Inescapable

Chapter 18

Trystan sighed explosively, muttered a few choice expletives beneath his breath and grabbed Iris’s hand as she attempted to walk away.

“Let me go,” she commanded, her voice rigid with the pain she was ineptly trying to hide from him.

“Iris, I’m not used to trusting?—”

“Strangers?” She completed for him, tugging her hand out of his. “That’s what I am to you, right?”

He found himself at a loss as to how to respond to that and his brow furrowed as he stared at the angry woman standing in front of him, her arms folded defensively over her pert chest.

Fuck.

“Iris,” he began, weighing his words carefully before he spoke. “It’s not easy for me to let people into my inner circle. The people I trust the most have been in my life for years, decades even. Allowing you in means making myself vulnerable and that’s never been easy for me to do.”

Her eyes were watchful and she opened and closed her mouth a few times—clearly picking her words—before, voice subdued, she said, “We haven’t even landed yet and you already have these doubts. That doesn’t bode well for us, Trystan.”

An icy chill settled in the pit of his stomach as he acknowledged her words with a regretful nod. “We’re adjusting. We’ll figure it out.”

“And what does figuring it out entail? You unjustifiably accusing me and mine every time something like this happens? Because that’ll get old very fast. I can’t be the scapegoat whenever you have some breach in security, Trystan. I won’t.”

“It won’t be like that, Iris.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I love you.”

“Not enough to trust me.”

Trystan wasn’t sure how to defend against that assertion when he’d literally just demonstrated that supposed lack of trust.

“It was a knee-jerk reaction and it was stupid. We’ve had breaches before, tips from eagle-eyed airport staff to the press. I should have taken that into account.”

“But I was right here and convenient.”

“Iris, please sit down,” he implored and tugged on her hand again. She resisted for a moment before relenting and sitting down. She remained tense and perched at the very edge of the seat, looking for all the world like she would bolt at the slightest provocation.

“We’re going to experience these—” He hunted for the correct words. “I suppose we could call them growing pains, yeah? That’s normal. And we may inadvertently hurt each other in the process but we have to believe that our relationship is strong enough to overcome these hurdles. I overreacted. It was a stupid mistake.”

“And what if it wasn’t a mistake?” she asked through stiff lips and he frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“What if one of my people did let it slip? What then?”

He didn’t hesitate before replying. “It would still be unfair to blame you for that, since you can’t control what they do. And they can’t possibly understand yet what damage a careless slip of the tongue can cause. This is as new to them as it is to you. And to me.”

“You wouldn’t blame them?”

“No. We can have a discussion with them about the need for privacy and discretion.”

Her back unbent a fraction.

“Forgive me?” he asked with an exaggerated pout designed to make her laugh, and her lips trembled in response. He doubled down on the sad face. “Please?”

“Oh my God, stop that,” she said, covering her face with both hands. “You look like Puss in Boots.”

Pleased that he’d managed to coax a smile from her, he took her hands in his and tugged them down to her lap, where he continued to hold them, stroking his thumbs over the soft skin of her palms. He kept his eyes on hers for a long moment, wanting her to recognize his sincerity.

“I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t do it again, okay?”

He lifted one of her hands and planted a kiss on the back of it, before tenderly cradling it to his cheek.

“I promise.”

In the end,their flight was rerouted to an airport in Luton. They were met by two big men—more of Sam Brand’s people—who’d been waiting for them next to a couple of black Mercedes-Benzes, one sedan and one Maybach SUV with heavily tinted windows.

Suddenly this felt all too real and Iris’s stomach flipped and twisted like she was on a roller-coaster ride as Chance went into ultra-serious bodyguard mode. The affable man from the flight disappeared completely, and he moved with menace and purpose as he expertly shepherded them through the airport and ushered them into the waiting SUV.

The second car seemed like a needless extravagance, but Iris guessed it was there to provided additional security.

