19. TIGHTROPE
CHLOE
After Bryce left for the office, I grabbed my phone. Gene Windsor’s attorney had sent me another secure link.
Both Gene Windsor and his attorney could go die in a hole, for all I cared.
I ignored the link and instead went to my calendar.
When the heck did I get my last period?
I kept zero record of it, of course. Elena had encouraged me to download some sort of app to track it, but I’d blithely ignored her.
I’d also blithely ignored that I wasn’t on birth control, and Bryce and I had had sex about a zillion times.
I shivered, remembering our encounter from that morning. He’d made me come so hard, I’d seen stars. And then I’d started crying because I was so scared about his father, what his father would ask of me…
The fact that I might be pregnant just complicated everything further. What if Gene forced me to leave Bryce again? What the hell was I going to do then?
I put down my phone, climbed out of bed, and started pacing.
I couldn’t let my mask slip in front of my husband again.
If I betrayed Gene, he would hurt Bryce—not to mention my brother.
I felt like I was walking a tightrope, and everyone’s existence depended on my performance.
The thing was, I didn’t have very good balance. And I’d never had much of a game face.
I didn’t know what to do or where to turn.
There was no one I could trust.
It was too early to call Dale and check in on my brother, but I had to do something. I hustled to the shower and washed my hair. As I stood under the hot water, I ran my hands over my stomach. Was it possible that I was pregnant?
What would Bryce think?
I could picture him being excited, picking out baby names, and bragging to his brothers. Stop it, Chloe.
Every time I pictured a happy future with Bryce, I had to make myself stop. Gene Windsor wasn’t going to let that happen. If I let myself hope, it would be much worse when my dreams crashed and burned.
After getting dressed in a simple black dress that was still ridiculously fancy for everyday wear, I headed downstairs. Worried that my nausea would return, I bypassed the kitchen and went to the front door.
“Mrs. Windsor?” One of Bryce’s besuited men appeared out of nowhere. “Are we going out?”
“Um… I was just going to run to the drugstore. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Can I go pick something up for you?” he asked.
“I’d like to go if that’s okay. I’m not sure what I need.”
“I’ll just go with you.” He wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’ll follow behind and give you plenty of privacy, I promise.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. But who the hell actually had privacy in a situation like this?
My thoughts swirled as I headed down the street, the early morning air fresh and clean.
Beacon Hill was spectacular, with gorgeous, immaculately maintained townhouses lining the streets and gardens brimming with bursting late-summer flowers.
I inhaled deeply, hoping the fresh air could cleanse my circling, anxious thoughts.
Gene wanted me to tell him everything about what the board was planning and how Bryce felt about it.
My inclination was to act clueless, but was that safe?
Gene already knew that the board was considering voting on Bryce’s position.
If he was aware of that, what else did he know?
The problem was that I sucked at lying. Not only that, I didn’t know where his information began and where it ended.
What would happen if I mischaracterized or omitted something and Gene realized it?
Would I be jeopardizing my brother’s already precarious position?
What about Bryce? Was I helping him or hurting him by doing what Gene asked?
A drugstore was on the corner and I ducked into it, hoping to lose my security-guard friend. But he was right behind me. He kept close as I browsed the pain reliever section, pretending to compare brands of ibuprofen.
Finally, I had an idea. “Hey.” Now I was the one who magically appeared at his side.
“I need to go to this aisle.” I pointed to the sign that said Feminine Care .
He gave me a thumbs-up and followed me to the aisle, but he didn’t venture down into the land of maxi pads and tampons, God bless him.
I went to work quickly. I grabbed several large boxes of feminine supplies and vitamins and quickly shoved three pregnancy tests between my wares.
Then I hustled to the checkout counter, blocking my purchases with my body and the enormous designer handbag I’d grabbed from the closet.
Once everything was paid for, I slid the tests into my tote and carried everything else out in the plastic shopping bag.
