Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Stella
H e holds me all night. He doesn’t ask if I want to have sex, content to cuddle me and smooth my hair.
I tell him stories about some of the foster homes I stayed in, tell him about Quinn, and share my visit with her while we lay in the dark in his huge bed. I almost didn’t stay the night, but after the day we had, going home sounded lonely, and it didn’t take much of Zane’s persuading to get me to give in.
We’re naked, but he’s soft against me. He’s in the mood to talk, quiet, and I like this side of him.
“You have a few friends from your past then.” Zane lays on his side facing me, and I do the same. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I devour the planes of his face.
“Not many. It’s not like living in the same house all your life, going to the same schools and growing up with the same people, then when you’re adults, friending each other on social media and going out on the weekends. Do you have a lot of childhood friends?”
“Not many besides Ash.”
Zane mentions his name, and a chill runs down my back. I’ll never like him, and I bet the feeling is mutual.
“I’ll introduce you to some of them at the party.”
He sighs, and it reminds me of the pressure he’s under. Visiting a petting zoo isn’t going to make all of his problems disappear, but maybe if I can help him relax sometimes, that will help.
“Have you heard any news about the crash?” There’s no way I’ll mention what Quinn said to Zane. The FBI is looking into it, and if his parents really were involved in something nasty, they’ll find out.
“No. I’m going to hire a private investigator. They can bend the rules and cut through red tape the FBI can’t.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It will be, but if they can find something, it’ll be worth it. It’s been six months, and the FBI can’t even tell me the full list of the passengers on the plane.”
Quinn’s suspicions suddenly ring true. Maybe the FBI has nothing to offer because they aren’t looking.
I cup his cheek, his stubble scratching my skin. “You should get some sleep.”
Zane turns his head and kisses my palm. “Goodnight, Stella. Thank you for an amazing day.”
“Anytime.”
His eyes close.
The next thing I know, the sun is shining, and Zane’s snoring lightly beside me.
I have to pee so badly I could burst, and I carefully roll out of bed as not to wake him. He needs his sleep. He didn’t have any nightmares last night, and I’m grateful. His parents’ deaths won’t be anything he’ll ever forget, but if I can give him someone to talk to and lessen the pain, I’ll listen to him for the rest of my life.
I go to the bathroom and pause near the bed. I want to get dressed, but I don’t want to put on my sweater dress. I pull his dress shirt off the floor and find my panties under his crumpled pair of pants. I need coffee, and I bless Lucille who is already downstairs in the kitchen. A weekend morning talk show is playing on the TV, and she’s stirring batter.
“Good morning,” I say shyly. Zane told me a little about her, and just from that, I know she’s very protective of him and Zarah.
She glances at me and notices Zane’s dress shirt. A smile tugs at her mouth. “Good morning. Come down for coffee?”
“Thank you, yes.”
I help her fix a tray I can carry up to Zane’s room, and I lean against the island, sipping a mugful first. Lucille goes back to whipping batter, and I watch the morning news program. A local gossip segment begins, and Zarah and Ash flash on the TV.
They’re walking a red carpet, and the caption at the bottom of the screen says they attended a premier of a play. Zarah looks glamorous wearing a white dress, and her hair is pinned into a complicated twist. Silver sandals on her feet match the silver clutch she’s carrying.
The camera doesn’t give me a good view of her face, but there’s something about her...Maybe it’s just me. Because I hate Ash.
Lucille frowns. “I do not like that man,” she says, taking her aggression out on the batter. It won’t be fit to eat if she keeps it up.
“I don’t blame you there,” I mumble, my lips pressed against the rim of my coffee mug.
Ash looks slick in his tux, not a hair out of place. His posture is rigid, and he lays a possessive hand on Zarah’s lower back. Together they look like royalty, and the cameras love them. As a couple, they’ll be the darlings of King’s Crossing.
I lift the tray off the island, sick of watching Ash, but the gossip segment moves on and Zane and I flash on the screen. I bobble the tray, and with the help of Lucille’s quick reflexes, I set it back onto the counter.
Pictures of Zane and me petting animals and picking out pumpkins flash in a slow montage. A short video clip credited to an outside source shows Zane laughing hysterically while a baby goat eats pellets off his palm. His rich voice fills the kitchen.
The difference between Ash and Zarah and Zane and me is striking.
My cheeks flush, and I feel like a fool until Lucille puts an arm around my shoulders. “You’re good for him. He’s had such a terrible time since his parents passed away. You help.”
Her words do little to make me feel better. “Thank you.”