Chance took the front passenger seat, and raised the soundproof divider between Iris, Trystan and Luna, and himself and the driver. Iris sat beside Trystan feeling tense and out of sorts, especially when he immediately picked up his phone and started tapping rapidly at the screen. The phone rang a few seconds after he’d sent the text.

“I’m sorry, baby, I have to take this.” Trystan slanted her an apologetic look before thumbing the green answer button and lifting the device to his ear. He kept a comforting hand on her knee as he spoke to—she soon deduced—Hunter Quinn.

Not entirely sure what to do with herself now that she’d been left to her own devices, Iris belatedly checked her own phone. Only to find that there was a ridiculous number of missed calls and texts waiting for her.

She checked the messages first. Her parents, brother, flatmates, Evan, and so many others had sent her texts. Some of them messages from people she hadn’t spoken to, or heard from, in years.

What the hell?

She checked her mother’s messages first.

Don’t come round the house. It’s chaos here. I don’t know how this happened, but the press has been saying the most ridiculous things, Iris. Call me as soon as you get this.

What was going on? This was?—

“What?” Trystan suddenly exploded, his entire body tensing as an intimidating glower settled on his face. His eyes darted toward her, and pinned her to the spot. He spoke again, his lips thin, voice tight, “No. No way in hell. It must be a mistake.”

Whatever his manager was telling him clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for and, if possible, he went even more rigid. “No, you’re wrong. Well, check it again!” Iris startled at the sudden increase in volume and sharpness in his voice. “No. I don’t think so, Quinny. She wouldn’t. It’s not possible.”

Oh God, was he talking about her? She wouldn’t what? What was going on? Could this have something to do with her mother’s text? She wanted to call her mum to find out, but found herself unable to drag her eyes away from his. He looked fierce, resolute, but as he listened to whatever Hunter Quinn was telling him, something in his eyes flickered and she saw the doubt begin to creep in.

“Trystan?” she whispered, her hand covering his where it still rested on her knee. His grip had tightened to the point of pain, but he flinched at her touch and to her horror and panic, he flinched at her touch and instantly moved his hand to his own knee. “What’s happening?”

“Yeah… yeah.” He nodded as he spoke, his eyes going distant as he focused on his friend’s words. “I agree. Do what you think is best. Yeah. I’ll take care of it. I’ll text Brand. Yes. I fucking know, alright? It’s done. Okay. Right.”

He ended the call and Iris reached for his arm, but he shook her off and retreated to the bench seat across from her—where Luna was lying stretched out and sleeping—putting as much distance between them as was possible within the confines of the car. The dog, momentarily disturbed by the movement, opened her eyes for a few seconds before drifting off to sleep again, her head resting against Trystan’s thigh.

He tapped on his phone again, sending another text, his focus trained on the screen while the suffocating silence between them festered and became an almost living entity, strangling Iris’s words in her throat.

His phone pinged and he grunted in satisfaction before lowering the privacy window between them and the driver and Chance. He handed his phone to Chance and then shut the divider again, clasping his hands between his spread knees and leaning toward her to stare into her face for a long, brutal moment. His eyes like ice, his features frigid, his demeanor frosty.

“May I have your laptop for a second please?” he asked. Iris wasn’t sure what frightened her more, his brittle voice or the ridiculous formality in his words.

“Why?” she asked, not liking the way her own voice quavered in confusion.

“I need the internet and Chance has my phone.”

“Th-the internet?”

“You are connected, right?”

“Yes. Uhm… through my phone.” What a ridiculous exchange. “Please tell me what’s happening, Trystan. You’re scaring me.”

He held out a steady hand and, hoping it would be the fastest way to get the answers she needed, Iris unzipped her laptop bag and handed her slim pink laptop to him. He opened it and then sighed impatiently.

“It’s password protected.”

“Oh, right. It’s IrisHApril—my birth month—all one word,” she told him. “The first I is uppercase as are the H and the A.” He gave her a fleeting, censorious frown—probably because of the ludicrously easy password—before typing it in.

