The Devil Wears Black

by Shen, L. J.

  “Where did your family think I was for the past six months? Wasn’t it weird to them that I haven’t been around?”

  Chase shrugged, unfazed. “I’m running a company that’s richer than some countries. I told them we were seeing each other on evenings.”

  “And they bought it?”

  He flashed me a sinister grin. Of course they had. Chase had the uncanny ability to sell anxiety to a new bride.

  I grumbled. “Fine. What happens when we finally break up?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” It sounded like a horrible plan. Straight-to-cable rom-com material. But I knew Chase to be a serious guy. He nodded.

  “My mother and sister would be disappointed but not crushed. Dad wants me happy. Moreover—I want him to be happy. At any cost.”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic, and frankly, it was the one thing Chase had over me. My sympathy to his situation.

  “I’ll go this weekend, but that’s where it ends.” I lifted my index finger in warning. “One weekend, Chase. Then you can tell them I’m busy. And whatever happens, this engagement mumbo jumbo will be kept top secret. I don’t want it to come biting me in the ass at work. Speaking of work—after we cancel our so-called engagement, I get to keep my job.”

  “Scout’s honor.” But he only raised one finger. Specifically, the middle one.

  “You’ve never been in the Scouts.” I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “And you haven’t been bitten in the ass. It’s a figure of speech. No, wait.” A slow-spreading grin tugged across his face. “Yes, you have.”

  Pointing at the door, I felt my neck and face burning with a blush as I recalled the time that I had in fact been bitten in the ass. “Out.”

  Chase shoved his hand into his back pocket. Dread curled around my throat like a tight scarf as he pulled out a small Black & Co. Jewelry velvet box and threw it into my hands. “I’ll pick you up Friday at six. Hiking attire mandatory. Sensible clothes optional but fucking appreciated nonetheless.”

  “I hate you,” I said quietly, the words scorching their way up my throat as my fingers shook around the plush box with the gold lettering. I did. I really, truly did. But I was doing it for Ronan, Lori, and Katie, not him. That made my decision more bearable somehow.

  He smiled at me pityingly. “You’re a good kid, Mad.”

  Kid. Forever condescending. Screw him.

  Chase stalked to the door, stopping a few inches from me. He frowned at the discarded soda can at my feet.

  “You may want to clean that up.” He motioned to the sprayed Coke on my wall. He lifted his arm and rubbed his thumb over my forehead, exactly on the spot Ethan had kissed, erasing his touch from my body. “Scruff is not a good look, especially on Chase Black’s fiancée.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MADDIE

  August 10, 2002

  Dear Maddie,

  Fun fact: The flower lily of the valley has a biblical meaning. It sprang from Eve’s eyes when she was exiled from the Garden of Eden. It is considered to be one of the most gorgeous and elusive flowers in nature, a true favorite among royal brides!

  It is also deadly poisonous.

  Not all beautiful things are good for you. I’m sorry you and Ryan broke up. For what it’s worth, he was never the one. You deserve the world. Never settle for less.

  Love (and a little relieved),

  Mom. x

  I’d been planning my wedding day ever since I was five.

  My dad loved to tell the story of how the day before first grade, I’d been seen running after Jacob Kelly along our cul-de-sac, clutching a bunch of backyard flowers, roots and mud intact, yelling at him to come back and wed me. I got my way in the end, after much bribing. Jacob looked appalled, with both himself and me, as my friends, Layla and Tara, dutifully performed the ceremony. He refused to kiss his bride—which was more than fine by me—and chose to spend our honeymoon hurling pine cones at squirrels running across my backyard fence and complaining there was no more of my mom’s famous cherry pie.

  I didn’t stop at marrying Jacob Kelly. By the time I was eleven, I’d been wed to Taylor Kirschner, Milo Lopez, Aston Giudice, Josh Payne, and Luis Hough. All of them still lived in the same town I’d grown up in in Pennsylvania and still sent me Christmas cards taunting me for being blissfully single.

