by Lana Sky
CHILLING EXCHANGE REVEALED ON TAPE, screams the headline, followed by snippets of said recording. I see my name. Blake Lorenz’s. A list of abstract quotes supposedly from a recording.
“You hurt me.”
Numb, I grasp the paper, drawing it closer. Ink smears beneath my sweaty fingerprints the faster I read.
“You violated me… You made me feel like I was worthless.”
“Good. At least now you know what it fucking feels like.”
Among the sordid snippets, there’s no mention of the gala or Lyle Harlow. Just carefully constructed phrases to make it seem like…
To make it seem like Blake Lorenz did more than just torment me.
“Oh…God…” I pinch myself, raking my nails over my skin. But I don’t wake up. This is real. Drawing my knees to my chest doesn’t contain my throbbing heart. It hammers through my rib cage, leaving me hollow.
“I look forward to reading about how I raped you in the tabloids.”
“Are you listening to me?” Ronan is still watching me, his expression agonized. “I knew he hurt you,” he says, hissing through clenched teeth. “Somehow, even if you wouldn’t admit the details. But never… Why didn’t you fucking say something?”
He’s joined by Hunter before I can answer. Stern-faced, our older brother flanks the opposite end of my bed.
“The board’s put the bastard on suspension,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s talking to Ronan or me. “If public opinion trends the way it seems, he’ll be gone for sure. He’s ruined.”
“I don’t give a damn about the company!” Turning from Hunter, Ronan lunges for my hand, yanking me upright. “Come on.”
I stagger to my feet as he drags me down the hall and throws the door to the suite open. Alarmed, I clutch at the doorway with both hands. “Where are we going?”
“To the hospital,” he says, casting me an incredulous look. “Or the police station. Fuck, we have to do something—”
“No!” I wrench out of his grip and pace mindlessly. My fingers tear through my hair as I remember the damage done to it and by whom. He did hurt me, but never in a million years would I do something like this to retaliate.
Never.
“When were you ever alone with the bastard?” Ronan demands. “Is this why… God, we should have never taken you to that fucking event!”
“Ronan, enough.” Hunter employs that gentle, stern tone only he can—but there’s something off in its cadence. I’ve never heard this grit in his voice before. This…hate. “Snowy,” he says gently, “you will press charges.”
“Charges?” Ronan fumes. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch—”
“I can’t breathe.” My fingers clutch at my chest as if physical touch can force air into it. Suddenly, Ronan is by my side, rubbing my shoulders.
“It’s okay, Snowy,” he croaks. “We’ll make this better. I’ll fix this.”
“We need to put out a statement,” Hunter suggests. “Something concise—”
“Please.” I pull away from them, heading for my room. “I just…I just need to think.”
I might as well have said nothing, because they continue to talk without me. Shout. Argue.
Closing my door only muffles the sounds, not that I can shut out the world so easily. The paper taunts me from my bed. It’s as if the honking horns and faint clamor of traffic below carry the vicious rumors directly to my ears.
I look forward to the tabloids, Snow.
Someone must have recorded us. Someone who leaked select phrases to the papers. But why? Dazed and dizzy, I can’t come up with a single name. The only thing I’m sure of is guilt. It hammers through my veins in time with my heartbeat. Liar. Liar. Liar.
You’ve ruined his life twice, Snowy.
Hunter claimed that his spot on the board is already in jeopardy. I should be happy to hear that. Maybe if I were a real Hollings, I would be. Scandal festers like a poison in a city like Mayfield. Losing the company would only be the first cog in the vicious wheel of public contempt. Only God knows what could happen next.
Could he lose his money?
His home?
More?
I’m pacing again, wringing my fingers together, desperate to do something. Eventually, I find myself near my door, feeling along the wood. The shouting sounds fainter now; Ronan and Hunter must be in another room.
Heart pounding, I approach my closet and throw on the first items of clothing I can reach. Jeans. A blouse. Once dressed, I open my door and creep beyond it.
