Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
REBEKKA
The blood drains from my face. ‘I told you I was staying with the Becketts.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Perhaps it’s better to rip the plaster off now, get all the drama out in the open in one go.
‘You didn’t tell me you’re staying with Rian Beckett—my best friend. Our best man.’ The accusation weighs heavily in every word. ‘No wonder he hasn’t returned any of my calls in weeks,’ he spits.
I stay silent, debating on whether to come clean. He’s going to find out at some point, and even though he’s clearly angry—at least he’s not threatening me.
Maybe because I have the backing of the Becketts?
They’re a formidable family.
Killian’s connections alone could have people killed in seconds.
‘Tell me,’ his voice is worryingly calm, ‘what are the sleeping arrangements exactly?’
Rage rips through my chest. How dare he?
After everything he’s put me through. ‘Look, Anthony, you’re in no position to point the finger at me when you’ve been fucking around for our entire marriage.
I was prepared to turn a blind eye, but it’s pretty fucking difficult when you’re dating her openly in Dublin. ’
‘So you thought you’d get me back by fucking my best friend?’ he snarls.
‘Believe it or not, Anthony, it wasn’t actually about you. The entire world doesn’t revolve around you.’ I stand, pacing the penthouse.
‘How long have you been fucking him?’ His voice is dangerously low.
I blow out a breath. Honesty is the best policy, I suppose. ‘Since Valentine’s night. Given you were out with your girlfriend, I didn’t think you’d care.’
‘Oh, I care alright!’ he roars, and I hold the phone away from my ear with a wince.
‘You’re a fucking disgrace. A fucking embarrassment.
And a shit shag on top of it. He’s fucking welcome to you.
But know this: I will take both of you to the fucking cleaners.
By the time I’ve finished with you both, you will have nothing.
Be nothing! Get your fucking shit out of my apartment before I get home tonight or I will fucking burn it, and you. Fucking whore.’
He hangs up.
I exhale heavily.
The phone vibrates again almost immediately. I glance at the screen, expecting it to be him having another go at me, but it’s Ivy.
‘Hi,’ I answer, trying to force some enthusiasm into my tone. The Beckett women have been amazing to me over the past few weeks. Well, and years, truthfully. Without them, I probably wouldn’t have lasted half as long in my marriage, and I would have walked with nothing.
‘Uh-oh,’ Ivy says. ‘What’s up?’
‘Only the usual. Abusive husband hounding me, morning, noon and night. He knows about Rian.’
‘How did he find out?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘I haven’t left the penthouse.’
‘Kind of hard to, when Baby Beckett has you tied to the bedposts,’ Ivy says breezily. ‘Maybe it’s good Anthony knows. At least now he knows he can’t bully you back to him.’
‘I don’t think he’d actually take me back, not now I’ve crossed that line.’ I stalk back towards the kitchen in search of the coffee Rian made me.
‘What did he say?’
‘To get my shit out of his apartment before he gets home tonight or he’ll burn it—and me.’
‘I saw he’s in London with the hoe for some multimillion pound bank merger. It’s all over the Financial Times.’
‘Huh, when did you start reading the Financial Times?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ivy snorts. ‘The dog peed in the kitchen, and I used it to mop it up. It felt very fitting.’
I manage to muster a small laugh.
‘Anyway, I was ringing to see if you felt like some company? Was going to pick up some bagels and call over at lunchtime. You must be going stir crazy cooped up over there.’
‘Rian’s doing a great job keeping me entertained.’ I laugh then, a real one. Even the mere mention of my man’s name puts a smile on my face.
‘I bet,’ Ivy squeals. ‘I’ll be over at one o’clock, and I want all the gory details.’
‘Perfect.’ I could do with a distraction. ‘See you in a bit.’ I hang up.
My meeting goes well. I clear emails, scan a contract for a new author, and schedule an interview with one I’ve been interested in meeting for a while, but I’m restless.
Jittery. Maybe it’s because of Anthony’s call, or the fact I feel like I’m waiting on tenterhooks to hear from Rian to say Remington Publishing officially belongs to him, but I can’t settle.