Carrying the heavy tray, I bump my way out of the kitchen, and as an afterthought as I walk through the living room on the way to the staircase, I place our sparkly gourds next to the coffee carafe.
He’s staring at the ceiling when I come in. “I thought you went home.”
“No. I have priorities.”
Zane grins. “My kind of priorities.”
I set the tray on his dresser, pour him a cup, and add cream. I’m slowly learning how he likes things, and he sips appreciatively, a low hum vibrating from his throat.
“Lucille and I were watching TV. Zarah and Ash went out last night.” I sink onto the side of the bed holding my own mug.
“I probably won’t see her all weekend, then.”
“You should text her. Ask her to meet you for dinner.”
Zane leans on an elbow and shakes his head. “Nah. She’s with Ash. She’s okay. Besides, I need to get some work done this weekend. Denton and Cramer are angry and frustrated. I have to learn faster so I can start making decisions without them. They’re different without my dad around, and I need to stay in control. I can’t let them cut me out of my own company.”
I didn’t know how serious Zane’s problems were. At twenty-five, he probably doesn’t have the insight he needs to run an international, billion-dollar business. He didn’t think he would ever need to, at least, not without Kagan Maddox’s help.
“Do you need me?” I ask, already moving aside my weekend chores to help him with work.
“Always,” he says, and I smile. “But not with anything at the office. Stella—” He stops and rubs his thumb against his coffee mug. My heart starts beating like crazy. I have no idea what he’s thinking, and it scares the hell out of me. “I know we’ve been quick, and I don’t know if you were seeing...” His voice fades, and he looks down into his half-empty coffee cup.
“I wasn’t seeing anyone.” I don’t have the free time to date much, and spending evenings this past week with Zane has made me fall behind. I have a ton of homework and laundry is piling up.
“Can I...ask you not to?” He peers at me, his eyelids hooded. His hair is deliciously mussed, his brown eyes serious, his jaw covered in scruff. He looks like he’s posing in an ad that’s selling luxury bedding.
Sexy as hell.
“You want us to be . . . together?” I ask, unsure.
“Too soon?” He notes the surprise on my face.
“No, but...you...” I don’t know how to say I thought he was a player and wouldn’t want to be with just one woman.
“I’ve been stupid, Stella. Before we met. Losing my mom and dad made me crazy. Sometimes I still can’t believe...but I don’t want you to think...I don’t want you to think I’ll act that way when we’re seeing each other. If you say you’ll be exclusive, so will I.”
I don’t like how he phrased that, and I call him on it. “But if I say no, you’ll go back to sleeping with whoever will fuck you?”
Which is practically every woman in King’s Crossing.
“No. That came out wrong. I don’t want to be like that anymore. Even if you say you want to see other people, I won’t. I just...” He flops onto his back, the coffee nearly sloshing out of his cup. “The thought of you dating someone else hurts. That’s all.”
I set our mugs on the nightstand, crawl into bed, and lie against his chest, one of my legs between his, the apex of my thighs caressing his hip.
He hugs me close, and his eyes have a teary sheen. Oh, my sweet baby. Life is so hard.
I brush his lips with mine. “I won’t see anyone else. You’re the only one I want.”
“I love you, Stella.”
It’s time to tell him. “I love you, too.”
We make love, and it feels different now that we’ve said the words to each other. There’s more meaning behind it. An added layer that wasn’t there before. He gently holds me, and I murmur words of comfort into his ear.
I love him so much, and I’ll do whatever I can to make his life easier, help him reconcile his parents’ deaths.
Zane offers a car to bring me home, but I decline, leaving him dozing, our coffee cooling on his nightstand.
I have plenty to keep me busy all weekend, and I do my chores, his words whispering through my mind and filling my heart.
Let’s go shopping!
Zarah’s text lights up my cell phone’s screen later that afternoon. I’m in the middle of doing laundry and deciding what I want to eat for dinner. Zane said he needed to work the rest of the weekend, and I planned to spend the next day and a half alone.
After seeing her and Ash on TV, I thought, like Zane had, she would be too busy to do anything else.
I accept, and we agree to meet in her building’s lobby at four o’clock.
Since I spent the morning with Zane, that doesn’t give me much time. I shower and pin up my hair. I’m assuming we’ll be shopping for dresses for the party, and I like how I look when my hair’s up. Sophisticated. Elegant.
I don’t know what to wear to shop in though, and I decide on a plain navy wrap dress and beige flats just in case we walk a lot. Wearing my black trench coat, I look cute enough, as long as no one thinks to look at the brand names of my clothes.