She watched, chewing her cuticle pensively, as he tapped away at the keyboard and then went still as he seemed to find what he was looking for. She watched the muscles in his jaw bunch as he clenched his teeth, but his face remained impassive, even though she could tell that he was livid.

“Trystan?” She hated how tremulous her voice sounded, hated even more that it was an accurate indication of how she was feeling right now.

He swiped at the track pad with his index finger, the movement filled with restrained violence, and then perused the screen for a few seconds. He seemed to blanch, going pale as he traced his finger over the track pad again and then clicked.

His throat moved as he swallowed, and he seemed to go even paler.

“What…” His voice emerged on a thready whisper and he cleared his throat before starting again. “What the fuck is this, Iris?”

“What?”

“I hate him,”he intoned, his eyes moving as he read from the screen. “I don’t think I’ve ever been able to say that about anyone before, but this man is cruel, he’s odious, he’s an utter bastard. People idolize him—the great Trystan Abbott—with his beauty and charisma and charm. But they haven’t seen this side of him. This twisted, brutal side of?—”

“No! Oh my God, Trystan. Stop!” It was Iris’s turn to pale as she recognized what he was reading.

He’d found her journal. Of course he had. It was right there on her desktop. Iris made no effort to hide it. It was her laptop after all. And while the thoughts were private, it wasn’t a big secret that she kept a journal. Except that… Trystan didn’t know about it. She hadn’t ever told him.

“Those are my private thoughts. It’s my journal, Trystan. And it’s not a big deal. I’ve kept one since I was a teenager. My therapist recommended it as a way to keep track of my triggers. I wrote that the night we met.” She attempted a laugh, which fell miserably flat. “I’m sure you had similar feelings toward me in those early days.”

“Only my feelings weren’t published in a tell-all exposé in Looker magazine an hour ago.”

She stared at him in dazed confusion, not quite comprehending those tight, furious words.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, a surge of horror clawing up from her stomach into her throat, bringing with it the taste of bitter bile.

He sighed, the sound taut with impatience, and swiped at the trackpad again before tossing the laptop onto the seat beside her, the gesture fill with contempt.

Iris stared in dismay and disbelief as she saw images of herself and Trystan splashed across the screen. There were other images, pictures she’d taken while at the house. Candid shots of Trystan playing with Luna, a selfie of her and Trystan cuddled on the sofa together, a picture Trystan had taken of her after wrestling her phone from her grasp. Her gaze snagged on that photo. Her hair was a windswept mess, but she looked so happy as she stared back at him. Her cheeks were flushed and the love, joy and warmth in her eyes and her wide smile were unmistakable.

Her bewildered eyes swept across the private images that had somehow found their way onto a very public website and only then did the accompanying words start to sink in.

They were her words. Sometimes taken directly from her journal, other times altered slightly to fit the prose, but they were her private thoughts on display for the world to see.

Worse… they?—

“Oh God…” she whimpered faintly and her hand went to her mouth as she comprehended everything else the article exposed. About Trystan. And Trish Nesbitt. Things he had told her in confidence, which she’d then faithfully, foolishly, stupidly, transcribed into her journal for no good reason other than habit.

“No, no, no,” she whimpered. “I don’t understand how?—”

Her eyes leaped up to Trystan’s face. He was staring out of the window, his emotions reined in tight, his eyes staring off into the distance.

“Trystan, I didn’t do this.” How could this be? She didn’t understand how this could possibly have happened. It felt like a waking nightmare… maybe it was. Maybe she was still asleep on the plane. Surely this could not be real?

He turned his head slowly and the expression in his eyes destroyed her. Such bleak desolation, battling with fury, betrayal, and something that looked like hatred.

“Yeah? If your plan was to lie to me about your role in this, then you probably shouldn’t have put your name in the fucking byline.”

