Chapter 52
fifty-two
Marco promises he won’t wake up at five to work out on Monday morning if I promise to stay in bed with him.
Instead, his phone goes off at five-thirty.
With a volley of text messages he tries his best to ignore, pulling me into his warm, naked chest. Until the buzzing gets so out of control that I have to laugh at his attempts to pretend he doesn’t hear it.
“Always fucking something,” he groans, huffing onto his back to slap his palm around until it hits the iPhone on his nightstand.
While he deals with the notifications, I burrow into the crater of body heat he left in the mattress beside me, tucking my face against his pillow.
Move in with me.
It’s been five days since he made his offer and left me speechless. The fact of the matter is, even now, firmly embedded in his life and his home, none of this feels real.
I’m beginning to think it won’t be until the Strykers’ wedding is over. And then, if he’s still around…
Either way, I told him I need to get back to reality soon. It’s been weeks since the engagement party fiasco and the alleged break-in at my apartment—and Ella and I have go to her final dress fitting today.
Marco exhales heavily, as if reading my thoughts and disapproving. Or perhaps facing some new burden.
He bends over me and drops a kiss to my brow, pausing for a second too long with his lips brushing my skin. Sighing again, deeper. “Go back to sleep, sweet girl.”
And I try, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s something he isn’t telling me.
I may be able to get Marco Amir to soften.
But I haven’t quite mastered getting him to bend.
Marco
Barnes will pick you and Ella up for her fitting today.
Remember: no subways.
I will know.
I’m still torn between pouting at my phone and giggling when I walk out the door. I settle for looking at his hallway camera, holding his messages up, and giving an exaggerated eyeroll.
Ten minutes later, the Strykers’ terrifying British bodyguard arrives. As Ella sits next to me in the backseat of the Mercedes, chirping happily about cake flavors, I do everything I can to avoid the gruff man’s silver gaze in the rearview mirror.
He’s unsettling, somehow. Watching me more intently than he needs to.
I almost text Marco to tell him, but Ella is a delightful distraction. Her genuine joy sparkles all the way to the East Side boutique guarding her gown. I find myself grinning as she talks, feeling…
Proud.
Of myself.
I did this, I think in awe. She needed help, and she couldn’t trust anyone else. Now she gets to have her fairytale wedding.
If anyone gets the importance of that, it’s the woman with a shoebox full of tattered hopes and dreams.
Her fitting goes off without a hitch. The strapless form-fitting lace-and-silk confection she’s chosen will knock Grayson out. Although I suspect his favorite part will be the colorful flowers adorning her veil. They’re so Ella.
The shop owner seems nervous, which I understand. It’s not every day you have a celebrity bride, and not one, but two hulking security guards. By the time we finish, Marco’s protégé, Pierce, has joined Barnes by the door.
He must be as unsettled by the older gentleman as I am, because when Barnes grumbles about driving me “home” to Marco’s place, the younger bodyguard winces on my behalf.
Seeing my expression, he takes pity on me and offers, “I can take her. I’m already going in that direction to meet up with the boss. ”
Barnes doesn’t seem to care much. He silently nods, then casts Ella an expectant look. She beams a winning smile at him before turning it on me.
“Thank you, Alice,” she says, snapping me into a hug. “Everything is coming together perfectly. You’re amazing.”
Fresh pride inflates my chest as I squeeze her back. I resist the urge to argue with her or minimize her praise, Marco’s stern look sailing through my memory. Instead, I whisper, “You’re welcome.”
Even picturing his approval does crazy things to me. I leave Ella with her scary security, following the much meeker man to his company car. It looks just like the others—all white sedans.
Pierce turns out to be every bit as awkward and nervous as I am. He nearly trips getting me into the backseat, muttering an apology as he closes the door just a little too hard to be considered professional.
I smile to myself as he settles in the driver’s seat and fiddles with his seatbelt while he rambles. “So, Marco hasn’t told me much about you. But he doesn’t tell anyone anything, am I right?”
That wrings a little laugh out of me, although I really can’t picture my strong, silent man bragging about me to any of his employees. I make a mental note to ask Tris if she’s heard him talk about us at work.