  It wasn’t about the romance. My interest in boys was saved for morbid curiosity as to what made them dirty, rude, and prone to fart jokes. It was the wedding part I absolutely loved. The butterflies in your stomach, the festiveness, the guests, the cake, the flowers. And above all—the dress.

  Fake-marrying boys gave me a reason to wear the white puffy dress my cousin Coraline had gifted me when she got married. I was her flower girl. I squeezed into that thing for five consecutive years, until it was clear the dress couldn’t fit a preteen, even one as comically short as me.

  I had been obsessed with wedding dresses ever since. Rabid, more like. I’d begged my parents to take me to weddings. Even went as far as sneaking into strangers’ ceremonies at the local church just so I could admire the dresses. To make my obsession worse, my mother was a florist and would oftentimes allow me to tag along when she delivered wedding flowers to plush, beautiful venues.

  Becoming a wedding dress designer seemed like a calling, not a career choice. You were your most beautiful, flawless self on your wedding day. In fact, it was the only day in your life where anything you chose to wear, no matter how costly, extravagant, or lavish, was fair game. People often asked me if it felt stifling to limit myself to designing one type of outfit. Honestly, I didn’t know why any designer would choose to make regular, normal clothes. Designing wedding dresses was the professional equivalent of eating dessert every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was like getting my Christmas presents all at once.

  Maybe that was why I’d always been the last to leave work. To turn off the lights and kiss my latest sketch goodbye. Not this Friday, though.

  This time, I actually had plans.

  “I’m off. Happy weekend, everyone!” I slipped into my hot-pink pumps, turning off the light illuminating my drafting table at Croquis.

  My corner of the studio was my little haven. Designed to cater to my needs. My drafting table had silver stationery trays, which I filled with pencils, funny-shaped erasers, Sharpies, brushes, and charcoal. I made it a point to put a vase with fresh flowers by my desk every week. It was like having Mom around, making sure she watched over me.

  I gave the flowers in my vase—a medley of lavender and white blooms—a little pat, watering them ahead of the weekend. “Be good.” I wiggled my finger at them. “Miss Magda will take care of you while I’m gone. Don’t give me that look,” I warned. “I’ll be back Monday.”

  Whoever said flowers didn’t have faces obviously hadn’t seen them wilt. Usually, I’d take my flowers home with me and put them on my windowsill to people watch and get some sunrays next to Daisy, but this weekend, I was going to the Hamptons to accompany Satan, and Daisy had a sleepover at Layla’s.

  “Talking to your plants again. Cool. Totally sane.” I heard a mutter from across the studio. It was Nina, my colleague. Nina was my age yet an intern. She was supermodel perfect. Willowy as a swan, with an upturned nose and the skin complexion of a Bratz doll. The only negative thing I had to say about her was she severely disliked me for no apparent reason other than my ability to breathe. Literally, she’d dubbed me “Oxygen Hogger.”

  “Move along now.” She waved her hand, eyes still glued to her screen. “If your plants pee, I will change their diaper. Just as long as you get out of my sight.”

  Taking the higher road, I turned away, making my way to the elevators. I bumped right into Sven. He planted a hand on his waist, leaning forward and tapping my nose. My boss slash sort-of friend was in his early forties and wore black head to toe. His hair was so shockingly blond it flirted with white, his eyes so light you could almost see
through them. He always wore a touch of gloss and dangled his hips when he walked, à la Sam Smith. As department head at Croquis, a wedding-gown company that was in partnership with Black & Co. to sell their lines exclusively at their stores, he called the shots and attended meetings with the executive board. Sven had taken me under his wing when I’d been fresh out of art school and given me an internship that had swelled into a full-time position. Four years later, I couldn’t imagine working for anyone else.

  “Where to?” He cocked his head.

  I looped my courier bag over my shoulder, making my way to the elevators. “Home. Where else?”

  “Lorde help me, thank God you design better than you lie.” He meant the singer, not his Almighty. Sven did the sign of the cross, following my footsteps, his Swedish accent raising the intonation on final syllables. His foreign accent made a subtle cameo only when he was excited or drunk. “You never leave on time. What’s going on?”

