Consummate Ruin (Dark Acquisitions #1)

Chapter 1

One

Vicky

“Change of plans, Vicky. I’ll be home by ten. Why don’t you eat, take a bath, and we can…”

Alex trails off suggestively, and despite myself, I react to his words. His voice. The tone he uses.

I bite at my lip, switching my phone to my other ear, and eye my three suitcases lined up in the hallway.

“Still there?” he prompts when I don’t reply.

“Uh…” I close my eyes in a silent wince. “…sure.” Just like that, I’ve agreed.

“Great.” That one word pulls at me, low. His smooth, rounded voice, a little deeper with the promise of lust. I hate that it works its magic, even now. “Then I’ll see you in two hours.”

The line clicks dead.

I let my phone fall from my ear and sit on the staircase, the third step up, the marble hard and cold through my slacks. Still staring at the suitcases.

He’d promised he’d be home by seven. Our Beef Wellington lies half-cooked and abandoned in the oven, the smells no longer filling the air. I’d turned it off when he’d called to tell me it would be eight, not seven.

That was when I’d packed—which I should’ve done weeks ago.

And now ten, not eight, my suitcases ready by the door.

Neither of the times we’d spoken had he said those three little words I’d hoped I’d hear, but was secretly reconciled that I wouldn’t: Happy Birthday, Vicky.

Twenty-eight today, and he still can’t show up.

This would be a good moment to tell myself I’m not weak. Maybe to reassure myself that this time will be different. To allow, for two hours at least, hope to rekindle.

But I’m not sure I can.

And now I have to go and take a bath. Get naked. Get wet. Anticipate him.

That used to work. Damn him if it still doesn’t. Even though I fully expect him not to be here when he says he will.

It doesn’t help that I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Four weeks? Five?

In the beginning, it had been all the time. Every day, if not twice a day. In every room of this stupidly large Westchester house. Alex’s house. But the gloss had worn off fast, and his solution? To propose.

Like an idiot, I’d said yes.

I’d been in love with him, after all. Still am, damn it.

I twiddle my engagement ring on my finger, a habit I’d developed only too quickly. It’s seven months old, the shine not yet rubbed off. The stone catches the light from the chandelier, mesmerizing, and if I look close, there’ll be little rainbows. It’s an indecently large rock.

With a sigh, I push myself up, eyeing the suitcases. I can’t bring myself to unpack, not when I’ll have to just put it all back in again, two hours from now. Or worse, be caught in the midst of it when he finally comes home three hours from now.

If at all. This late, he usually sleeps in his Manhattan apartment instead of driving back here. He probably will again; if I’m honest, I’m a little surprised he’s still talking about coming home. It’s not like he’s remembered.

Against the remote chance I’m wrong, I shove my cases in the bottom of the hall closet, manhandle his golf clubs in front, and let the coats drape over them. It might pass a cursory inspection if he’s in a rush when he comes in. I won’t hold my breath.

Then I pull his Brioni overcoat off its hanger and throw it over the top, taking a sadistic pleasure in badly treating that much cashmere.

That done, I close the closet doors, lean my head against them, and scoff. At myself.

Why the hell aren’t I just leaving?

It’s not the money. I’ve never felt comfortable with that anyway. We have our own accounts—thank God—and a joint account that’s really just a slush fund. He pays into it, I don’t, and he likes that.

“It’s all our money,” he tells me with a little smile and a passive-aggressive reminder that it is not, in fact, any of mine. “Buy what you want. Can’t have my fiancée wearing anything but the best, can I?”

I have to hand it to Alex: he’s very, very good at making money.

But I’d trade all of it—the house, the cars, the walk-in wardrobe with designer brands, more shoes than even I could ever wear—for one night where he actually shows up.

It’s Alex I want, not what he buys.

I laugh, the bitter sound echoing through our empty house. His empty house.

Should’ve gone out with Carol and the girls when she’d suggested it. But no, Alex had wanted to stay in. I was enthused. A whole evening, together? I couldn’t remember the last time. Best birthday present in… forever.

I walk upstairs, feet heavy on the steps, and pause in the bedroom.

The bed is made with black silk sheets. The brass clock on the mantelpiece reads eight-twenty.

An hour and forty before he gets home. And even though I know he’ll only find another excuse not to be here, I still go through the motions.

Read my romance story for a bit, not really taking in the words and skimming to the sex scenes, because that’s psychologically safe—this author is pretty crap at bringing emotion into the bedroom.

After a while, I get the bath running. Pour in a generous helping of the Hermès bath salts he bought me for Christmas—that date’s a little harder to forget. Smooth the creases I made on the bed. Set aside lingerie I bought two months ago. He hasn’t seen it yet.

And I soak.

Time passes. Through the open doorway, the clock ticks inexorably on toward ten.

