by Lana Sky
“Now…”
I stiffen as his footsteps grace the wood in tandem, drifting in my direction. Warmth alludes to the hand he brushes against my shoulder. Gently, as if he’s aware I’ll cringe from his reach. A part of me doesn’t mean to. But my reactions to him are based on pure instinct. Muscle memory. I cringe. I shiver. I endure.
Surprisingly, he lets me scuttle away to a distant end of the hall. After a heartbeat of silence, he advances just a single step—to reinforce his presence, I suspect. He may pretend that I hold the cards, but there’s no illusion here; he still runs the game.
“Now, we make our first move,” he says, suddenly switching to a tone that reminds me of Papa. Calculating. “The world will be watching, demanding answers. I say we circumvent them. We take our ‘relationship’ public for a quiet night on the town, as if the rumors mean nothing.”
I frown at the imagery. Only he would propose such a thing—someone with a wealth of confidence who has never been the butt of a cruel joke. Though maybe he has. I keep forgetting the truth behind his current persona. The differences between him and the boy he used to be are so vast that it’s easy to forget they were the same person once. My beautiful Brandt Lloyd whose world I plunged into hell.
“Okay,” I say thickly. “Just how do we do that?” I look over my shoulder and find him staring pensively into the air, stroking his chin with the pad of his thumb.
“I have an idea in mind. Leave the arrangements to me.”
“I thought we”—I stress the word—“were in this together.”
“We are.” He sounds surprised by my doubt. “But just…just let me take the lead just this once. I promise to consult you from then on.”
I find myself gritting my teeth, anxious at the thought. In the end, I don’t have much of a choice. “What am I supposed to do?”
He smiles, but there’s no joy in it. His eyes remain distant, focused on something far beyond me. “In the meantime, you play the part,” he says. “It’s best if you get dressed here, however, given the current circumstances.”
A part of me agrees, unwilling to cross the horde of paparazzi alone. “But,” I start, “I don’t have any clothing here.”
Somehow, I know even before I see the slight tilt of his chin that he’s one step ahead, like always.
“I have a few things that may be in your size,” he says softly. “They’re upstairs. First door on the left.”
Things of his sister’s? Another woman’s? I don’t have the nerve to ask. Instead, I jump at the chance to escape him, even if it’s just by a few yards.
The upper level of his home is no less intimidating than the entrance. Shadows drape the winding hallway, and most of the doors are closed, including the one he directed me to. I open it warily as my stomach knots at the thought of what may lurk behind it.
Once I finally peer inside the room, a gasp escapes my throat. Someone unloaded racks and racks of designer clothing into what must have been a guest room.
All are mine. The shoes stacked neatly on the floor are mine. In fact, the longer I stare, the more I recognize every item from my old room at Hollings Manor.
My dressers.
My vanity.
My old mirror.
So this is where he kept them.
I don’t know if I’d prefer he’d thrown it all away. This wardrobe belongs to a stranger, one who prioritized beauty over compassion or common sense. She lived her life looking only to sparkle, heedless of the damage she left in her wake.
I don’t know who I’ve become in the few short months since having this persona stripped away.
Drawing in a ragged breath, I step into the guest room and close the door. After a moment’s pause, I lock it. Then I wander from each rack of clothing, surveying my options. So many things to choose from, yet none of them catch my eye. In the end, I select a modest navy ensemble with a high neckline and long sleeves. I suspect, even before I strip my outfit and pull it on, that it isn’t what Blake Lorenz had in mind when he ordered me to play my role.
He wanted Snowy Hollings, the charming socialite. But it’s getting harder and harder to be her.
Sure enough, when I finally creep from the room and approach the staircase, I find him watching me from the bottom step. His expression reveals nothing. Neither do his eyes as they perform a slow perusal of the body-hugging yet simple dress. Finally, he nods as if to convey: As you wish.
“I made us a reservation,” he says.