  My eyes flared. Had Chase opened his mouth? Sven knew Chase, and they ended up at the same meetings frequently. I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past him, bar starting a third world war. Chase would be freaked out by the commitment. A war could last months—even years. He didn’t have the stamina to see it through.

  I stopped by the elevator bank, punching the button and popping two pieces of gum into my mouth. “Nothing’s going on. Why would you ask that?”

  Sven cocked his head sideways, like if he stared me down long enough, the secret would spill itself out of my mouth. “Are you okay?”

  I let out a high-pitched laugh. Sven and I were close but still professional. I’d like to think that if he weren’t my boss, we’d actually probably be best friends. But we both understood that for now there were boundaries and certain things we could and couldn’t talk about. “Never been better.”

  Someone get me out of here.

  The elevator dinged. Sven slid in front of it, blocking my way inside. “Is this about . . . him?”

  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

  “‘Him’ can burn in hell a thousand times, and I wouldn’t spit on him to put the fire out,” I hissed. “I can’t believe you brought him up.”

  If I had a penny for every time Sven had caught me crying about Chase in the kitchenette, my station, the restroom, or anywhere else in the office, I wouldn’t have to work here. Or at all, for that matter. I didn’t even know why. In the six months we’d dated, I’d only met Chase’s family a handful of times, and not even his brousin (brother-cousin) and his wife, whom they were close with. He hadn’t met my family—only Layla and obviously Sven. Things hadn’t been serious by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Harsh words. What did the poor guy do? You’ve only been dating for three weeks.” He tapped his lips, scrunching his eyebrows. “What’s his name again? Henry? Eric? I remember something all-American and wholesome.”

  Ethan. Of course he meant Ethan. My heart slowed, almost to a complete stop. Crisis averted. The doors to the elevator closed, and I frowned at Sven, pushing the button to call it once again. It was already on its way back down. Darn it.

  “Patience is a virtue,” I pointed out.

  “Or a definite sign he is playing for the other team.” Sven adjusted the collar of my blue patterned blouse. “Firsthand experience, sister. I had a girlfriend throughout high school, Vera. Her virtue remained intact until she left for college in the States, where it was probably shredded by a pack of frat boys to make up for lost time.”

  “Poor Vera.” I licked my thumb and rubbed a coffee stain off the corner of his lips.

  “Poor me.” Sven swatted my hand away. “I was so busy trying to be the man I thought my parents wanted I completely missed out on my ho years. Don’t let that happen to you, Maddie. You go and be that ho we all want to be.”

  “You’re projecting.” I winced.

  “And you are missing out,” he countered, poking me in the breastbone. “It’s been months since you broke up with Chase. It’s time to move on. Really move on.”

  “I did. I mean, I have. I am.” I pressed the button to the elevator three times in succession. Click click click.

  “Oh, look, an incoming text message from Layla.” Sven held his phone up to my face. Oh, I forgot to mention that since Sven and I couldn’t be best friends, my best friend had actually become his best friend. It really messed with my work/personal-life balance, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me at times. Like now. “Let me read that for you: ‘Tell your employee to take this weekend to enjoy herself. Force her to have fun. Make mistakes. Sleep with the man of her dreams.’”

  “I’m not . . . ,” I started, but he shook his head, turning around, waving his hand as he sauntered back into the studio and bent over Nina’s shoulder, glancing at what she was working on. The doors to the elevator opened. I walked in, shaking my head.

  “Over my dead body.”

  Half an hour before Chase was supposed to pick me up, I knocked on Layla’s door. She opened, pushing a stray lock of emerald-green hair behind her ear, holding a kicking, screaming four-year-old in meltdown mode. Layla was a curvy, the-only-dimples-I-have-are-on-my-ass-and-that’s-the-way-I-like-it girl, with the most enviable wardrobe, consisting of boho-chic dresses, floaty skirts, and over-the-shoulder knit sweaters. She didn’t seem to mind his advances at tearing her eardrum. The pocket money must be worth it.