My sunglasses are dollar store, not Dolce and Gabbana.
I hurry up the sidewalk from the train, and Zarah’s already sitting on the steps outside her building, a notebook laying in her lap. She’s scribbling notes, and she looks normal, like she’s not a billion-dollar heiress or the girlfriend of one of the richest men in the country. I catch her eye and wave, and she waggles her pen at me. This is where the press conference is going to be held. I like the look of it. I can picture Zane standing on the top step behind a podium, a hundred microphones capturing all he has to say, his building looming majestically behind him.
He’ll hold everyone’s attention and the press will gobble up his words. I wonder who will write his speech, or if he’ll handle that himself.
“Hi.” I’m closer now, and she looks like she did on TV when Lucille and I watched her this morning. Stiff, guarded. She’s not the same bubbly girl eating cheesecake and drinking wine in her kitchen. She stands, and it’s not my imagination she winces as she straightens. “Are you okay?” I ask.
Maybe she and Ash had a workout. The first time Zane made love to me, I hurt for a couple of days, but I didn’t tell him. Ash might have gotten a little carried away. Sometimes men don’t realize how strong they are.
“Hi,” Zarah says, ignoring my question and yanking her purse strap up her arm. Sunglasses hide her eyes. I want to pull them off and look into her face, but my hands stay tucked into the pockets of my coat.
I don’t know Zarah well. I don’t know if I can call her a friend. Not just yet.
“How are you?” I ask again as we start down the sidewalk. I have no idea where we’re going and I’m at her mercy.
She pauses. “Good. Last week was so busy, and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Ash is teaching me so much.”
“I saw you on TV. You looked gorgeous last night.”
Turning toward me, she finally smiles. “Thank you. We had a lot of fun. We went to a club after that and hung out with Viola Young. She’s performing tonight and attended the same play we did.”
There is so much of what she says that can’t penetrate my brain. Zarah Maddox, a girl I’m walking next to down the sidewalk, partied with Viola Young, the hottest pop star in the world. The closest I’ve ever gotten to Viola Young is listening to her on YouTube while I do my homework.
“That’s crazy.”
Zarah giggles, and she sounds more like herself. “It really is.”
“Where’re we going?” It’s a beautiful fall day. The breeze is cool, the sky a brilliant blue, and the sun plays peekaboo behind fluffy white clouds.
“Everywhere, but let’s hit Ralph Lauren first. I made an appointment, and a personal shopper is expecting us.”
Zarah explains—and apologizes—that today we’ll be shopping off the rack. Zane’s party is too close to have something designed.
I don’t know why she’s apologizing to me. Buying off the rack is what I’ve always done, and probably what I will always do, for the rest of my life. When she invited me out, I didn’t expect anything less.
We step into the huge store, and a saleswoman descends on us immediately and won’t leave us alone for five seconds. I’m hesitant to look around. The soft fabrics call to me, and my fingers itch to touch blouse sleeves and pencil skirts, but I don’t dare. I don’t know whose money I’m spending and I can’t allow myself to like anything. If I buy work outfits, is that going on my expense account? I didn’t think to bring my ID badge.
Is Zane buying me a dress to wear to the party? Or is Zarah?
No matter how I look at it, the Maddoxes will be paying for anything I want to wear because I can’t afford to even use the bathroom in this store.
Zarah shows me lace ballgown hanging off a stick-thin mannequin. “Do you want to try it on?” she asks. “The cream matches your coloring. You’d look beautiful in it.”
I didn’t understand this party was black tie. I helped plan it, and I didn’t know the dress code. I’m hopeless, and so terribly in over my head. Suddenly, I want to be at a thrift store, on my own turf, where I’m comfortable, where I know my place. Uncertainty takes over, and stupidly, I almost start crying, humiliation closing my throat until I can’t breathe.
“Stella, aren’t you going to look around?” She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and peers at me, concerned. “Don’t you like Ralph Lauren?”
“It’s not that. I don’t belong here.”
Zarah steps back and stares at me, her gaze traveling from my head down to my feet. “Of course you don’t. How stupid of me.”
The words cut. She agreed so quickly.
Stella Mayfair, foster child and payroll clerk, standing in the middle of Ralph Lauren, blouses on hangers that cost as much as one of my online classes.
Zarah gestures at the dress and asks the hovering saleswoman, “Will you hold this? We’ll be back in a little while.” She grips my hand. “Come on. I know just the place.”