Only now do I realize that he’s changed as well, into a simple black suit with a crimson tie. We don’t match in the slightest, a fact that lingers at the back of my mind. He’s dressed to kill, while I’m…
I’m dressed like prey who’s already been savaged.
“Wait.” I turn on my heel, leaving him in the foyer.
Upon returning to the blue room, I head straight to a rack I initially overlooked. Hanging near the very back is a gown I once purchased with one sole purpose in mind: capture my ex-fiancé, Daniel Ellingston. We needed the money, and like the perfect tool, Hunter put me to the task. I did my duty well enough that within one meeting I’d already secured a date and a slew of roses hand-delivered to my home the following day. Now, it’s merely a befitting piece of armor to wear into this new war. Blake Lorenz doesn’t own me—not anymore.
This time, I dress slowly, ensuring that every curve is accented perfectly by silk and lace. I find an adjacent bathroom and arrange my hair around my shoulders. Left with no makeup, I pinch color into my cheeks and bite my lips until they redden. With one last glance at myself, I return to the front of the house.
Observing the man watching my descent, I know I’ve done my duty well. He clutches the banister so tightly that his knuckles whiten. Damn. I’m not sure if he truly grates the word between his teeth or if I imagine it. Either way, his blue-eyed gaze hunts me with every inch of space I cover between us. When I finally reach his side, I shiver before he even attempts to bring his hand against my lower back.
“Not here,” I croak, loathing the fear I can’t contain. Not here, alone, where his nearness grates on what little composure I have left.
Without a word, he approaches the front door and opens it, revealing a car already idling in the driveway. A single nod ushers me after him and into our first battle.
Chapter 6
I can taste the tension on my tongue as the car starts down the driveway, approaching the reporters gathered at the front gate. Once more, eager faces press against the windows, fighting for a glimpse beyond the tinted glass.
“You get used to being a public spectacle,” Blake explains, eyeing my trembling hands. “Show them fear and they become relentless.”
A hard swallow contorts my throat. “I remember.”
Admittedly, my father’s legal team kept the worst of the reporters at bay back then, but the boy I accused of the unthinkable wasn’t so lucky. No wonder he seems so unaffected by the chaos around him now.
“We’ll have dinner,” he says as if sensing the direction my thoughts have taken. Obsessive control is perhaps the one trait of Brandt’s he still possesses, only magnified times a million. I sense the chains of his plan wrapping around me, tethering me to an unknown outcome. “Then I’ll have your things brought to the penthouse.”
I don’t miss how he avoids the defining nature of said penthouse: his penthouse.
“That’s not necessary.” A night tops. That’s how much I’ll give him. A night spent awake, hoping my brothers don’t beat their way inside with their bare fists—or with the aid of a SWAT team. Speaking of Ronan and Hunter… “My brothers want your blood, you do realize.” And for a good reason. “How am I supposed to convince them that we are not only reconciled, but cordial? They think—”
“Leave it to me,” he says. I’m alarmed by just how confident he sounds, though at a glance, his expression reveals nothing. “And I will go ahead with having your things moved. Unless you’ve decided to purchase new clothing.”
“Shopping
hasn’t been my focus as of late,” I admit. “And I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“Don’t fight me on this.” There’s no anger in his tone, a fact that only unnerves me. He sounds so damn serious. As if, somewhere beneath that frosty exterior, he may give a damn about me.
Or maybe it’s his image. If I get murdered by Lyle Harlow, he’ll be the one suspicion falls upon first.
“You really think I should stay with you?” I find myself asking.
A harsh exhale escapes his clenched teeth. I look over and find his hands tightening into fists only to suddenly unfurl and settle over his lap.
“I’ll let you decide that for yourself after tonight.”
The offer feels less like a show of faith and more like an ominous dare. Still, I say nothing during the rest of the trek into the heart of Mayfield.
By “handle things,” it quickly becomes apparent that Blake meant “ensure that the world knows exactly where to find us.”
