Chapter 12
TWELVE
It’s been a busy thirty-six hours.
Well, twenty-four really. I spent the first twelve curled up in a ball, paralyzed by an indecisive, out-of-control feeling that was completely foreign to me.
Not indecisive because I’m considering forgiving Allister for cheating on me and going through with the wedding.
No—that part was decided the second I read those texts.
My indecisiveness stemmed from the fact that I don’t know what I’m actually going to do about it.
After that, I called the hotel concierge and asked him to send the doctor they keep on staff up to my suite.
After a brief, HIPPA protected discussion about why I sent for him, he drew my blood to run a complete STI panel and promised results by the end of the day.
By early afternoon, I was able to put at least one fear to rest. Allister is a slimy, cheating bastard but at least he didn’t give me any communicable diseases.
I’ve considered just leaving. Renting a car and driving to the Hamptons house or taking a hotel limo to JFK and hopping the first flight out of the country.
I’m a Blackwell. I have unlimited resources at my disposal.
An apartment in Paris. A villa in Milan.
A 350-foot luxury yacht docked in St. Tropez.
I could literally go anywhere. Unfortunately, my problem is the same as my solution—
I’m a Blackwell.
There used to be a time when the upper echelons of society were practically anonymous.
Thanks to reality television and the rise of celebutantes like Delilah Hawthorne, that’s all changed.
I’m no longer allowed to hide behind my books and piles of paperwork.
I’m expected to contribute and support the image my family presents to the public.
That means social media.
You’re a Blackwell, Millie. Thanks to your cousin and your sister, you’re going to be talked about whether you want to be or not. It’s better to give them something to talk about rather than let them find it on their own. Once a week. All I’m asking for is a simple picture, posted once a week.
Gwen has over a million followers across her platforms and posts daily. Paige has ten times that. I don’t even have a hundred thousand and barely manage to meet our family publicist’s expectations.
For the most part, they leave me alone but as soon as they catch wind of the fact that I left my groom at the altar—and how—the paparazzi will hunt me down and hound me with questions.
How did you find out your cousin and your fiancé were having an affair?
Do you think there’s anything you could have done to prevent your fiancé from cheating on you with your own cousin?
If Paige and Allister get married will you attend the wedding?
The only real chance I have at licking my wounds in peace is to wait until the last possible second before I pull my disappearing act and to keep the honeymoon reservations Allister and I have at the Hawthorne Cay—an ultra-exclusive, all-inclusive resort, situated on its own private island.
It sat half-built for years after William Hawthorne passed away.
It wasn’t until last year when his grandson, Wentworth Fiorella, decided to finish his grandfather’s final project did the resort become a reality.
Allister and I were to be among its first guests.
We were supposed to spend the next two weeks in wedded bliss, relaxing and enjoying each other on an island paradise, far outside the paparazzi’s reach.
Now, I’m going to spend the next two weeks sequestered there, alone, while I lick my wounds and figure out how it all went wrong.
Don’t do that.
Don’t you dare start blaming yourself.
You didn’t do this. They did this—Paige and Allister—and they did this to you.
After the when and where were decided, all that was left was to figure out the how.
A dignified exit would be best.
Like I said—I’m a Blackwell.
Moreover, I’m Melisandre Blackwell—eldest daughter of Preston and Leandra Blackwell.
Dignified is expected. Gracious and refined are the cornerstones of my public image.
It’s who I am. Who my family relies on me to be.
How the public perceives me. Expects me to behave.
Anything less would be an embarrassment to my family.
Don’t do that either.
Don’t temper your reaction to fit into the mold you’ve been forced into.
The two people you loved and trusted the most betrayed you.
They ran around behind your back for years and made a fool out of you.
They don’t deserve dignified, gracious Millie.
They deserve angry, vengeful Millie and that’s exactly who they’re going to get.
After that, the how fell into place.
I spent the rest of my time doing what I said I was going to do.
I made use of every single one of the luxury amenities the Hawthorne has to offer.
Deciding that the travel wardrobe I had packed for the honeymoon was no longer appropriate, I spent nearly an entire day shopping online and had everything delivered to my suite, along with a brand-new set of LV luggage to pack it in.
