. But right now, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’m not about to let this terrifying woman see how upset I am. So, I just give her a tight smile and hope that she assumes my expression is because all of my muscles feel as if they’ve been turned to liquid.
“Sure,” I tell her agreeably. “I’ll check for it as soon as I get home.”
2
Zach
Nothing starts off how you think it will. My career sure as hell didn’t. When you watch TV shows, it’s all action--a meteoric rise, excitement, and shoot-outs. That was my picture of what it would be like to work for the FBI, but it’s actually a lot more paperwork and desk duty and a lot less chasing down bad guys. I’ve never even fired my weapon outside of the range.
Everything is about to change, though. All the things I’ve imagined—the accolades, the pay raises, the satisfaction of knowing I’m ridding the world of scum and making it a better place, begins with this case.
It starts with taking down Vincent Jamison.
I was given three days to pore over the files I’d been given—both the one on Vincent Jamison and the one detailing my cover--how to behave, what would be expected of me, the persona I was expected to inhabit for the next several months. I was quizzed endlessly by Detectives Bellona and Simpson until I could answer every question they threw at me naturally and smoothly, in any possible way—curious, agitated, angry, prying. I knew they were preparing me for the eventuality that I might be interrogated, and I knew that to be successful, it would have to be perfect. It really drove home the danger that I was putting myself in.