Chapter 7 Jade
JADE
The plane descends through a layer of clouds, and Los Angeles spreads out below me like a circuit board of lights and highways. I've never been to California before. Never been anywhere, really, except Boston.
My phone buzzes with another text from Chloe.
Please tell me you're not actually doing this.
I type back: Plane is landing. Too late to turn back now.
That's not funny. Text me the second you're on the ground. And I mean the SECOND.
I will. Promise.
The flight attendant who's been checking on me every twenty minutes appears again, all perfect makeup and concerned smile. "Can I get you anything else before we land, Ms. Catalano?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
I'm not fine. My hands are shaking and my stomach feels like I swallowed broken glass.
But the champagne helped, and the meal they served on actual china plates helped, and the leather seat that reclines into a bed helped.
For six hours, I got to pretend I'm the kind of person who flies first class, who belongs in spaces this expensive.
Now I have to face whoever paid for it.
The wheels touch down with a bump that makes my heart race. Los Angeles International Airport is massive, all soaring ceilings and crowds of people moving with purpose. I follow the signs to baggage claim, my terrible suitcase feeling even more inadequate in a place this polished.
A man in a black suit holds a sign with my full name on it. It’s not handwritten, but printed in crisp letters.
"Ms. Catalano?" He's middle-aged, professional, with the kind of neutral expression that comes from years of not asking questions. "I'm Robert. I'll be driving you to Malibu."
"Thank you." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
He takes my suitcase without comment, though I catch a flicker of something in his eyes when he sees the broken wheel. Pity, maybe. Or judgment.
The car is waiting at the curb. Not a regular car but something sleek and black with tinted windows, the kind of vehicle that costs more than I made in the past three years combined. Robert opens the back door, and I slide into leather seats that smell like money and leather cleaner.
“There are drinks and snacks in the console," Robert says as he pulls into traffic. "And the drive will take about an hour, depending on traffic. Let me know if you need anything."
"I'm fine. Thank you."
The console has water, in glass bottles with labels I don't recognize. I take one and drink half of it in three gulps. My mouth is desert dry.
Los Angeles traffic is exactly as terrible as everyone says. We crawl along the freeway for twenty minutes before things start to open up. Then Robert takes an exit, and suddenly we're on Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean is right there.
I've seen the ocean before. Boston has the Atlantic, gray and cold and unforgiving.
But this is different. The Pacific stretches out forever, deeper blue than I imagined, the late afternoon sun turning the water to gold.
Houses cling to the cliffs on our right, each one more expensive-looking than the last.
"First time in California?" Robert asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
"Yes."
"It's beautiful out here. You picked a good time to visit."
I don't tell him I didn't pick anything. That I'm here because someone I've never met sent me a plane ticket and I was desperate enough to use it.
The sky is changing as we drive north. Clouds roll in from the ocean, low and gray, swallowing the sun. The temperature drops, and I'm glad I brought a jacket. Robert turns on the heat without me asking.
"We're almost there," he says after another fifteen minutes. "Mr. Crawford's home is just up ahead."
Mr. Crawford. So that's his last name. What does P stand for? Patrick? Peter?
Robert turns onto a private road that winds up into the cliffs. The pavement is perfect, no potholes or cracks, lined with native plants that look carefully maintained. We pass a gate that opens automatically, then climb higher until the house comes into view.
It's not what I expected. I don't know what I expected, but not this. The house is all glass and steel and sharp angles, built into the cliff like it grew there. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the cloudy sky. Modern in a way that feels almost aggressive, like it's daring you to look away.
"The main house," Robert says, slowing the car. "You'll be staying in the guest cottage."
He drives past the main house to a smaller building tucked behind it, connected by a stone pathway. The cottage is still bigger than my apartment in Boston, with the same glass walls and ocean views. Through the windows, I can see expensive furniture and what looks like a full kitchen.
Robert parks and gets my suitcase from the trunk. "I'll show you inside."
The cottage smells like lavender and something citrus when we enter. The floors are polished concrete, smooth and cool. There's a living area with a couch that probably costs more than my car, a kitchen with appliances I don't recognize, and through an open door, I can see the huge bedroom.