Her eyes drifted back to the article, tracking to the very top.

The lurid title screamed at her How Trystan Abbott Imprisoned Me,followed by Story by Iris Hughes and Evan Brooks.

Iris’s stomach dropped when she saw the second name. Evan? Why would she do something so malicious? Was she really so keen on making her mark that she’d carelessly toss away their friendship like this? Then again, Iris’s biological father would probably happily have sold one of his daughter’s kidneys for a story like this, so why did this even surprise her? When Evan had shown every indication of being of the exact same ilk as Stanford Carter.

But how could she have accessed Iris’s private files? The pictures?

As she stared at Trystan’s averted profile, she realized that none of that mattered now.

“I don’t know how this happened, Trystan. I swear to God, I would never do something like this. You know that. You know me.”

“Do I?” Those two words, delivered in a devastatingly cutting monotone silenced her and she swallowed down the pained protest swelling in her throat. “Fuck me, I should have known better. This is my own fault. I can’t even blame you that much. I served myself up on a motherfucking platter and made it painfully easy for you to do this. Maybe part of me knew you would, maybe that’s why I so inexplicably laid my soul bare to you. Of all people. Maybe I’m relieved that my role in Trish’s death is finally out there. No more secrets, right?”

He rubbed his hands over his face, looking tired, defeated, and resigned. He didn’t even look particularly angry, and that—more than anything else—was what terrified Iris the most. He’d given up. On her. On them.

“I was a fool,” he laughed softly, the sound self-deprecating, the words almost absent as if he was speaking more to himself than to her. “You’re a shark… and when you bleed in front of a predator, you get eaten. But I allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security, while stupidly ignoring the fact that blood will tell and a predator’s instincts will always win out in the end.”

“No, Trystan. I don’t know how this happ?—”

“Give it up, Iris! Your sick little game is over. You’ve won. Okay?”

The car slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder of the road, where it came to a complete stop and Trystan rapped on the privacy window.

“Now would you kindly get the fuck out of my car?” he said, his voice cordial as he gestured toward the door, which Chance had opened.

Iris’s eyes darted to the door, then back to Trystan, who was inspecting his nails with studied disinterest.

“Trystan, no… please don’t do this to us. I didn’t write that article. I swear to God, I didn’t. You can’t leave me stranded on the side of the road.”

He laughed at that, a horrible, scornful sound. “And give you even more dirt to bury me with? I would never. Just get out of my car and out of my life, Iris. I never want to see you again.”

At that moment Iris realized that the driver had also exited the car and was removing her luggage from the boot. He was transferring cases to the second car, which was parked slightly in front of theirs.

“I love you,” she reminded him desperately. “You love me. You said we’d make this work. You said?—”

“Yeah, I said a lot of things, most of which are probably in that article somewhere… but the woman I thought I loved doesn’t exist. She never existed. She was someone you made up. And I’ll grieve for her and miss her. You? Not so much. I fucking hate you for preying on the weakness you found in me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you for that.”

Before she wasable to properly comprehend what was happening, Iris found herself curled up on the back seat of the smaller black Mercedes-Benz sedan. Her thoughts a whirl, her emotions chaotic, and her heart racing. She was shaking so much that some distant, detached part of her brain recognized that she was exhibiting all the symptoms of shock.

The car started moving and she scrambled upright, desperately searching for the other vehicle. It was two or three cars ahead of this one. She pressed her palms against the window, her breath misting the glass as she hoped for a glimpse of Trystan, wanting to see him, wanting him to recognize the mistake he was making. But the heavily tinted windows of the SUV gave no hint as to the occupant inside of the vehicle. And as she watched, the car slipped further and further away, until it was lost in the sea of vehicles around them.

A quiet, despairing sob slipped out as she finally lost sight of the Maybach. Her eyes continued to restlessly search the traffic around them, hoping to spot the car again, but it was no use. It—he—was gone.

Forever.

