by Sierra Rose
Nick paled, but clenched his jaw.
“That call would hurt you, more than it would hurt—”
Mitchell raised his voice.
“Then we’ll see how long your favor lasts. Then we’ll see how long you can keep treating this city like your personal playground.”
They were both shouting now. Growing louder and louder with every pass.
“You’re not the only one who has friends at the Post,” Nick warned.
Mitchell threw back his head and laughed.
“But you are the only one who was recently caught fucking a girl in the middle of a public boxing ring. What would you possibly—”
Nick’s eyes flashed with pure hatred.
“I’ll tell them you’re a monster who used to beat his son!”
It was like someone poured icy water on a fire. The raging back and forth screeched to a sudden halt, as the room locked down in dead silence.
I felt like my entire body was on pause. My heart stopped beating, my lungs constricted shut. In my mind, I was running through a little catalog. A roster of every mark or ancient scar I’d seen on Nick’s body the previous night. Wondering about each one of them in turn. Tears sprang to my eyes as I turned slowly to look at him, but he had eyes only for his father.
Never before had I seen such an expression. It went beyond simply angry, the man was incensed. He was panting as if he’d just run a marathon, and his fingers had tightened into fists upon the balled up sheets. Every line on his face was etched in fury. His eyes danced with rage.
No matter how powerful a man Mitchell Hunter might be, even he took a step back. Out of self-preservation? Out of shame? I would never know.
But even then, with his son’s threat still echoing in the air, he made his final move.
“And Abby’s picture would still be out there.”
All at once, the fire died in Nick’s eyes. Like flipping a switch. His shoulders tensed, then wilted as he finally allowed himself a single glance to the side.
“Dad...please.”
It was softer. Defeated. Almost pleading. My heard broke a thousand times over, as I realized that Nick Hunter could beg after all.
Mitchell said nothing. He no longer had to. The game was his. Instead, he stared coldly at his son’s face as Nick tried one last time.
“You would actually do that to me?”
A ringing silence filled the void. Answering the quiet question.
Yes.
Worse than looking hurt. Worse than looking devastated.
Nick didn’t look surprised.
“I’ll be sending over Harold later today to begin going over the logistics.” Mitchell shook out his coat as he prepared to leave, suddenly business-like. “Does noon work for you?”
Nick said nothing. He just stared blankly at the wall.
Mitchell smiled. “Splendid. Noon it is, then. Until next time.” He nodded at each of us as he swept toward the door, flashing me a wicked little smile as he went. “Always a pleasure.”
A moment later, the elevator dinged. A moment after that, the doors shut and he was gone—leaving us sitting in that impossible silence.
I sat there for as long as I possibly could—growing more and more panicked with each passing second. Nick hadn’t moved an inch since his father left, I didn’t think he’d even blinked, but I was unable to sit still for even a moment longer.
“Nick,” I finally murmured, twisting a little so I was angled his way, “Nick, I don’t know what I’m supposed to...” I trailed off and tried again. “What can I—”
He was out of the bed in one quick motion, moving so fast, he didn’t even disturb the sheets. I gazed up at him in shock, head spinning, but he couldn’t seem to meet my eyes.
“I have to go,” he murmured, pulling on his pants while keeping his eyes trained on the floor. “I’m sorry, I just...I have to get out of here.”
I didn’t try to stop him. I just sat there—numb.
The second he found a shirt, he shook out his hair and headed for the door. He didn’t stop for a minute to consider where he might actually be going. He didn’t even pause to pick up his wallet or phone. It wasn’t until he was halfway out the door, that he turned to glance back.
Our eyes met for only a second. Only a second was all he could take.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Then he disappeared. Out the same door as his father. Out before I had the chance to say a single word. Before I had the chance to say goodbye.
Chapter 2
I WAS TIRED. I WAS whiplashed. I was confused and upset. And for one of the first times in my entire life, I didn’t have a place to go.
For the next few hours, I wandered slowly around Nick’s apartment. Keeping an eye on the front door at all times. Feeling more and more like some kind of intruder as the minutes rolled by. I just didn’t feel right being there, somehow. It didn’t matter that I’d come by invitation. It didn’t even matter that the invitation had come on the heels of a strategic eviction by Nick’s own hand.
This was his place. Not mine. His. In times of stress, I was the one who should take to the streets—not him. Especially after what his father said to him.
Especially after what he said about his father...
It was a testament to how gut-wrenchingly terrible a person Mitchell Hunter was, that in a way, I wasn’t surprised. Nick’s mother had moved away after the divorce (a divorce in which Mitchell made sure he got full custody of Nick), so on the rare times that Nick came home for the holidays from boarding school—the two of them were unsupervised.
Late in his adolescence, he had gone through a ‘rough patch.’ Acting out. Mindless feats of rebellion. Forming frivolous attachments, while avoiding any relationships that might actually matter. The kinds where he had to let his guard down and actually trust. All tell-tale signs.
As soon as he was old enough, father and son parted ways. Nick moved out to his own apartment in the city, and now the only time the two of them ever talked, was either in public or in front of members of their staff.