Our destination is visible from blocks away due to the paparazzi stationed at the building’s entrance. I vaguely recognize the restaurant as one of the most premier establishments in town. Blake Lorenz must still carry enough sway, even while disgraced, to command a table here. Especially now.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Blake assures me as the driver cuts through the calamity to bring us as close to the restaurant’s entrance as possible.
How he knows as much, I don’t dare ask. Instead, I fidget, tugging at my gown, suddenly aware of its low neckline. What an affront to anyone who’d dare pity me as a victim I make: stepping out with my supposed abuser, wearing the dress of a foolish socialite as if oblivious to scandal. Perhaps that’s why Blake seems so satisfied by the costume change.
As the driver parks and circles around to his end, he reaches for me, but I flinch out of his range.
“I’m fine.”
His low sigh cuts the air, resonating restraint. “Appearances, Snow,” he says simply.
Left with no choice, I force my hand against his, and he grips it tight. Then, together, we exit the car to a myriad of shouted questions and statements.
“Ms. Hollings! Is it true that you…”
“Is it true that he…”
“Mr. Lorenz, are you a predator?”
To his credit, the man weathers it all with barely a frown to show for it, but he tightens his grip, ruthlessly steering me forward as strangers crowd in.
“No one will harm you,” he swears.
Almost as if on cue, imposing men in suits swarm from nowhere to flank us on four sides, keeping the crowd at bay. He wasn’t lying about being prepared.
I can’t escape the suspicion that he’s planned everything, down to ensuring that a restaurant employee would usher us inside while firmly keeping all others out.
“Reservation only,” he mutters.
Together, we enter a partially deserted dining room filled with just a few couples who barely look up from their elegant meals. Odd. Even the poshest of socialites I know can’t resist the obvious allure of a scandal. Unless, of course, they weren’t socialites at all.
Confused, I glance at Blake from the corner of my eye as he leads me to a table in the room’s very center. Draped in an ivory tablecloth, it serves as the perfect stage for a couple’s intimate dinner.
“Why do I get the feeling that nothing in this room is authentic?” I ask in a fitting stage-whisper.
He shrugs before gesturing to the waiter approaching us with a bottle of wine. “That’s because it isn’t. The other diners are actors and the waiter is in my employ.”
“Are you serious?”
He raises an eyebrow, but I can’t tell if he’s amused or joking. “Have a seat.”
Resigned, I claim the chair he’s pulled out for me and watch him circle the table. Seated, he towers over the elegant table setting—a baron lording over this room and all inside it.
“I thought we were supposed to be convincing?”
A slight quirk tilts his lips. Just as quickly, he’s blank again, eyeing me as the waiter fills two crystal glasses with wine. “That will come later. Trust me.”
I swallow hard. “Fine. And in the meantime?”
He nods to our empty place settings. “Try to relax.”
It’s like he’s in my head, sensing the nerves I can’t suppress.
I cast a wary glance around the room, taking in its muted but chic color scheme of black and silver. Last I heard, most had to wait on the guest list for months to earn a table here. Barely a few months in Mayfield and Blake Lorenz has already scored the chef’s table.
“You came back.” I clear my throat, unsure of how else to phrase it. Came back. As if he ever had a choice in leaving. “How… Your sentence. They told me that you…”
He reaches across the table for the wrapped silverware in front of me and effortlessly unfurls the white napkin from the utensils. Without prompting, he sets my fork and knife on either side of my plate. Then he flicks the napkin into the air but stops short of placing it on my lap for me. Instead, he sets it aside and withdraws to his end of the table.
“It’s complicated,” he says carefully. I don’t miss how he reaches up to adjust his tie, a rare display of unease. “I’d rather not discuss it here.”
“Oh.” Am I disappointed? Or was I so foolish to suspect he might feel obligated to tell me something about his past? A gap of ten years separates who we are now from the children we used to be. I’d give anything for at least a glimpse at what the darkness in his gaze shrouds—if only to know how to better protect myself against it. “How can you even sit there?” I wonder, a blunter way of phrasing: I thought you hated me. Despised me, even.