Pierce starts the car and taps his fingers on the wheel as he pulls into the street. Unlike Barnes, he doesn’t stare me down in the rearview. In fact, each time our eyes meet, his skitter away. “So, uh, anyway… thanks for being so cool about everything.”
I don’t understand what he means, but I nod along and make my best guess. “Well, this is an unusual situation. I know Ella and Grayson were in a tight spot.”
Our car turns at the nearest intersection. I’m not sure which direction is best to get back to Marco’s, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell this guy. He drives people around for a living.
Pierce inclines his head to the side as if only partially agreeing with me. “Still,” he argues. “It had to be hard on you.”
Hard on me?
“I think Ella’s probably the one who’s suffered the most.”
Grayson, too, really. I’m still angry on their behalf that so many people are clamoring to invade their privacy.
We head Uptown, the day’s gray drizzle streaking our tinted windows with a muddy sort of mist. “That isn’t what I meant,” Pierce says, his tone oddly flat. “I was talking about what Marco did to investigate you.”
A sudden rush of blood through my ears mutes the soft patter of raindrops. My heart trips against my breast. My lips go oddly numb.
Investigate me? I think back through our relationship, trying to recall a time when he’d mentioned any sort of investigation.
I remember every word he’s ever said. But he’s never said that…
Maybe it was naive of me not to assume he did a deeper dive than he let on.
He is a former detective. He directs the security for an entire company.
If he looked me up when we started dating, to be sure I wasn’t hiding anything…
It hurts that he didn’t tell me, but I almost feel stupid for not thinking of it sooner.
“O-oh,” I stutter, biting into the side of my thumb. “Did he, like, background check me or something?”
Pierce shifts his jumpy gaze back to the rearview. “No… I meant the undercover investigation,” he repeats, as if that should trigger some sort of memory for me. “You know? How he was pretending to date you?”
My vision tunnels. A thick pulse beats in my brain. Slow and unsteady.
What is that? Drums? Some sort of drill? An earthquake?
It doesn’t really matter. In this moment, I would welcome an act of God to wipe me out.
He was pretending to date you.
Pierce sighs heavily. “We all thought it was callous, if I’m being honest. But you know the boss; he was determined to make sure you weren’t a threat, by any means necessary. Even if it meant… um…” He coughs. “You know.”
The snippets of information float into my brain and expand, hovering over my seized-up consciousness like expanding balloons.
It all makes terrible, perfect sense. How he approached me at the coffee shop when he “wasn’t supposed to.” The fact that he was watching for me the day I got attacked. The way he came over to my place unannounced, and then insisted I stayed at his.
The investigation.
Pretending to date you.
Too harsh.
By any means necessary.
You know…
Pretending to date you. Pretending to date you. Pretending. Pre-tend-ing.
He had been… pretending to date me. Pretending to like me. To want me.
For how long? And when did he stop faking it?
Did he stop faking it?
Why would he lie about that? Didn’t I basically call him out for this exact suspicion weeks ago, before we ever slept together?
Because part of me knew all along. I never believed this could be real. For good reason.
An anvil sinks into my stomach, sending sickening waves of nausea through my center.
Pierce glances into the rearview mirror. His eyebrows jump, revealing shock that doesn’t match his voice. “Oh,” he says, reaching up to cover his mouth and his chin. “You didn’t know?”
My mind works in a detached, halting sort of way. Drops of water hit my chest. Is it raining inside the car? Is the window cracked open? Why is the rain in my eyes?
Oh. I’m crying.
“No,” I reply. “I knew.”
Somewhere, deep down. I always knew.
I don’t know how long Pierce lets me sit in the backseat, crying into my hands.
At first, as he continued to drive me toward Marco’s, he kept apologizing. Then, once he parked on the curb and I burst into shuddering sobs, he got quiet.
My entire chest aches, and my eyes feel raw when I finally hear a sound that makes me look up. Pierce is fiddling with his suit again, his movements fumbling.
His hands still for a beat before he feels my eyes on him. With one quick pitying look in my direction, he makes a tsking sound and shakes his blond head.
“Damn shame,” he clucks, turning so his whole upper body faces me. I see it then, firmly gripped in his right hand—a gun.
I barely have time for a skitter of panic to race down my spine before he sighs. “Don’t worry. This probably won’t hurt as much as what he did to you.”
And then he shoots me.