The urge to get out of the apartment eats at me.
I replay Anthony’s words over and over in my head.
‘By the time I’ve finished with you both, you will have nothing. Be nothing! Get your fucking shit out of my apartment before I get home tonight or I will fucking burn it, and you. Fucking whore.’
He’d probably start by burning my books—a seriously impressive collection of first editions I’ve accumulated over the years.
Then he’d move on to my shoe collection. Bastard.
Then my jewellery.
Oh fuck.
My bracelet.
He knows how much that means to me. Stupidly, I told him. He’ll probably melt it to liquid and gift it to Sorcha just to piss me off.
Before I even realise what I’m doing, I’m shoving my feet into knee-high boots and grabbing my coat. I grab Rian’s car key, and my keys to Anthony’s penthouse and dial Rian’s cell.
It rings twice, but he diverts it to voicemail.
He must still be in the meeting.
I stride along the hidden hallway to the front door. When I open it, the two security guys manning it turn politely, ‘Ms Remington.’
At least they didn’t call me Mrs De Courcy. Thank god for small blessings.
‘I need to pop out. I’ll be an hour. Hour and a half, tops.’ I tell them breezily.
They glance at each other. ‘Mr Beckett said you wouldn’t be leaving the apartment,’ the one to my right says.
‘Change of plan. Which one of you wants to escort me?’
They exchange another look. ‘I will,’ the one on the left says. ‘I’m Carter. I’ll escort you. Where are we going?’
‘To pick up a few things.’ I’m deliberately vague. The last thing I want is them trying to stop me. Anthony is in London with Sorcha. I’ll never get a better opportunity.
‘Can you drive?’ I toss him Rian’s car key. ‘Callaghan took Rian in the Bentley.’
Carter’s right hand snaps out and catches the key. He glances down at the Porsche logo and grins. ‘My pleasure.’
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside Anthony’s building.
It feels like years since I’ve been here, not weeks.
My chest tightens. I feel like I’m suffocating just looking at the place.
Only now, with one foot out of it, do I feel the crushing weight of my marriage for what it truly was—a cage I’d convinced myself was a home.
Carter double parks on the road outside and sticks on the hazard lights. He moves to get out with me, but I press a hand to his arm. ‘No. Wait with the car. Last thing I need is to explain to Rian why his second-favourite toy got towed away while I ran upstairs for ten minutes.’
‘Are you certain he’s away?’ He frowns.
‘It’s all over the news. Besides, he told me to get my stuff before he got home. I’m not doing anything wrong.’
He looks at me dubiously, but finally relents, settling back behind the wheel. ‘Ten minutes,’ he warns.
‘Might need twenty.’ I promise, clutching my bag tighter as I step onto the kerb. He points at my phone.
‘Call down if you need me.’
‘Sure.’ I stalk towards the building, nodding at the concierge as I stride towards the lift. I can’t deal with small talk today. No doubt I’m the talk of the place.
I dial Rian again, silently begging him to pick up.
I need to hear his voice. I need his reassurance.
Being back in this building is making me feel physically sick.
Trapped. Which is ridiculous. I walked in here of my own free will, just like I’ll walk out again, as soon as I get my books and my bracelet.
I don’t even care about the shoes. They can be replaced.
Once again, the phone barely rings before he sends it to voicemail.
I step into the lift, and hit the button for the penthouse. It glides upwards with a quiet hum. The doors slide open with a soft ping.
I hurry across the huge lobby and let myself in the front door. My heart is thumping erratically, which is ridiculous. There’s nobody here. Nobody but me.
I close the door behind me with a soft click.
The blinds are drawn. The place is bleak and dim.
I run my hands along the wall of the corridor through to the main living space.
The air is thick, wrong, humming with a danger I can’t quite place—until a figure peels itself out of the shadows like a predator stepping from its den.
A hand snaps tightly around my wrist, fat fingers digging into my skin.
‘Welcome home, darling,’ Anthony purrs, each word a slow slice of malice.
And just like that, I realise I’ve walked willingly into the lion’s lair.