Chapter 35
35
SAMANTHA
M y phone rings before I can cross the abandoned lobby. My heart leaps, knowing it’s Braiden, knowing I can go upstairs, that we can start over, that we can talk this through like adults, instead of like desperate, wounded children.
But it’s not Braiden. It’s my boss, Trap Prince.
I want to ignore him. To put this off just a few minutes longer, until I know where my heart is. Until I’m able to breathe.
But I don’t have a choice. I gave up that option when I took Eliza’s money, years ago. “Trap,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“The pictures,” he says. “Are they real?”
Instead of answering, I say, “I’ll have my resignation letter on your desk by noon today.”
“Hold off on that. Let’s see what happens.”
What happens will be front-page news on every one of those papers Braiden reads every morning. Homicide Investigation for General Counsel of Billionaire Tax Haven. Diamond Defender on Trial for Her Life. Solicitor Slaying Scandal.
“As your corporate lawyer, I strongly suggest it’s in the freeport’s best interest to get a statement out ahead of this,” I say.
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Trap, this isn’t a joke.”
“No one’s fucking laughing.” He pauses for a moment, and I think I can end this conversation, get back to the disaster my life has suddenly become. “Are you with Kelly now?” he asks.
A sound breaks out of my throat that isn’t human. It’s part brutal laugh, part desperate sob, part amazement and terror and sheer, ordinary exhaustion. But none of it is words. I finally manage, “He threw me out.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Trap says. One tiny part of my brain is still functioning enough to be grateful for his language. If Trap ever stopped swearing, I’d know the world was truly coming to an end. “Do you need a place to stay?”
I answer a different question. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fucking fine.”
“I’ll come down there now. I can pack up everything in my office and be out by close of business.”
“The fuck you will.”
“Trap—”
“Shit,” he sounds like he wants to punch something. Or maybe someone. “Goldenrod’s yours,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Goldenrod Cottage. The one by the bay.”
The freeport cottages are used as guesthouses, prizes for our best clients. They’re always stocked, ready for use in any emergency.
And I guess my life now qualifies as an emergency.
“Thank you,” I finally say, because there aren’t enough words to cover everything else I should tell him.
“I’ll call Kelly in the morning. Tell the motherfucker to get his head out of his ass.”
“He’s your client,” I remind Trap.
“He’s a goddamn idiot.”
“It’s complicated.” That’s the word I choose, because it’s safer than so many others. It’s easier than Aiofe . Or Grace . Or the Fishtown Boys . It’s simpler than sir and master and all the things I’ve let Braiden to do me.
Trap sighs. “It always is. Where are you? Do you need me to send a car?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “I’ll get one,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Get to Goldenrod,” Trap says. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
My Lyft driver isn’t as good as Liam. And I’m pretty sure all five feet of her would be useless as my bodyguard, unless she’s packing a weapon beneath her headscarf.
But she gets me to Delaware, to Dover, to the freeport. It’s a long walk to Goldenrod, but the cold, crisp air cauterizes something in my heart. My clothes aren’t meant for sleeping in, but I find the lush terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I shower, like I can wash away everything that happened. I scrub my skin. I scream, where only the tiles can hear me.
I wrap myself in the robe once I’m clean. I don’t take out my phone until I’m sitting in bed, propped up by half a dozen down pillows. Sunrise is just starting to gray the cottage windows.
Braiden’s awake. I know he is. He’s nursing a whiskey. He’s staring at his phone, at everything Russo sent him. He’s pinching his bottom lip with two fingers.
My own fingers hover over the green icon on my screen. I should wait. Give us both time to get over the things we said.
But I call him anyway.
The phone rings four times, and then I get voicemail: “Kelly. Leave a message.”
I call again. Four rings. Voicemail.
I call again. Voicemail.
No four rings. He’s blocked me. I’m cut off. And all I can do is wait to see what happens next.