Chapter 7 Helena
What was I thinking? What on earth was I even thinking, walking into a room full of socialites where Trish Coldwell was getting an award?
What gave me the crazy idea to stand at the bar, listening to that woman being praised for her stupid fucking commitment to New York City and her ugly fucking buildings?
And why didn’t I just get out of there before she stood up at the podium and started talking about Adam, how she’d lost him, how much she missed him—yet another potshot at Valerie that no one in the room could fail to understand?
I knew the answer: I hadn’t been thinking at all.
My mind was blank, for certain, as I strode toward the elevators, desperate to get out of there as soon as possible.
I’d let myself be driven by anger and the overwhelming urge to finally do something after being forced to sit by and watch for over two years.
Blinded by rage, I’d scrabbled around in my closet for a dress and matching shoes, fixed my hair, and called a cab to take me to Rockefeller Center.
My heart was going about two hundred beats per minute as I stood in the elevator, contemplating setting off the fire alarm, or wondering how else I might rain on Trish Coldwell’s parade.
But in the end, I’d simply stood there, paralyzed, as she’d spoken.
And then she mentioned Valerie, and I saw the sympathetic faces on all the other guests, and something in me finally snapped.
Because I could feel, in my bones, that this woman’s smear campaign was working.
Everyone believed her. I had suspected it, maybe even known it, but feeling it finally crushed me in the worst way possible.
And I knew I had to get out of there fast, before I burst into tears in front of everyone in the room.
There were no elevators waiting, and my hand shook as I pressed the call button. Hang in there, I told myself. Hang in there till you get outside.
At that moment I heard footsteps approaching and a deep voice behind me say, “Hey, wait up.” More out of reflex than anything else, I turned around.
The voice belonged to an obscenely good-looking man—I could tell that much, despite being so flustered.
He was tall, with blond hair that fell casually over his forehead, as if he were at some kind of beach party and not at an award ceremony in a tux.
There was something wild and untamed about his whole demeanor, along with the look in his green eyes.
I registered all of this in the space of one second, perhaps two.
Then it hit me like a freight train—I knew who he was.
Boy, did I know who he was. I just hadn’t seen him in a crazy long time, and anyway, we’d never been officially introduced.
“Are you okay?” he asked now.
A bitter snort escaped me. What a twist of fate that he, of all people, was so concerned about my welfare.
Jessiah Coldwell.
Adam’s younger brother.
I didn’t know much about him really, only what I’d heard through the grapevine: that he was the second Coldwell son, rebellious misfit and polar opposite of his brother, who’d had New York society on tenterhooks with his questionable behavior—all before my time.
That he hated the city and had moved overseas as soon as he graduated from college.
And I knew, of course, what he had said about my sister.
Valerie was the worst mistake that Adam ever made!
If it wasn’t for her, my brother would still be alive!
The memory of his words filled my head. How could I have forgotten? How could I have forgotten him?
It didn’t take me long to come up with a response.
The old Helena would have mumbled something under her breath, hectically pressed the call button a few more times, and fled the situation as quickly as possible.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore. And this man standing in front of me—his family was in no small part to blame.
I brought my voice under control. “Yeah, everything’s great,” I said spikily, standing as tall as I could, though we weren’t even close to eye level. “I mean, there’s nothing I love more than listening to your mother spread her lies.”
“Lies?” he asked, confused. “About what?” His eyes narrowed slightly. He clearly had no idea who he was talking to. I wondered why he’d asked how I was doing. There was no way he would have done that if he’d had any idea who I was.
“Valerie Weston.” I left it at that—once I’d said her name, I didn’t trust my own voice.
All of a sudden his expression changed as it seemed to dawn on him—he didn’t say the Oh, fuck part out loud, but I could see it in his eyes. Just like the silent rage that I was echoing back at him. “You’re Helena,” he said simply. “Her sister.”
I raised my chin, hoping my stare was ice-cold. There was nothing I wanted less than for Jessiah Coldwell to know exactly how I really felt.
“That’s right.” I glowered. “And for your information, I’m not going to watch from the sidelines anymore while you or your mother spout your crap about her.”
Jessiah snorted this time, the anger in his eyes growing as though keeping pace with mine. “Oh sure, we’re spouting crap about your sister,” he said sarcastically. “You’re right, she was an angel. How stupid of me not to see it.”
“No, of course, how could you?” I fired back. “You didn’t even know Valerie, and you were God knows where when they died.”
I could tell I’d hit a sore point; the wrath in Jessiah’s eyes was joined by something else, something I knew all too well. I didn’t feel any sympathy, though. Not for him. Never for him, or anyone with the name Coldwell. It was too late for that.
“Where I was is completely irrelevant,” he snarled. “I knew my brother. He’d never have gotten into that situation if not for her.”
“Right, because he was such a helpless victim and she coaxed him into it?” I glared at him condescendingly. “I was wrong about you, clearly—it’s not just Valerie you’re in the dark about. You obviously don’t have a clue who Adam was either.”
Adam’s brother opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment an older couple entered the foyer, eyeing us with interest as they made their way to the restrooms, seemingly in slow motion.
I could tell Jessiah was itching to fire back a biting retort, but he also didn’t want to make a scene.
He’d have to wait until nobody was listening, or risk embarrassing his mother.