I don’t see Ronan or Hunter within view, and I reach the door to the suite without drawing notice. Leaving now is the worst possible thing I could do. I know it, but my body doesn’t seem to care. Rebelliously, my fingers clench the handle, turning it before my brain can fully process the consequences. Then I step out into the hall, and the moment I’ve cleared the threshold, I race into an elevator.
My thoughts are a jumble as I exit the lobby minutes later. Dazed, I find myself flagging down the first taxi I can, but once inside, I’m forced to admit that I don’t even know where to go.
Or do I?
Without thinking, I blurt out a single address. Regret sinks in the moment the cab approaches a reclusive manor on the outskirts of Mayfield. Or it once was reclusive.
Now, a herd of news vans is swarming outside the gates.
“Holy shit!”
I flinch as the driver voices the concerns I don’t dare.
“Are you sure about this, lady?”
Am I? An answer won’t leave my throat. In the end, I just nod.
“All right.” With a wary glance at me, the driver presses on.
The car barely travels a few feet before unknown faces press against the windows of the taxi. Cameras flash as pounding fists and shouting voices demand answers.
“Do you know Blake Lorenz?”
“I think it’s her!”
“Ms. Hollings! Ms. Hollings!”
Thankfully, the wrought-iron gates barring the road part as if on cue, and the driver fearlessly peels through them. Far too soon, the sprawling manor house looms on the horizon. The chaos hasn’t reached here, at least. Imposing and dark, the house looks more untouched than it did two months ago.
After paying the fare with what little cash I have on me, I cautiously approach the front door and lift the lion-shaped door knocker. No one responds to the first knock though. Uneasy for reasons I can’t explain, I switch to knocking with my fists.
Still no answer.
So I try again, pounding. Banging.
Words meld into my attempts before I can bite them back. “Blake? Blake, please—”
A lock disengages, and the door opens so quickly that my fist meets air. Momentum draws me forward, right into the body of a figure who palms my waist, effortlessly righting my balance.
“I’m surprised you’re here.”
I look up, inhaling sharply. He’s paler than I’ve seen him yet, outlasting the dark. Mussed hair and reddened eyes betray the depth of his exhaustion. His expression, however, reveals nothing. No anger. No shock, either.
“Come to see for yourself?” He steps back and pauses as if giving me the chance to run.
I should. God knows why I inch forward instead, allowing him to close the door behind me, which drenches us in shadow.
He hasn’t lightened his decor any. The house remains dark, but before where his servant, Charles, added at least the illusion of a lived-in dwelling, I now sense only silence. He’s alone.
Why that thought makes my heart pound harder? I don’t know.
“What are you doing here, Snow?”
“I didn’t…” My voice thickens and I swallow hard to strengthen it. “The recordings. I didn’t release them. I swear—”
“There’s no need to waste your breath,” he says.
My heart sinks. This was a mistake. Stung, I start for the door, but his hand brushes my arm, drawing me back.
“Wait. I… I believe you.”
�
�Y-you do?” I blink, unable to recognize the stranger watching me, devoid of hate and rage. God, he looks so damn tired.
Even his lips seem to have barely enough energy to twitch into a frown. “There are other ways you could hurt me, Snow.”
How so? By revealing his true identity?
Hooded eyes reveal no answers. Instead, he turns on his heel and wanders deeper into the house. “But maybe now we can talk, at least.”
Talk? I follow him despite my better judgment, keeping enough of a distance that he’s beyond my reach. I examine him visually instead.
His clothing is wrinkled, a suit that looks more than a day old. His hair has been ruthlessly ravaged by his raking fingers. The disheveled air is such a far cry from the cold, polished man I know him as, and I’m drawn closer by a dangerous step. A single brush of my hand along his forearm reveals crackling tension trapped beneath his skin. I try to pull away, but he turns, grabbing my wrist. One tug lures me closer as his free hand captures my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. With surprising tenderness, he tilts my face toward his.