His mouth twists into a wry frown. “I’ll let you know the answer when I figure it out myself.”
Fair enough. At least it’s not a lie: I forgive you. “So…” I clear my throat, hunting for a change in conversation. “You have a sister?”
His fleeting frown warns me of yet another topic determined to be off-limits. “I’ve had them cook your favorites,” he says rather than mention Masha.
I turn and find a waiter carrying two meals on a tray. The first is a modest steak adorned with grilled vegetables. On the other is a small pile of pasta primavera paired with a toasted piece of French bread. A small slice of strawberry shortcake accompanies it.
“You remembered,” I say thickly. “Thank you. But I’m not hungry.”
Something unreadable darkens his expression. When I don’t touch my food, he doesn’t reach for his, either. We’re at an impasse, watching each other from above steaming plates.
“You’re afraid to eat in front of me,” he says suddenly.
My cheeks flush, and I shake my head. It’s like I still hear him hissing into my ear: He hated you, not because you were disgusting.
“For what it’s worth…I apologize now for—”
“We can discuss it later,” I blurt. Only belatedly do I realize that I’ve just thrown his own words right back in his face.
His eyebrows rise slightly as a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Little Snow, always so manipulative.” Suddenly, he pushes back from the table and begins to unfurl his silverware. “Ask me what you wish as you enjoy your meal. Our ‘dinner’ won’t seem convincing if you don’t eat.”
Ah. I don’t dare question the tit for tat. My stomach churns at the thought of eating now, of all times. But I’ll do anything for answers. Slowly, I break off a piece of bread and bring it to my lips. “Blake Lorenz,” I say before taking a bite. After swallowing, I add, “Who was he?”
“My real father,” he says. His fingers manipulate his bundle of silverware. Within seconds, he has the utensils free and the napkin folded neatly on his lap. “He was a prominent businessman in Germany. My mother must have had the affair before she married Harrison Lloyd. After my conviction, she contacted him. He used his influence to have ‘Blake Lorenz’ enrolled in the facility as my cellmate. Not long after, ‘Brandt Lloyd’ committed suic
ide and Blake was released on a technicality. His only stipulation was that I leave my life in America behind.”
“So you moved to Germany.” It’s not hard to picture him then, maneuvering the foreign landscape. He was always adept at mastering most social situations.
“I kept abreast of what happened in Mayfield,” he says. “I knew when my mother died, and Harrison Lloyd. And Elizabeth…”
My mother. A woman I’m starting to realize he knew better than I ever did. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”
He cuts his gaze down to my plate. Reluctantly, I scrape a bit of noodle onto my fork and take a bite.
“Would you have believed me?” he counters as I swallow. “I hated Harrison Lloyd. Your world revolved around Forrest Hollings.”
And, in a way, it still does. Papa rules our entire lives from the grave, dictating our one worth—as a Hollings always. I wonder now for the first time if he ever suspected the truth. Perhaps knowing I wasn’t his child made it easier for him to hurt me…
“Snow?”
“Hmm?” I blink back tears, looking up. He’s watching me, and I’m not brave enough to wonder for how long. “My mother. You always knew about her affair?” I ask while stabbing at another piece of food.
“For years,” he admits. “And I didn’t tell you about her for obvious reasons.”
If my life revolved around Forrest, then it was balanced upon Elizabeth. Thinking of her in anything less than a flattering light stings. All of those memories feel tainted by the awful truth. She lied to me. Even worse, through me; she ruined Brandt irreparably.
“I would have never given her my letters,” I admit around a lump in my throat. “If I had known, I would have—”
“I know.” He grabs his knife and carves a slice from his steak. It’s rare inside, leaving a pinkish smear of fluid across the plate. “It won’t be easy, but… I’m trying to put that in the past.”
But can we? I can’t stop my fingers from tracing the right side of my face, the scar still healing there. His eyes catch the motion, and the knife rattles to the table. Suddenly, his hand cups mine.