  “If it isn’t Martyr Maddie,” she chirped lovingly, giving me a one-arm squeeze. I hadn’t changed from my work clothes. A blue blouse with printed cherries, paired with a gray pencil skirt and pink pumps. “Shouldn’t you be with your ex-boyfriend right about now?”

  “Just came by to drop off my keys.”

  Okay. That was a blatant lie. Layla had a spare in case of an emergency. I just needed to talk to her before I left. “Thanks for watching over Daisy. I usually walk her three times a day, for twenty minutes minimum. She likes Abingdon Square Park. Specifically chasing after a squirrel named Frank and catcalling other dogs. Just make sure she doesn’t run into the street. There’s a measuring cup in her food bag—one scoop in the morning, one in the evening. Her vitamins are by the utensils drawer, yellow pack. Don’t worry about changing her water too much. She drinks from the toilet bowl anyway. Oh, and don’t leave anything on the counter. She will find a way to open and eat it.”

  “Sounds like me after a night out.” Layla grinned. “Frank, huh? Are things serious between them?”

  “Unfortunately for him.” I winced. I recognized Frank by the bald spot between his eyes. Daisy loved that squirrel, so of course, I fed him every time we went to the park.

  “She also might pee in your shoes in protest when she realizes I am gone,” I added.

  “Jesus, she is worse than a kid. That see-you-next-Thursday ex-boyfriend of yours really made sure you’d never forget him with this parting gift.”

  I shrugged. “Better than C-H-L-A-M-Y-D-I-A.”

  “I know how to spell.” The kid poked his tongue out, making both of us look at him incredulously.

  “Thanks, I owe you one,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The kid in her hand was now tugging at her hair, yelling his mother’s name.

  “Ground control to Martyr Maddie, are you there? I asked you if Sven read you my text,” Layla said, ignoring the ball of commotion in her arms. I hated that nickname. I also hated that I kept earning it by never turning people down when they asked for favors. Exhibit A: attending my own fake engagement party in the Hamptons this weekend.

  “Yup.” I plastered a cheerful smile on. “Sorry, I drifted. He did. You’re insane.”

  “And you look like you’re on death row.”

  “I feel like it too.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I know how devastating it is when a gorgeous, well-bred gazillionaire whisks you off for a weekend in the Hamptons after slipping a four-hundred-fifty-K engagement ring on your finger. But you will survive it.”

  Let the r
ecord show I hadn’t been the one doing the investigation on how much the ring cost. That was Layla, over a bottle of wine (okay, spiked Capri Sun) the minute Chase left my apartment building. I’d summoned her to an urgent meeting, during which she browsed Black & Co. Jewelry’s website and concluded the engagement ring was a limited edition and was no longer for sale.

  “You know what it means.” She wiggled her brows then, pouring a shot of vodka into a cup and squeezing the Capri Sun into it. I’d shut her down immediately.

  “Yes. That he wants to make sure his family thinks the engagement is legit. That’s all.”

  Now, I was still trying to douse her optimism with a good portion of reality.

  “Really, I prefer to look at it as being kidnapped by a cheating, lying, arrogant piece of sh—” I eyed the kid, who went completely silent, bug eyed, waiting for me to complete the sentence. I cleared my throat. “Sheep.”

  “She said a potty word.” He pointed at me with a chubby finger.

  “No, I didn’t. I said ‘sheep,’” I protested. I was arguing with a four-year-old. Ethan would have had a heart attack on impact had he found out.

  “Oh.” The kid poked his lower lip out, mulling it over. “I love sheep.”

  “Apparently, we don’t love this one, Timothy.” Layla patted his head. She closed the door half an inch. “Can you promise me one thing?”

  “Do I have to?” I sulked. I knew she’d want me to be positive and optimistic.

  “Try to make the most out of it. Instead of thinking about who you are going to spend the time with, think about how you’re going to spend your time. The one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar property you will be staying in on Billionaires’ Row, eating clambake delicacies, sipping wine that costs more than your rent. Bring your sketchbook. Take a breather from city life. Make this trip your bitch.”

  “Potty word!” Timothy perked again.