Do I really think he’ll arrive, as if by magic, the moment the hour strikes? Can I persuade myself this night is somehow different from any other of the last three… four… five months?

No.

But what if he does? What if, this time, he delivers on what he promised?

I can’t help the way my body tilts toward the idea of him.

The thought of his hands on me, his tongue, his cock.

The strength of his arms as they wrap around me while I ride him, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

His eyes, that particular gold-rimmed hazel I’ve lost myself in, time and time again.

I’m certain I fell in love with his eyes before I fell in love with him.

My fist strikes the surface of the water in frustration, splashing my face. It jolts me.

I’m dreaming. I know I am.

Why am I still here? Why am I still torturing myself?

I’m more than a trophy wife-to-be for a man who forgets I exist half the time.

I have my own life, damn it. My own career, my own goals, my own fledgling PI firm.

Yet even that I partly owe to Alex’s seed money.

Leaving the safety of a corporate position and striking out alone had been tougher than I’d thought.

Hard to find clients, even with my reputation.

And if I walk away from Alex now, I have to assume he’ll take his money out of my firm.

But that is fear talking. I’ve been over this.

I can make it work. I will make it work, with or without Alex’s support.

I’m a damn good PI. I have a couple of occasional clients whose networks could really open doors for me.

I just need to land something regular—a law firm, a corporate retainer.

It’s there. I know it is. But will I find a client before the money runs out?

Grow a spine, Vicky.

Water splashes onto the floor as I reach for my phone, scrolling my contacts with a wet fingertip. The screen doesn’t like it; it’s slow to obey. Hit the button. It rings twice before it’s answered.

“Hey! What time are you getting here?” Carol’s voice carries that soft sympathetic tone people use at funerals and when their best friends prematurely end their engagements.

I glance at the clock. In twenty-two minutes, I’ll know one way or the other. “I’ve been a bit delayed. Is it okay if I arrive after eleven? Not too late?”

“That’s fine, girlfriend. Will you have eaten? I have a birthday cake, but if you want…?”

“No…” I grimace, grateful she can’t see.

If only one person remembers my birthday, I wish to God it was someone else.

And now I feel guilty for what I’m about to say.

“Uh… there’s a very small chance I won’t be coming at all.

So if I’m not there by eleven-thirty, don’t wait up, and we’ll do cake tomorrow? ”

A pregnant pause on the line. When she speaks, it’s with forced joviality. “Absolutely. You do what you need to. I’m here either way.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Later, then. Or not. Take care.”

I end the call, setting my phone back down on the ledge of the bath.

That’s a good friend, right there. She wants to smack me upside the head, tell me I’m being an idiot, and she’d be well within her rights. But she doesn’t.

Strangely, the fact that she didn’t try to save me from myself makes it more obvious that I need saving. That’s the shove I needed. Not to see this evening through, but to do what I should’ve done in the first place.

Five months ago.

I climb out of the bath, sloshing water in my abruptness, towel-drying with a vigorousness born half of purpose, half of self-loathing. Fling the towel onto the rail and don’t much care that it slips off.

Walking back into the bedroom, I ignore the lingerie I’ve laid out. It can stay there; maybe he’ll realize what he missed when he sees it. Instead, I pull on clean jeans, a strappy top, and a sweater against the cold. Hair still damp against my shoulders. Slip back into my Jimmy Choos.

Maybe I should write him a note. I take a piece of paper from the printer tray in his study, pick up a pen, and carry them both back into the bedroom. It’s six minutes to ten, and I spend two of those staring at the blank page.

Then I tug the engagement ring from my finger, set the sheet in the center of the bed, stark white on black, and place the ring on it. As messages go, it’s concise.

And as unemotional as his proposal, seven months prior. “You’ll marry me,” he said, as he produced that ring. Not down on one knee, not phrased as a question. A statement of fact, a foregone conclusion.

Alarm bells back then? No, because I was in love with the man. I was happy.

It takes me three minutes to get my suitcases out of the hall closet, because his damn golf clubs are so heavy. His Brioni overcoat I leave on the floor, because I just don’t care anymore.

One minute.

I take a slow breath and let it out. Pick up my car keys. It’ll take me two minutes to get the cases loaded. Am I being generous, giving him every second I can, or do I secretly want him to arrive at the last moment?

His car still hasn’t pulled into the drive by five past ten, and I’m sitting behind the wheel.

I start the engine, staring at the automatic gates, willing them to open.

What will I do if he drives in now? What will he do if he finds me sitting here, with my ring on the bed and his coat on the floor?

I realize, with a shock, that I’ve never seen him angry. Just one more emotion that he hasn’t seen fit to share with me.

No passion. That’s the problem. There used to be; where has it gone?

I shift into drive and the car edges forward. The gates open, but not because his car is coming in. Mine is going out.

And to my surprise, the tightness in my chest fades. This feels like freedom, even if it’s bittersweet.

So long, Alexander Reyes.