She leads me outside, and a tall, muscular man wearing a suit, earpiece, and mirrored sunglasses follows us.
He gives us space, discreetly tailing us. I didn’t notice him before.
“Do you have a bodyguard?” I ask, staring behind me and stumbling. That’s about as surreal as partying with Viola Young.
“Ash wants to keep me safe,” she says, flicking a glance over her shoulder. “Hector’s been on his staff for a long time.”
“He’s having you followed?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and people swerve around us, giving me a dirty look. “What does he think you’re going to do? Run away?”
Her face smooths into a mask—I offended her. “No. He’s concerned about me.”
I don’t believe it, but I don’t want her mad and I feign ignorance. Maybe I know less than I think. “I’m sorry. Your lifestyle is still so new to me. I don’t understand a lot.” That’s the truth. I may love Zane, but I’m going to need time to get used to his way of life. So far, he’s been great, easing me in slowly, and it helps he’s willing to share in the way I live, too.
Zarah nods, and some warmth seeps back into her face. “Sometimes I wish we were just regular people. That someone wasn’t shoving a camera into my face every second.” She tilts her head in the direction across the street where a man hiding behind the back fender of a parked car is focusing his expensive-looking camera on us. She links our arms, and we start walking again. “But then I think, where would I be if I wasn’t Zarah Maddox? Who would I be? What would I do without my family’s money behind my name?”
I struggle with that, too. Who am I if I don’t have a family? Who am I if I can’t fill out my family tree? Who am I if I don’t know if Mayfair is my real name? I say, “It comes from inside. Who you are as a person. Who you want to be.”
She stops and meets my eyes. “What if I don’t know?”
This is a heavy subject for two young women in the middle of a city sidewalk. Ash’s bodyguard behind us, paparazzi in front of us, and the future looming above us, out of reach, but smacking us in our faces at the same time.
I tell her the truth. “For me, all I can do is make my way the best I can, be kind, and try not to hurt anyone along the way.”
“Then I’ve already failed.” Zarah starts down the sidewalk at a clipped pace, and I don’t have a chance to ask her what she means. How has she failed? Has she not been kind? Has she hurt someone? I wish she would talk to me, but the mask is in place. Shoulders back, sunglasses hiding her eyes...and her feelings.
We’re silent as we wind through the city streets.
I love King’s Crossing. The good and the bad. The city is the only place I’ve ever lived, though the poor and underbelly sections are more familiar than the streets we’re on. Zarah knows them like the back of her hand, her steps never faltering.
I wonder why she doesn’t hail a cab, or we ride the train, or we use her driver. I’m glad I wore flats—we must have walked at least two miles since we met at her building. She still hasn’t given me a clue as to where we’re going, and I’m about to suggest we go for coffee and regroup when she stops on the quiet tree-lined street. I’ve never heard of this store before.
Boutique 1961.
It sounds more to my liking, and I gasp when Zarah holds the door open and pushes me inside. This is like Goodwill only leveled up about a million times. Rack after rack of dresses, skirts, blouses, even vintage lingerie, fill the store. An escalator leads up to another floor full of more clothes. They sell shoes, too—kitten heels, Mary Janes, and sexy mules.
I know you can’t buy new vintage...that’s what vintage means, after all. Used. But this stuff looks like no one has worn anything. Ever.
“This is for you, Stella,” Zarah says. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”
I almost start crying again. “Oh my God, Zarah. Thank you. How do you know about this place?”
“This boutique was my mom’s favorite store. It’s no wonder Zane fell so hard. You have our mother inside you.”
It might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.
“Come on. Don’t worry about the cost. It’s my treat, so choose whatever you want.”
I nod. If I want a pretty dress, if I want clothes I can wear to work and feel proud in, clothing that will help me fit in with the other assistants, I’m going to have to let Zarah pay. I can’t get around it, and the only thing I can do is accept it. “Thank you.”
We spend hours going through the store, my arms full of skirts, blouses, and dresses, reminiscent of the Mad Men era. I can dress like the characters in Valley of the Dolls , and I love everything I try on.
Zarah insists on shoes, too, and I fall in love with heels that are already broken in, but in a good way. Nothing discarded because they were too worn out or damaged, but passed on to people who would love them as much as their previous owners had. The boutique doesn’t have many in my size, but I scoop up all the pairs that are.
After I’m done choosing clothing for work, Zarah and I start browsing gowns.
The dresses are glamorous, and they have a sampling from every decade. I fawn over flapper dresses and ballgowns that have been worn by actresses accepting awards.