At some point Iris became aware that her face was wet with the tears seeping from her eyes. She hadn’t even known that she was crying. It wasn’t a violent storm of tears but a slow, constant flow. It was as if her eyes had somehow sprung a leak that was impossible to stem or repair.

Trystan’s easy dismissal of her protests and denials had ripped open a catastrophic wound in her chest. The pain was brutal, and the consequences fatal to her heart and soul. She wanted to curl up in a ball, claw at her chest, and weep. But all she could do was sit here with hot, salty tears dripping silently down her cheeks while the shards of her shattered heart sliced her to pieces.

It was only when the car slowed down and slid to a stop that she was dragged from her all-encompassing sorrow, and was reminded that she wasn’t alone in the car. That there was a witness to her humiliation and devastation. The privacy shield wasn’t even in place and her eyes lifted to meet a pair of concerned green eyes in the rearview mirror.

Chance.

Iris hadn’t even noticed that he’d stayed with her. She’d assumed that she’d been bundled over to a stranger. That Chance would remain with Trystan who was, after all, his principal and thus his priority. The original driver of this car must have traded spots with Chance because the Australian was the only person in the vehicle with her.

She shifted her eyes away from his, reaching for the door handle, wanting to get out of this car and away from the memory of these few brief weeks with Trystan when she comprehended that they weren’t anywhere near her home.

“Where are we?”

“Gunnersbury Park.” His reply was succinct and baffling.

“What? Why?”

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted me to take you.” He extended a blue linen square toward her, and she blinked at the handkerchief for a moment before taking it from him with a muttered thanks and dabbing at her wet cheeks self-consciously.

“There now. Give your nose a good blow, and take a deep breath. You’ll feel better,” he said, his low and sympathetic voice merely causing her tears to well again. He had turned in his seat to look at her and she hated the gleam of pity she was sure she’d spotted in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, taking that deep breath, and was even more embarrassed when it hitched on a sob.

“That’s okay. You’re having a day.”

“I didn’t do it. I know you don’t know me, but I didn’t write that article.” It was pathetic, this need she had to justify herself, to clear her name.

She knew she was blameless, and the knowledge of her own lack of wrongdoing should be enough for her. But Trystan’s instant rejection of her truth had sparked this deep sense of injustice, outrage and betrayal in her. Along with this pathological overwhelming need to convince the world of her innocence.

“It’s not my place to comment, ma’am. I’m just the driver.”

Her chin quivered and she pursed her lips as she fought to scrape together some semblance of pride and self-control. She nodded, and blew her nose. Her face felt hot and swollen from the tears, her throat raw from the suppressed sobs. Her stomach was in turmoil and her head pounding.

“Right. Of course,” she whispered. “You need my address.”

“I have your address,” he corrected. “Your parents’ address as well, in Southfields. I’m not sure if you want to be with your family, or if you prefer to return to your flat.”

How thoughtful of him.

“I’m an absolute mess. I don’t want my parents to see me like this,” she said, twisting the now-damp handkerchief in her hands.

“The flat then?”

She nodded.

He hesitated and looked conflicted for a second before saying, “I live in Hammersmith—Baron’s Court—and I’m headed home straight after dropping you. I have a few days off after my extended stay out of the country.”

Iris studied his rugged face in confusion, not sure why he was telling her this.

His broad shoulders shifted uncomfortably and his cheeks went ruddy.

“You could stay with me.”

The offer flabbergasted her. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, at all. She’d literally just met this man. Why on Earth would he invite her to stay with him? She didn’t think he was attracted to her. That wasn’t the vibe she was getting at all. But why else would he?—

“They won’t find you there.” His words jerked her from her thoughts, confusing her even further.

“They?”

“Miss Hughes?—”

“Iris.”

“Uhm… Iris, I don’t think you quite comprehend the shitstorm that’s waiting for you. And he retracted your protection. So you won’t have any kind of buffer to help you through this.”