As the elevator doors pinged open, I made the decision for him. Under different circumstances I’d have given him an even bigger piece of my mind. But I had the creeping feeling that my rage was about to give way to grief, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near him when that happened.
“I take it you’ve satisfied your interest in my well-being?” I snapped as I got into the elevator. “Thank you for asking, though. How thoughtful of you.”
I jabbed the button for the ground floor harder than was strictly necessary, waiting tensely for the doors to close. Jessiah held my gaze, neither of us looking away, until the silver-gray elevator doors sliced through all the ire and anguish of our silent exchange.
As though every ounce of energy had left my body, I sank against the wall and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t let go just yet. I had to stem the tide of emotion until I got home. I was a Weston, after all, and we never showed weakness in public.
Not ever.
I actually made it to the apartment without bursting into tears, beyond thankful to find my mother still not home when I got back.
I ran up to my room, swapped my dress and makeup for sweatpants and a hoodie, and finally crawled into bed to cry out the evening’s frustration until I felt like I could breathe again.
Then I sat up and looked out the window at the dark sky.
We were too high up to see the traffic on the street below, but I could hear the faint buzz of the city, a low hum that was unique to this place.
It wasn’t a sound so much as a feeling—the feeling that, along with its inhabitants, New York City itself was alive.
I used to love it and had missed it terribly the last few years. Now it felt like a reproach.
So many times, I’d imagined giving the Coldwells a piece of my mind, telling them to their face how abhorrent their lies about Valerie were, and that I wasn’t going to let them get away with it, whatever the cost. Of course, I’d been thinking mostly of Trish when I imagined this, but taking some of my anger out on Jessiah could have been a good start.
But I felt neither pride nor satisfaction for saying what I had said to him.
Quite the opposite—I felt like shit. Because I hadn’t achieved anything at all.
Sure, I’d done my best to make sure Jessiah knew he was in the wrong, but guys like him weren’t so easily influenced.
I wondered why he’d even spoken to me. No doubt he’d seen me leaving and thought I’d be an easy target.
I’d heard what he was like, how easily he wrapped everyone—especially women—around his little finger.
Quite a nasty surprise for him, then, that he’d chosen me as his target—the one woman guaranteed never to fall for him.
We were destined to hate each other for all eternity.
Like characters in a story whose ending was already written.
Just wait, I thought grimly. We’re bound to meet again. And when we did, I’d come armed with evidence that he wouldn’t be able to just brush aside. Evidence to prove what really happened that night.
With that thought, I started to feel a little better, and my body responded by reminding me just how little I’d taken care of it since I arrived back in the city.
My stomach rumbled, and at the same time, a heavy fatigue took hold.
England was five hours ahead, so it was already the middle of the night there.
Should I eat something first or just go straight to sleep?
At that moment, both options seemed equally attractive.
“Helena?” my mother suddenly called from below, and I heard the sound of her keys being dropped into the dish on the dresser. “Helena, are you there?”
With a start, I jumped out of bed and switched on the main light, checking my face in the vanity mirror to make sure I was presentable.
My eyes were a little red, but otherwise I looked the same as usual.
That didn’t surprise me: our family policy of showing no weakness seemed to have sustained some kind of evolutionary advantage down the generations, to the extent that sleep deprivation, a good cry, and even viruses rarely had any visible effect on me.
So I went straight down to greet my mother, yawning by way of an alibi. She gave me a scrutinizing look.
“Have you been asleep?” she asked. “You shouldn’t go to bed too early, you know. It’ll make the jet lag last longer.”
“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t sleeping, just watching TV.”
“Good.” She nodded, taking off her coat to hang it up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her do that; normally Vincent took care of that sort of thing. “Has Lincoln left already?”
Of course—she’d said I should call him, and we should get dinner. I’d completely forgotten. “No, I couldn’t get ahold of him,” I lied. Something else we Westons were very good at.
“So you haven’t eaten anything at all?” She sounded suspicious now. She knew how much I loved food, and how grumpy I could be when I was hungry. England hadn’t changed anything on that front.
“I grabbed a quick bite at Le Charlot earlier.” Le Charlot was a cute restaurant around the corner that a lot of people in our circles frequented, so it didn’t fall into the “Oh my God, you can’t be seen in there” category.
My mother nodded in approval, and I gave an inward sigh of relief that I’d gotten away with my white lie. But then my stomach betrayed me with a rumble so loud that she raised an eyebrow, and I held my breath. But Mom just smiled.
“It really must have been just a quick bite,” she remarked. “We only had canapés at the reception, too—shall we order something in? It’s Sunday, so let’s not worry about trying to be healthy.”
I grinned. “Sounds good.”
“Just let me go and get changed.” She was almost at the stairs when she turned back to me. “I really am sorry about Valerie’s bedroom, darling. We wanted to tell you before you got here, but then you arrived a day early and somehow that confused the whole issue.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Maybe it really is better this way.
” It wasn’t—I’d have given anything to have some of Valerie’s stuff.
But I couldn’t say that, couldn’t let my grief show in this house.
As soon as my parents got wind of what I was planning, they’d put me on a plane straight back to England.
I was going to have to lie, to act my ass off—which I was good at, but then, I’d never had to do it in front of my family.
I got no satisfaction from it, but I would do anything to be able to stay. Absolutely anything.
I owed it to Valerie.