In a way, the pair of them fit that abusive stereotype to a T.
But at the same time, I couldn’t help but be shocked. The Nick I knew would never let himself get taken advantage of by anything or anybody. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker with his hands. It was hard to imagine anyone getting the drop on him.
Let alone repeatedly. Let alone his own dad.
The thought broke my heart and made my blood boil all at the same time. That anyone would dare raise a hand against him. That anyone would think to hurt him.
And knowing Nick so well...I was sure he’d never fought back.
Mitchell might be able to strike his son, but I’d bet my life that Nick had never once been able to return the favor to his father.
Nick used words to hurt people. He used money, and influence, and power. He never used violence. It was too blunt a force. Too easy a tactic. The only time I’d ever seen him swing a fist, was when a paparazzi started deliberately crowding the Duchess of York into a rope line, and even then, it took quite a while to get him there.
Maybe this is why. Maybe he knows the feeling a little too well...
When I could pace no longer, I planted myself on the living room couch, and gazed up in dread at the clock. The hands were getting closer and closer to twelve, and still, there was no sign anywhere of Nick. According to Mitchell, we were supposed to be meeting with Harold Oakes—his chief PR strategist—at noon to discuss preliminary plans to move forward.
I didn’t want to imagine what might happen if we were late.
Another twenty minutes went by, and just when I was panicked enough to actually consider going out to look for him, there was a metallic ding at the end of the hallway. A second later, a key turned slowly in the lock, and the door pushed open.
Nick froze in place when he saw me, hovering mid-step like a guilty child. His cheeks blushed to high heaven, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor—sp
illing his hair in between us like some kind of protective shield.
“Hey,” I said softly. Probably best to initiate the conversation myself. He was clearly in no condition to do it. “I was beginning to think you’d left the country.”
It was true. Knowing Nick, the sky was literally the limit. The guy had a tendency to run, and given the conversation we’d just had, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d turned up in Bermuda a month later—sporting a pirate beard and a mai tai.
“No, I uh...” He raked a hand back through his hair, still unable to look at me. “Sorry, Abby. I just needed to clear my head.”
I nodded hastily, staring back with wide eyes. Of course he did. I just wished he hadn’t felt the need to vacate the premises to do it.
“Yeah, no, that’s...that’s perfectly understandable.”
An awkward silence fell between us. We lingered in it for a moment, each trying to get our bearings, before we both started talking at the same time.
“I’m really—”
“Abby, I’m so sorry.”
We both paused again, staring at each other in confusion.
“You’re sorry?” I repeated in shock. “Why the hell are you sorry?”
I had been prepared to go all twelve rounds with him—just trying to soften the blow and beg for some kind of forgiveness. That was why he’d left...wasn’t it?
But Nick looked just as confused as I was. He studied my face almost warily, before taking a tentative step forward. “Are you kidding? It’s my dad who’s doing this—”
“Don’t,” I held up a hand, “don’t even go there. I knew all about what kind of man Mitchell Hunter was before I applied for this job. I knew exactly what he was capable of when I signed my employment contracts. No part of this is on you. You’re not responsible for your father’s actions.”
Nick’s eyes tightened, and he floundered in a rare moment of helplessness.
“I told you everything would be fine. That you’d get to control every single—”
I leapt to my feet and flew across the room, unable to let him sit there and punish himself for even a second longer.
“Enough—alright? You’re doing this for me. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
He fell instantly silent, and I lay my hands tentatively upon his chest—lifting my head a little to force him to look into my eyes.
“Nick—truth: if it was any other girl in those pictures, would you even consider going through with something like this?”
He sighed, a deep tired sigh that broke my heart all over again just to hear it. His head shook slowly back and forth, and without seeming to think about it, he brought up his hands to close them over mind.
“If it was any other girl in those pictures, my father would never have even tried.”
Another strange compliment. And the last thing I was expecting.
We stood there for a full minute. Holding hands. Holding our breaths. Heads bowed so our foreheads touched in the center.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered, unable to keep it in.
His body stiffened for a minute, before his fingers squeezed around my wrists.
“It’s going to be okay—I promise. We’re going to think of something. Together,” he pulled in a quick breath, “together I’m sure the two of us can think of something.”
I nodded a little shakily, and we lifted our heads at the same time. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I didn’t even know where to begin. But right there in that moment, as strange as it sounded, I felt a strange sense of calm.
Nick was right. We could get through something even as crazy as this. Together.
“Where did you end up going?” I asked softly, stroking back a wave of his hair.
We were just inches away from each other. And no matter how shaken up we might have been, no matter how big a bombshell his father might have just dropped—we couldn’t stop staring at each other’s lips.
His eyes flickered down, before he flashed a quick grin.
“An ice-cream vendor by Central Park.”
I let out a sudden laugh. Of course he did. Because Nick was twelve.
“Try anything good?”
He leaned down an inch or two farther, the grin still playing about his lips.
“Maybe...you can probably still taste it...”