“I’m ruined, Snow,” he murmurs as if marveling at the term. “I bet you and your brothers are ecstatic. You always did love a bit of poetic irony. I’ve burned your name to elevate mine, and now look at us both—”
“Don’t say that.” My heart aches, more so because of cruel memory. Poetic irony. It’s something Brandt would say. I shake my head to clear it, desperate to stay on topic. “I’m not here to gloat. I just… What can I do?”
Helping him should be the least of my worries. In fact, given everything he’s done, I have more than enough reason to hate him. If only my heart knew that too. I look at him and try to only see Blake Lorenz. I try.
But his eyes—the brief glimpse of them I catch from behind a wayward lock of his hair—draw a different answer to my lips.
“A press conference,” I find myself proposing. “I could say something. Say that my words were misconstrued—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “That wouldn’t work.”
“Then what?” I grit my teeth, desperate to do something. Anything.
“There is something…” He turns away as if repulsed by the idea before he’s even voiced it. “We’d need to be seen.” When I say nothing, his eyes cut to mine, brimming with intensity. “We’d have to convince them that I never hurt you. Or,” he adds as if sensing the memories playing on the fringes of my thoughts, “we’d convince them that you’ve forgiven me.”
Forgiven. I stare blankly ahead as my mind spins with the term. After all he’s done to me, can I afford such a luxury?
“I’d have to be seen with you,” he reiterates. “Could you do it?”
A better question is: Can he after all I’ve done to him? The man who can’t seem to look at me without baring his teeth in hatred. Could he set that aside, if only to clear his name?
Lost in thought, I gaze out a nearby window. A drab, gray sky promises a storm. I sense it hovering on the horizon, waiting to break. Every fiber of my being tells me to leave now. Avoid the tempest. Run. But, when I glance over and meet his gaze, something in me shifts. He looks so human in this moment, almost like a stranger. Someone older than Brandt yet softer than Blake. Someone vulnerable.
I nod. “Y-yes. I think I can try.”
His jaw tightens, highlighting the gauntness of his features. “Good. I know it won’t be easy.”
“It won’t be,” I agree. Swallowing hard, I square my chin. “Which is why I want something in return.”
He stiffens. “What?”
“You allow my brothers onto the board when your position is secure.” I pause, but he doesn’t shout or deny me outright. Odd. Inhaling deeply, I soldier on. “You can hate me all you want, but don’t punish them. Please.”
“Damn it… I don’t hate you.” He tears a hand through his hair as if grappling with that admission the same way I am.
My shoulders slump beneath a sudden sense of weightlessness, and I’m forced to cling to the wall for balance.
“Maybe I never did. Maybe…” He sighs, his teeth gritted, and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Fine. But, in exchange, I want something from you as well.”
“What?” A part of me suspects the answer even before he directs a searching glance in my direction.
“A single night won’t be enough. Not to convince everyone. You once promised me an entire year…”
“No.” Horror robs my voice of any strength. The protest just resonates as a formless whisper. I cringe beneath the assault of memories: the pain, the humiliation, the shame. The sex. The nights that still leave me jolting awake, gasping at their intensity. I barely lasted a month of our previous arrangement.
“It wouldn’t be like before,” he says, his tone hard. “I won’t… We’d just have to convince them in public. You’d still have your freedom, Snow.”
Freedom. My breath catches at how valuable he makes that word sound. As if it’s the world’s most coveted possession. He’s offering it to me willingly. I’d be a fool to turn him down. I sense all of those sentiments in everything he doesn’t say.
But then there is the small matter of what he has said. I hate you, Snow. I’ll break you, Snow. I own you, Snow. Did you really think I’d let you keep it?
“I want it in writing.”
He inhales sharply, betraying his irritation at the ultimatum. So used to holding the cards, he can’t stand to let one slip out of play. “I’ll write you a check,” he says, palming the pocket of his slacks as if he intends to do just that. “How is that for binding?”