Boutique 1961 carries every label, and I try on LBDs that look like they came off the set of Breakfast at Tiffany’s . They even have the same black hat that has the cream ribbon floating down from the band and over the wide brim.
Zarah’s amused by how enamored I am, but she says, “You need a ballgown, Stella. To the floor.”
She and I don’t have the stature to carry a dress like that. Ballgowns are made for tall women who can pull off all that material, but we look through the racks, an eager saleswoman helping us, tossing out suggestions and showing us potential dresses. She knew Zarah’s mother, and she and Zarah spend a few minutes talking about how much they miss her.
Hector loiters nearby, and it creeps me out. Even though he wears his sunglasses inside and I can’t see his eyes, I know he follows Zarah’s every move. When she has to use the restroom, he escorts her to the back. I think it’s disgusting, but Zarah doesn’t seem to mind, even asking him to hold her purse.
I try not to let it bother me, and I focus on finding a dress that won’t swallow me whole.
After a lot of browsing, I find a gorgeous black dress that’s accented with cream strips of silk. The design is similar to what Julia Roberts wore the year she accepted her Academy Award, but the skirt is different. The front hits the top of my knees, then the hem gradually lengthens until the back is so long it drags on the floor in a short train.
It’s beautiful, and it fits like it was made for me. There’s even enough room for my boobs—it won’t need any alterations before I can wear it. I want it, and I step out of my stall to show Zarah. I knock once on her fitting room door and let myself in.
My intrusion surprises her, and she freezes, alarm shooting through her eyes. Quickly, she grapples with a dress to cover herself, but she’s not modest. I know that from the evening I spent the night. No, she doesn’t care if I see her boobs. Zarah cares I see the huge purple and pink bruise along her ribs.
Her stiffness hasn’t been my imagination. She’s hurting.
I cover my mouth to stifle a whimper.
She glares at me, cutting off my sympathy.
“What happened?” I cry.
“It’s nothing.” She wiggles into a strapless dress. The design is a simple empire cut, and her skin glows against the blood-red satin though her face is pale.
“It’s not nothing. Who hurt you?”
Ash’s name is on the tip of my tongue, but his goon is sitting outside the fitting rooms. The second the manager found out Zarah Maddox was shopping in her store, she closed it down to other customers. We’re completely alone, no chatter to mask our conversation.
Hector can hear everything we say.
Zarah presses a finger to her lips, but says in a low voice, “No one. Zip me up, will you?”
I slide the dress’s zipper up and stand back to give her room to look at herself in the mirror.
A side slit exposes her thigh and another bruise. I don’t miss it’s in the shape of a hand. She catches my eye and floats material over it.
Someone grabbed Zarah’s leg. Hard.
I don’t want to start a fight, and I pretend I didn’t see it. I can’t help her if she won’t talk to me, and she won’t talk to me if she’s mad.
“What do you think?” she asks, combing her fingers through her hair and avoiding my reflection’s gaze in the mirror.
I think she can’t wear it if she’s hiding what Ash did to her, and I say, “It shows off too much leg.”
She blushes. “It’s nothing, really.”
I can’t listen to her lies, and I turn to go back to my own fitting room to change. I’ve forgotten what kind of game I’m playing. I’ve forgotten I don’t know the rules.
Zarah grasps my arm and whispers into my ear. She doesn’t want Hector to hear her, either. “It was Ash. He’s very...passionate in bed. He went a little too far, and he apologized. It’s not a big deal. Please, Stella.”
I pause, my hand on the doorknob.
Zarah’s eyes plead with me to understand, her dark brown pools almost black, brimming with desperation and fear.
“Okay. But I don’t like it.”
She wilts in relief. “He promised it would never happen again. I believe him.”
I don’t, but I have no choice but to let it go.
Zarah pays for our clothes, and she buys the red dress. It did fit her well, and maybe she thinks the bruise will be gone, or she plans to wear black stockings, or maybe at the last minute she won’t wear it at all. She didn’t need this shopping trip—she has a closet full of gowns that are appropriate to wear to Zane’s party.
The saleswoman swipes her card, and Zarah arranges to have our things shipped. My cheeks flaming, I give her the address to my tiny apartment. To the saleswoman’s credit, she doesn’t blink an eye, only keys in the address, a blank look on her face.
Despite the wonderful clothes I found, the afternoon is ruined. I want to suggest Zarah go home and get some rest. If she’s permitted to go home, but I don’t think she is. I think if we parted ways right now, Hector would bring her to Ash’s. He’s not allowed to let Zarah out of his sight.