"The bathroom is through there," Robert says, pointing. "Fresh towels in the closet. Kitchen is fully stocked. If you need anything, there's a phone on the counter that connects directly to the main house."
"Thank you."
He sets my suitcase down carefully, trying not to let the broken wheel scrape the floor. "Mr. Crawford wanted me to tell you that dinner is at seven. In the main house. Someone will come get you."
"Okay."
"Is there anything else you need right now?"
"No. I'm good. Thank you for the ride."
He nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. Then I'm alone in this beautiful, terrifying space with three hours until dinner.
I walk through the cottage slowly, touching things to make sure they're real. The couch is buttery soft leather. The kitchen counters are marble, cool under my fingers. In the bedroom, there's a note on the bed, written in the same careful handwriting as before.
Rest. I'll see you at dinner. 7pm. Main house.
-P
Just P. Not even the C anymore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, which is so soft I sink into it. Through the window, I can see the ocean, gray now under the cloudy sky. Waves crash against the rocks below, and I can hear them even through the glass.
My phone buzzes. Chloe.
Did you land? Are you okay? I'm literally five seconds from calling the police.
I take a photo of the view and send it to her. I'm fine. The place is... intense.
INTENSE? Where the hell are you?
Malibu. In a guest cottage that's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived.
Have you met him yet?
Dinner at 7.
It's not too late to leave. Say you're sick. Say you changed your mind. I can book you a flight home right now.
I stare at the message for a long time. She's right. I could leave. I could tell Robert I made a mistake, ask him to drive me back to the airport, be home by midnight.
I need to see this through, I type back. I need to know.
Text me after dinner. And Jade? Be careful.
I will.
I set my phone down and lie back on the bed. The ceiling is high, with exposed beams that look like they were cut from whole trees. Everything in this cottage probably costs more than everything I own (or will ever own) combined.
What kind of person lives like this? What kind of person has this much money and decides to spend it on a stranger?
I should shower. Change clothes. Try to look like I belong here, even though I don't. Even though I'll never belong in a place like this.
Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the ocean. The waves have a rhythm to them, steady and relentless. They've been crashing against these cliffs for thousands of years and they'll keep crashing long after I'm gone.
The thought should be comforting. Instead, it makes me feel small.
I close my eyes for just a moment, but when I wake up, the light outside is gone. The clouds are even lower now, pressing down on the ocean like they might smother it.
I take a shower in a bathroom that has heated floors and a rainfall shower head and tiny bottles of expensive soap that smell like eucalyptus and mint. The water pressure is perfect. Everything here is perfect.
Getting dressed is harder. I brought my best dress, a simple black thing I bought for grad school readings, but it looks cheap in the cottage's full-length mirror. My hair won't cooperate. My makeup looks harsh under the bathroom's expensive lighting.
At six fifty-five, there's a knock on the door.
I open it to find a woman in her fifties, wearing all black with her hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"Ms. Catalano? I'm Helen. I help manage the house. Mr. Crawford is ready for you in the main house."
"Okay. Let me just grab my phone."
"Of course. Take your time."
I grab my phone and follow Helen down the stone pathway.
The main house is lit up now, warm light spilling from those massive windows.
As we get closer, I can see inside. A living room with furniture that looks like art.
A kitchen with an island the size of my entire apartment.
And in what must be the dining room, a table set for two.
Helen leads me through a side entrance, into a hallway with polished concrete floors and abstract art on the walls. We pass a home office, then a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
"The dining room is just through here," Helen says, opening a door.
And that's when I see him.
He's standing by the windows, looking out at the ocean, and when he turns to face me, my breath catches.
He's younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe. Tall, dark hair, features that would be considered handsome if they weren't so carefully neutral. He's wearing dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, casual but expensive.
But it's his eyes that stop me. Dark, intense, focused entirely on me like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"Jade," he says, and his voice is the same one from the phone call. Deep. Confident. "I'm Phoenix Crawford. Thank you for coming.”