Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Alicia
“Why are you studying in the car?”
Stella’s head is bent over her notebook, hair spilling across the page. For someone who claimed she didn’t have homework last night, she’s unusually focused on the drive to school this morning.
“Meredith said that she thinks we’re gonna have a pop quiz today.”
“And I bet Meredith studied last night, didn’t she?”
“Mom. It’s fine. I know the material.”
“I hope so.” I flick my signal and check the rearview.
The curb is empty. No black SUV. No shadow in my mirror. He actually listened.
A knot between my shoulders loosens—but only a little. I don’t like being managed, especially by men. Aside from my personal hangup, a protection detail doesn’t eliminate risk. And if it’s too visible, it could impact Stella. I don’t want her to be scared.
I really need to speak to Dorian again. I understand he has reasons to take concerns seriously, and I appreciate his friendship, but he’s projecting his fears onto me.
Stella’s school comes into view, and she says, “Stop here, Mom.” I’m a block away from the carpool line. “That’s Meredith.”
She points at a uniformed girl I recognize.
She’s been a friend of Stella’s for years—bright, studious, and gifted.
I’ve been in more than one parent-teacher conference where a teacher mentioned her casually in conversation.
I’m grateful she’s one of Stella’s close friends as she’ll help motivate her to push herself.
Given I’m pressed for time and skipping the carpool line will be a blessing, I pull to the curb and Stella hops out.
“Hey,” I shout, forcing her to pause before slamming the car door. “I love you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Love you, too.”
“Have a good—”
Bam. The car door slams, but she waves and blows me a kiss.
I’ll take it.
Thirty minutes later I’m pulling up to the valet at the Four Seasons for the Policy and Media Symposium. I check the time as the valet hands me a tag and pause when my gaze catches on Gabriel Martin.
I told Noah I wouldn’t need security here. Gabriel was supposed to meet me at my office. So much for listening.
The last thing I want is for people in my industry to pick up that I have a security detail—and this is DC. The attendees are savvy to security.
My heels click on the polished marble as I make my way to the side of the lobby where Gabriel Martin stands near concierge.
“Gabriel,” I say, choosing his first name, because I met him last week.
“Ms. Morgan,” he says, voice clipped, gaze slipping past me, on alert.
“I do not want you here.”
“No one knows I’m here for you.”
I tilt my head, recognizing he has a good point, but that’s not the point. I said no, and here he is. I told my daughter to do her homework, and she said she had none. None of this is acceptable.
I pull out my phone and dial Hudson Stone.
He answers with a crisp, “Ms. Morgan.”
“I’m safe at the Four Seasons. Tell your employee to wait for me at my office, as planned. If you don’t follow my requests, I’ll call Dorian and tell him to pull the detail.”
“Understood.”
He likely continues to speak, but I don’t hear it as I disconnect the call and turn to Gabriel. “Call your boss.”
With that handled, I proceed through the lobby, following the signs to the symposium and The Corcoran Ballroom.
When I arrive at the location overlooking the canal, I pause in the doorway, scanning the scene of attendees.
Many wear name tags, and there’s a low hum of chatter.
The foyer is set with a continental breakfast—white linen tables, silver urns of coffee, and croissants under glass domes.
The marble floors reflect the light from the large windows and, with the light at their backs, it’s more difficult to discern facial details.
But one man in a pin-striped suit turns, and I recognize him instantly.
Matthew Delacroix.
Heat floods my face, then drains away just as quickly.
His presence is unexpected. He hates these events.
His eyes find mine across the room. That smile. Slow, knowing.
The clink of china and polite laughter grate against my nerves.
A friend approaches, and I welcome her with a smile.
“Christine,” I say, greeting her with an air kiss to her cheek. “How are you? Come with me to get coffee?”
“Sure. The banana muffins they set out, let me tell you, they’re worth the calories.”
“Well, I’ve already had breakfast.” It’s a lie, but I don’t eat muffins. “But I would like coffee.”
“Did you notice that they dropped the women’s leadership panel?”
“I actually did not.” I participated in it last year, but this year I’m here strictly as an attendee. “Is it a worthwhile agenda?”
“Meh,” she says and pauses to wiggle her fingers at someone across the room. “It’s fine. Nothing new. Introductory remarks, then we break out. I think I’m going to attend the session on effective press releases.”
“These days, it seems most papers print the press release verbatim—might as well write them like you want the article to read.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matthew slip away from the assembly, heading in the opposite direction. Away from the crowd.
I force my attention back to Christine. She’s dating someone new and I’m cautiously happy for her. The reason for my caution vibrates in my hand.
Christine glimpses the notification on my screen. “Ah, look who it is. The dick.”
With a frown, I swipe to read his entire text.