“Let’s go have dinner,” she says, swinging me in the opposite direction from where we came.
She chooses a little bistro where the staff doesn’t check our IDs, and we order Margherita flatbread pizza and a bottle of white wine. We sit by the windows, the sun warming our backs, and Hector hunches on a stool at the bar and sips a beer. His skulking presence annoys me, and it scares me a little, too.
We stretch out our time and linger over our wine and chat about the RSVPs that have come in. To help me get a feel for the hotel and ballroom, we make plans to tour the property. I wonder how long Hector’s been babysitting Zarah and if he’ll follow us there, too, but he’s added enough tension to our shopping trip and instead of asking, I keep my thoughts to myself.
When we’ve drank the last drop of wine, Zarah sighs at our empty plates and glasses. She doesn’t want to leave, but there isn’t any reason to stay. The sun is starting to set, and I still have homework to do and I left clothes in the washer that will need to be run through the rinse cycle again.
We take our time walking back to her building, and Hector shadows us the entire way.
Reluctantly, Zarah pauses on the steps outside the skyscraper and looks at Hector out of the corners of her eyes. It’s evident she’s instructed to go with him after our shopping trip, but she invites me up. He crowds us in the private elevator, and I shrink away from his hulking form.
My fear amuses him, and he raises his sunglasses to stare at me, his eyes a deep black.
The elevator doors glide open, and he keeps them from closing, his arm covered in tattoos. He watches us step inside the foyer. It’s not like we can go anywhere else, and I clench my jaw. He doesn’t move to follow us, but he glares long and hard at Zarah, communicating a warning without words. Finally, he lets the doors close and goes back down in the lift. He’s gone, and I can finally breathe.
Zarah loans me a pair of yoga pants and a matching sweatshirt, and I change in her room. The bedroom is that of a little girl, all pink and sparkles, and it’s such a startling contrast to the woman she’s trying to be.
Lucille flutters around us offering food and drinks—she’s happy Zarah’s home.
“What would you like to do?” she asks.
It’s not that late, and I suggest we binge a show neither of us has seen.
We’re halfway through the first season of Reign when Zane steps out of the elevator and walks through the foyer and into the living room. He doesn’t interfere with our girls’ night—only kisses the top of my head and tells us he’s going to bed. He looks worn out, and I need all of my willpower to stay on the couch. Tonight, I’m Zarah’s guest, not his, but I wish I could slide into his bed, curl my body around his, and make him forget about his shitty day.
Hours later, we finish season one and Netflix is offering to start up season two, but I can’t stay. I’m afraid to leave her alone, and reluctantly, I say, “I have laundry to finish and homework to do.”
She looks scared, but she doesn’t ask me to change my mind and turns the TV off. “Keep those,” she says, gesturing to the lounging clothes she lent me. “You can give them back later.”
“Thanks. Be careful, Zarah. If you need anything, call or text.”
“I will,” she promises, but the lie is in her eyes. Maybe not so much of a lie. It’s not that she doesn’t need me, it’s that I can’t do anything for her. Ash hurt her, and he could crush me like a bug.
I’m no one compared to the son of one of the most powerful men in King’s Crossing.
I ride the elevator down to the lobby, my heart sinking as I drop from floor to floor. Maybe Ash put a detail on Zarah to keep her safe because of the ugly rumors about the plane crash. Maybe there isn’t anything nefarious going on, and I’m just paranoid.
Hector’s standing professionally, but nonchalantly, near security, his legs spread, his hands clasped behind his back when I step out of the elevator and into the lobby. Ash could simply love her and only wants to protect her, but Hector’s smirk says something else. He meets my eyes across the marble floor and my skin prickles. If I wanted to say something to someone, who would listen? Who would believe me?
Not Zane. He and Ash have been been friends their entire lives.
There is no one left to confide in besides Lucille who shares my inexplicable dislike of Ashton Black.
“Miss Mayfair,” Hector calls.
I try to unobtrusively hurry through the thin smattering of people who decided to work on a Saturday night toward security and the revolving doors that represent my freedom, and though my gut instinct tells me not to, I pause and look over my shoulder.
“Be careful, you hear? Don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
The threat is blatant and my nostrils flare.
“Thank you.” I force the words out. I can’t act scared, or I’ll turn into Ash’s target the second he knows I’m afraid of him.
I don’t relax until I reach the safety of my apartment.
I leave my lights on all night.