Needing no more invitation than that, I stretched up onto my toes and gave him a swift but tender kiss. Jokes aside, it was exactly what the two of us needed. A momentary respite from the emotional chaos. A fleeting sense of calm before we plunged headfirst into the storm.
I kissed him again, before pulling back with a smile.
“Chocolate.”
He tilted up my chin.
“Can’t beat the classics...”
We were about to come together again, when there was a sharp knock on the door. Nick dropped his hand, and the two of us stared toward the elevator in alarm.
“Who the hell is that?” Nick’s eyes shot to the clock. “Is it noon already?”
I took a step back with a sigh. I had met Harold Oates on several occasions before, under several sets of increasingly stressful circumstances. I was not eager to see him now.
“Yeah...it’s noon.”
We gazed at the door for a second longer, before Nick squeezed my hand again with a fresh burst of determination. “Hey—it’s going to be fine, alright? You and me. Say it back.”
I forced my lips up into a tight smile.
“You and me.”
He winked.
“That’s the spirit.”
With that, he left to go and get the door, while I collapsed back onto the sofa feeling like I was about two seconds away from a full on meltdown.
You and me, huh?
A sharp voice echoed down the halls, and I closed my eyes with a grimace.
I was afraid it was going to take more than a hopeful ‘you and me’ to weather a man like Harold Oates.
Chapter 3
HAROLD MILDRED WINSTON Bartholomew Oates the Third (no, I’m not kidding) had been with the Hunter family longer than Nick had been with it himself. He had been hired by Mitchell back when the two of them were still considered ‘young men,’ and so great was his influence, that when Nick’s mother went into labor—he was her first phone call. Not her then-husband.
You could see him in the background of a million family photos—lurking like the ghost of parliaments past. From baptisms to baseball games. Birthdays to graduations. He was there for them all. Unsmiling. Unflinching. Unyielding. An emotionless, inflectionless statue with severe posture, impeccable tailoring, and a renowned abhorrence for all members of the working class.
Oh—and he was also British. This was a fact he would take great care to remind you at least three times over the course of every conversation.
“Well speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Abby,” Nick called, as he led our new taskmaster into the living room, “of course you remember Harold.”
He and his father were the only people in the world granted the privilege of calling the man by his first name. Everyone else—myself included—were demoted on principle.
“Mr. Oates.” I stood up with a forced smile and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure as always. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”
He looked as immaculate as ever. Three piece suit. Gray hair slicked back to perfection. I even spotted the chain of a pocket watch in his inner jacket pocket.
“It’s Sir Oates, actually.” His eyes swept me up and down with their usual disdain. “And I must say, I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter. It seems you children got yourselves in a spot of trouble...”
He pursed his lips indulgently at Nick, then pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief as he turned back to me. Before I could even register the pretentious embroidery, he used it to wipe clean my peasant hand before deigning to shake.
My jaw dropped open in disbelief. Nick flashed me a twinkling smile.
> “Harold,” he clapped the man lightly on the shoulder, gesturing for him to take a seat on the plush sofa, “I’m afraid we need your help.”
“I’m afraid you do as well.” He settled himself graciously down, taking up the precise amount of room so that Nick was able to sit beside him, but I was not. “Caught by a camera having yet another roll in the hay?” He gave Nick a conspiratorial wink. “You naughty boy.”
Oh kill me now...
My disgust must have shown on my face, because Harold soured sharply as he turned that piecing gaze my way. “Although I must say, I am a bit surprised at your choice of bed-fellows. I was under the impression that Ms. Wilder serviced you only in a professional capacity.”
He did NOT just say that!
My hands clamped down on the armrests as I flew forward in my chair, but Nick intercepted the awkward moment before it could get off the ground. He held up a cautioning hand, flashing me an apologetic grimace, then turned in supplication back to Harold.
“Abby and I were caught in an...unscripted moment, that’s true.” He paused for a split second, then his face shone with sudden emotion. “But the indiscretion was mine. I won’t have her punished for it. I couldn’t live with myself.”
Such earnest sincerity was rare for Nick. Even the impregnable Harold Oates was moved.
He froze quite still for a moment, then his eyes misted over and he bowed his head to his chest in a humble sort of nod. “As always, dear Nicholas, I am at your service.”
I slumped back against the recliner, and resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
The entire world had developed an insatiable fascination with the Hunter family, but Harold Oates took it to a whole other level. The man was obsessed. In my opinion—creepily obsessed—but Nick had assured me multiple times that the man was harmless.
Stockholm syndrome, no doubt. But I could hardly blame him. Ever since he was just a baby—Harold had simply always been around.
Half-public relations expert, half-confidant, half-babysitter, half-butler; the man was always there. Staring, listening, spying, watching, waiting, lurking, and generally just hovering about in the shadows—soaking in every possible detail. No problem was too trivial that it didn’t warrant his massively over-qualified attention. No hour was ever too late to call. When just calling hadn’t been enough, Mitchell had actually purchased him a small cottage down the street from the Hunter’s Hampton estate. In the off-seasons, he simply stayed in the guesthouse.