Dick: Alicia, we need to talk. Can you please call me?
My stomach knots. Of course, he could have left it at that, but that’s not Richard’s style. A second text follows, and it’s written with the formality of someone who has been coached that all texts might one day find themselves before a judge.
Dick: Bill Canon filled me in on the situation. I believe it’s in Stella’s best interest that she live with me during this time that you require a security detail. Please call me. I’d like to handle this without involving outside counsel.
Who the hell is Bill Canon? Senator Crawford shared details with few people. But given the White House Chief of Staff committed suicide and there’s an open investigation, I suppose nothing stays secret on the hill.
“Alicia? Are you okay?”
People are filtering into the Corcoran room for opening remarks. But I need to call Richard. If I don’t, he’ll assume I’m ignoring him and be on the phone with his lawyer within the hour.
Outside counsel.
Once a prick, always a prick.
“Alicia?” Christine repeats.
“It’s fine. It’s Richard.”
Concern etches her eyes—she’s one of the few who stayed close through the divorce. She understands.
“Just more of the same,” I say, speaking the truth. He expected that his lawyers would win him full custody, and he’s never let it drop. Stella has been choosing to spend more time with me recently, and I swear that’s getting under his skin as well.
I meet Christine’s worried eyes, and while I’d love to unload on a friend, a public forum isn’t the place. “Will you save me a seat? I’m going to call him before he gets his lawyer involved.”
Her eyes widen. “That bad?”
Through the open door I can see someone milling around the podium. Most of the seats are filled.
“How many years has it been since your divorce?”
Too many for him to still be threatening lawyers, but I’m too worked up to speak, so I set my coffee cup down on a tray and breathe deeply.
This is my punishment for marrying a narcissistic, egotistical man-child.
“I’m going to go—” I gesture with my head in the opposite direction of the assembly. “Save me a seat?”
“You got it.” She pulls out her phone and taps on it, “You know what? Let’s do a private lunch.
I’m going to get us a table at Bourbon Steak.
We don’t need to do the group lunch thing.
” She’s talking about lunch at the hotel restaurant, and under normal circumstances, I’d tell her not to bother, that we should network, but I’m not feeling particularly up for sitting at a round twelve-top with polite conversation.
As I exit the conference area I pass a steady stream of professionals gathered off to the side, speaking on phones, often through earbuds.
Small high-top tables line the hallway, and most are claimed by professionals tapping away on laptops.
It’s difficult to leave the office behind, and little is gained from sitting through opening remarks.
Up ahead, the business center sign catches my eye. Private. Quiet. Perfect. My reputation is critical for my career, and I can’t risk losing my calm in public. A private meeting room is exactly what I require to set Richard in his place.
Behind the glass business center door I spot a line in front of the business center reception desk. I expected it to be empty. Since it’s not, I change direction, away from the business center, moving further down the hall.
I dial Richard.
As it rings, I spot a door cracked open along a narrow hallway that’s to the side of the business center, and I head that way.
The phone is still ringing, and with each unanswered ring, my blood boils. That jerk knew I’d have a busy day, expected that I would drop everything to call him, and now he’s not answering. Classic prick.
It’s a power play. That’s all it is.
I push the door open and realize it’s a small meeting room, but there’s a door that opens onto the deck.
I close the door behind me, ending the call, eyes on the gray sky and the view over the canal. I’ll give him a couple of minutes and call again.
No. I’ll message him. Tell him I called him back. That way there will be a record of my attempt.
The air smells faintly of coffee and carpet cleaner. The hum of the lobby fades.
No, I don’t need to message him. If he wants to play it this way and bring in lawyers, I’ll show them my call record. If he wants to play hardball, he can explain to the judge why he’d send a text like that and then not answer.
My hand finds the door handle to step outside—and I freeze.
A coffee cup, overturned on the carpet. Dark liquid spreading across beige fibers.
And beside it, a hand.
My breath catches.
Tobacco leather shoe. Gold buckle. Pinstriped cuff. I know that suit.
“Matthew?”
Kneeling beside him, I touch his cheek. It’s clammy, chilled. “Matthew!”
I lift a hand. Heavy. I drop it and sit back, taking in the scene.
He’s unconscious.
I run my finger beneath his nose—but he’s not breathing.
“Help!” I scream. “Someone call 911!”
I recall the CPR training I received years ago—something Richard insisted on for Stella’s safety—and pinch his nose and breathe into his mouth. I push down on his chest. It’s harder than I expected—resistant beneath my palms.
I’m not doing this right. I know I’m not doing this right. One. Two. Three. I’ve lost count. Breathe into his mouth. His lips are cold. Push again. Nothing.
I run to the closed door and fling it open, yelling down the hall. “Help! A man’s down. We need an ambulance!”