“For how much?” I blurt before I can help myself. A heartbeat later, I add, “Nothing you say is binding.”
Lightning-fast anger flickers across his face, disappearing almost as quickly. “Well, considering that you are the one in control of the situation…”
He waits while I process just what he means.
I can make my own demands.
“I want it in writing,” I reiterate. “You guarantee my brothers a spot on the board. And—”
“What else?” he prompts. “Make your demands.”
“I want full control over what I wear,” I say in a rush. “How I dress. How I act. You demand nothing.”
No illicit commands. No demeaning acts. No taunts or vicious games revolving around my weight.
He processes my words coldly, his frown unnerving. “And if I refuse?”
Then so do I. The words spring to the tip of my tongue, but I fail to voice them. On the surface, I could leave him to ruin. But my brothers and I would be no better off. Sure, Blake could be removed from the board, but there is no guarantee that the remaining members would choose to reinstate a Hollings in his place. I’d still be a pauper with no money to my name, and he’d have no reason to bargain. With one expert twist, he’s proven to be a calculating businessman. I have no choice but to play this game at least partially by his rules.
A satisfied gleam settles in his gaze as if he’s aware of every thought twisting through my head. “I suggest you meet me halfway,” he says. “A better arrangement for both parties.”
“And what do you want?” I lick my lips in anticipation of the answer.
“Don’t look so worried.” It’s an admonishment, not a taunt. “I won’t have you do anything you don’t want to. I simply need…assurance.”
“Oh?”
“Of your safety.” He’s worried. For me? “Do you really think some lax hotel suite can protect you from a man like Lyle Harlow?”
I stiffen at the reference. All this time, I’ve fought to put my minor indiscretion out of my mind. As long as I didn’t think about it, the danger didn’t seem to matter. How fucking naïve.
But I won’t have Blake Lorenz be the one to remind me of that foolishness.
“Then what do you suggest?” I counter. “That I stay with you?”
What I intend to be a cruel joke lands to a startling silence. Only a second passes before I realize that, yes, that’s exactly what
he intends. At least he has the decency not to say as much out loud. Instead, he raises an eyebrow and his mouth twitches as if fighting to keep from twisting into a frown.
“Would it really be so unbearable?” he wonders. “You’d be safer with me.”
“Safe?” I rasp the word, but even I have enough tact not to mention the obvious.
How safe was I the night he set my home on fire with us inside it? How safe was I every night he tormented me with cruel insinuations or threats of physical violence? How safe am I here, with him now?
I hunt his eyes for an answer but find nothing but shadow. He’s more alarming like this than he is raging with fury. At least then I know what to expect.
“The choice is up to you,” he says on the cusp of a sigh. He even has the nerve to shrug—but I know him, this strange, vengeful creature he’s become.
My heart lurches at the thought of just what he could have in store. There are so many corridors here for him to chase me around. So many rooms to hunt me in. So many chances to finish what he started.
“We wouldn’t stay here.” He scowls at the hallway’s enclosed interior. “I own a penthouse downtown. It’s centrally located. You can continue your affairs from there.”
My affairs? I suspect he’s referring to Haven. Good. I force myself to add, “I’d also like you to make a regular donation—”
“Done,” he says, cutting me off. “But I want you to suggest to Riley Haverty that I become a primary benefactor.”
I choke on any smugness I may have felt for leveraging Haven against him. “W-why?”
He shrugs again, turning to stare out the window. “You’re not the only one with crusades. Riley Haverty is a shrewd businesswoman, but she’s very wary of her contacts—for good reason.”
“And, now, given the current news cycle, she wouldn’t consult with you in a million years,” I surmise.
“Something like that.”
“Fine.” It feels so strange to speak in such businesslike terms. I never was a part of the corporate world like my brothers. I never wanted to be. How ironic that I’ve been forced overnight to learn the ways of the boardroom, but they’re applied in secret with a man who makes me tremble. I’d laugh if the prospect weren’t so utterly pathetic. “So, what now?”