Snipping tags and folding my new wardrobe, I do my best to ignore the steady stream of texts and voicemails that are flooding my inbox.
Allister even showed up here, early this morning, demanding that the front desk let him up to my room—probably because I never turned my location back on and his paranoia was getting the better of him.
I know I should just turn my phone off but I don’t because I’m using it to monitor my email.
My anonymous whistleblower has been emailing me every few hours. More transcripts of Paige and Allister’s text messages. I was right. With me out of the picture, they took the opportunity to spend the night together but rather than risk meeting at our apartment, they met at the Waldorf.
Allister: I want to see you but it can’t be here. Millie still hasn’t turned her location back on. I can’t risk her coming home while we’re together.
Paige: Could you imagine the look on her face if she actually did walk in on us?
Allister: No and I really don’t want to. I can’t risk her finding out about us. Not this close to the wedding.
Paige: It would serve her right. She might learn a thing or two about what it takes to keep a man satisfied and faithful.
Allister: Don’t be cruel, Paige.
Paige: Why? Do you love her?
Allister: Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t love her.
Paige: Prove it. Let me come over.
Allister: You can’t afford to get caught anymore than I can. If your family found out about us, you’d be disowned for sure.
Paige: Fine. Meet me at the Waldorf. I still have some of your cum in my pussy from earlier—I’ll let you eat it out.
Allister: Are you sure it’s mine? I saw what you were doing to your date under the dinner table.
Paige: LOL jealous?
Allister: Yes.
Paige: I didn’t fuck Mercer. He wasn’t interested.
Allister: But you were?
Paige: What can I say? Mercer knows how to fuck. He’s never left me unsatisfied.
Allister: Are you saying I have?
Paige: LOL you said it, I didn’t.
Allister: Meet me at the Waldorf. Now.
After every email, I hit reply and ask the same question.
Who are you?
My emails come back as undeliverable every time.
Like the rest of them, I send the latest set of transcripts to my cloud account for safe keeping and delete it from my inbox.
I wouldn’t put it past Allister to get into my email to try to find me if he gets desperate enough.
If he does that, he’ll know that I know about him and Paige and I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
Then maybe you shouldn’t have told Dean about their affair.
I’m still not sure why I did, aside from the fact that he keeps running back to her, every time Paige snaps her fingers so he obviously cares about her.
Seriously? You’ve known Dean Mercer for two years, Millie—when has he ever displayed care or concern for anyone but himself?
Never.
Admittedly, we don’t spend much time together.
Only when Paige decides to bring him to the odd social function or he works the bar at the ones she doesn’t—but when I do see him, he’s usually what I’ve always known him to be.
An insufferable asshole who takes great pleasure in needling me, every chance he gets.
That’s not exactly true, though is it? Dean was nice to you once. He—
Nope.
Not going there.
The point is that’s not who he really is.
He obviously recognized me for who and what I am—a lonely, repressed, wealthy woman.
In other words, an easy target.
Dean Mercer is just as opportunistic and conniving as Paige. No wonder the two of them can’t seem to quit each other.
Exactly—so, explain to me again why you told him that Paige and Allister are sleeping together?
Shit.
Lowering myself to the edge of the bed, I reach for my phone and tap my thumb to the screen. Dozens of texts from Allister. A few from Paige. Scrolling through them, I find the last one, sent only a few minutes ago.
Paige: Hey, are you okay? Allister called me, looking for you. He seemed worried… are you getting cold feet? Do you need to talk?
Talk?
Yes, Paige lets talk about how you’ve been screwing my fiancé behind my back for years now.
Because I still haven’t turned off my read receipts, another text from her pops up before I can put my phone down.
Paige: I was thinking… maybe I can come to the Hawthorne. We can have a slumber party like when we were kids. We could watch movies and order room service. One last night of fun before you’re an old married woman. lol
Reading her text, I can’t decide if I want to laugh out loud or throw up.
How many nights have I asked her to do exactly that—just hang out and watch movies with me—only for her to tell me how lame and boring I am?
Too many to count. So many, I stopped asking, but I have to answer her.
If I don’t, she’ll know something is going on.