“He… Trystan, you mean?”

He nodded curtly, his jaw tensing as if he were biting back his words.

“As you know, before we left Cape Town, he arranged with Brand to have a protective detail assigned to you. He cancelled that arrangement after learning about the article. After I drop you at home, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

“I see.” The words were a choked whisper and Iris averted her eyes to her lap, staring at her restless hands, which were still twisting and twisting the damp blue handkerchief. “Thank you so much for the offer, Chance. But I’d really rather go home. They won’t be interested in me for long. Trystan is the big fish. He’s the one whose reputation is at risk. That’s why he feels so betrayed.”

She was making excuses for Trystan. She knew it. And felt pathetic because of it. But she also recognized just how bad this could—and likely would—get for him. He’d been wrong to instantly believe the worst about her. But she could understand his point of view. She hadn’t read the article in its entirety but she’d seen enough to comprehend just how damaging it was.

Everything—all of their most private and intimate moments—had been in that journal. She bit back an agonized, humiliated moan. How much of that had Evan included in her vile article? Iris could open up her laptop. Read it. But she wasn’t ready to do that yet.

Her eyes lifted back to Chance’s. He was still staring at her, concern in his eyes. It hurt to acknowledge that this total stranger seemed to care more about her well-being than the man she loved.

Then again, if she were Trystan, she would probably hate her right now as well.

She felt sick to her stomach, her conflicting emotions tearing her apart. The love, hate, resentment, fury, and empathy she felt for Trystan warring inside of her and worsening her headache. She needed privacy. The safe haven of home.

She barely had a hold on her sanity. Her anxiety was a living thing, clawing its way to the surface, threatening to bury her beneath the rubble of her crumbling life.

Chance sighed. He reached into the inner chest pocket of his jacket and withdrew a card. He handed it to her. She stared at the dark blue business card with the embossed silver Brand EPS—Executive Protection Services—insignia.

“I’ll take you home, but if you change your mind”—he nodded at the card in her hand—“give me a call. My offer stands. Okay?”

She nodded, too emotionally overwrought to meet his eyes, knowing it would start up that slow, relentless stream of hot tears again.

“Thank you.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgement and turned to face front and get them underway again.

“Oh my God.”Iris moaned, her hand going up to her mouth in horror, when the Mercedes parked across the road from her building. There appeared to be at least a dozen to twenty journalist-looking types milling around on the sidewalk outside the entrance.

“You still want to do this?” Chance asked in a grim voice.

“Maybe my parents?—”

“It’s about the same there. Also at your family’s business premises.”

“Oh no.” Her eyes flooded again. She hated that she’d brought this trouble to her parents’ doorstep.

“Iris,” he said, his voice achingly kind. “You can stay with me until this blows over.”

She was tempted. Oh God, she was so tempted, but she wasn’t going to be driven from her home. She’d done nothing wrong, had nothing to hide. The vultures would move on as soon as they realized that she was the most boring person on the face of the Earth. And that Trystan was done with her already. Everything would be fine.

She squared her shoulders and shook her head.

“I truly adore you for making that offer, Chance. Thank you. But I’m going home. And as soon as the initial excitement and interest has died down, I’m going to fix this. This has all been one massive misunderstanding.”

Even as she said it, Iris knew there was no possible way to fix this. Not really. It was a brave, brash sentiment, with zero basis in reality. There was no unringing this bell, no mitigating this disaster. It was out there and it was unstoppable. And that reality terrified her.

She caught a flash of admiration and respect in Chance’s eyes—combined with warmth and sympathy—before he put on his sunglasses. His voice was grim when he said, “Whatever you want, Iris. But never let these bastards see you cry or doubt yourself. You give them nothing of yourself. Okay?”

She nodded and exhaled gustily before fishing around in her handbag for her own sunglasses. Once she had them on, she took one more look at the intimidating crowd lying in wait.

“I’m ready.”