The guard didn’t say a word and didn’t offer to carry my bagful of feminine-care products. Score. Once we were back at the house, I unpacked everything and hid the extra tests in one of my new Stuart Weitzman over-the-knee suede boots.
I clasped the other test and headed for the bathroom, but the intercom intercepted me.
“Mrs. Windsor?” The guard sounded slightly panicked. ‘There’s someone here to see you.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Who is it?”
“She said she’s your stepmother.”
“It’s me, Lydia!” She hollered. “Get your ass down here, this idiot’s trying to throw me out! I’m going to sue him and everyone else if he doesn’t shut his yap and get out of my way!”
“Hold on, I’ll be right down!” Fuck! I quickly hid the test under the sink and ran downstairs.
Lydia had a short fuse. I had no doubt she would try to shut the guard’s yap or die trying.
I rushed to the bottom of the stairs and found two of the guards facing off with my step-monster.
The men were stone-faced, but Lydia’s cheeks were flushed, her hands curled into fists.
Her orange-y hair was slicked back into a bun, and her shorts revealed her newest tattoo, the giant face of a lion.
“Hey guys—that’s my stepmother. She’s fine.” ‘Fine’ wasn’t an accurate description, but I still waved them away.
I motioned for Lydia to follow me into the living room. Once we were alone, I whirled on her. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.
“Checking on my one-and-only step-daughter.” Her voice was too loud. Everything about her was too much; I had to squint at her to soften my view of her orangey-blond hair and smoker’s lines. “You haven’t been in touch, Chloe. I thought we had a deal.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you and Dad were happy with the money we gave you. Dad signed the agreement—I thought we were done with it.”
“Well, turns out we’re not quite done just yet.” She smiled, revealing newly whitened teeth. “I need more from you and your husband.”
“Lydia.” I shook my head. “We’ve already given you a ton of money. There isn’t any more.”
“Ha!” Her laughter quickly turned to a phlegmy cough. “How can you say that with a straight face? Look at this place! I saw on one of those real-estate apps that it’s worth twenty million bucks—and this is just one of your husband’s houses!”
I took a deep breath. My stepmother’s greed knew no bounds. First came the tattoo, then the whitened teeth. Next was probably the facelift and the condo, not to mention a lifetime supply of cigarettes and liquor. Who the hell knew what else she wanted?
“I have to tell you, it took some time for me and your father to figure it out. We thought the older guy would be the biggest payout. But it turns out there’s way more money to be made than just that old cocksucker. He is a whiny little bitch, isn’t he?”
I refused to agree with her. But deep down, I knew she was right: Gene Windsor really was a little bitch.
“What’s happening with him? How much money did he give you?”
She snorted. “He was all talk at first—real promising. But then he’s only coughed up half-a-mill, not really enough to make it worthwhile for us to keep our mouths shut about you.”
“Between that and the money we’ve given you, you’re rich . You should be happy—”
“Don’t tell me what I should be!” She flopped down onto the nearest couch and whipped out a pack of cigarettes.
Lydia lit up without asking permission, exhaling a dirty cloud above her head.
The smoke was woefully out of place in the pristine living room, but then again, so was Lydia.
“I’m the one telling you . You should listen, not talk. ”
She took another deep drag off her cigarette and blew out a toxic cloud. My step-monster was taking her time, enjoying herself.
That made one of us.
I sank down onto a nearby chair. “What do you want, Lydia?”
“We want more. Your father and I deserve more . We took you and your brother in when your mom died, even though we didn’t have the space, and you were always ungrateful. But we did our best.” Lydia straightened her shoulders defiantly.
“Now you’re all rich and fancy,” she continued, “and you think your shit doesn’t stink. But it does, let me tell you. And plenty of people out there think it stinks, too. So you’re going to pay up. Otherwise, I’ll do what these rich people are asking me to.”
“What are they asking you to do?”
“Well, that depends.” She exhaled another cloud of smoke, and I wished a lightning bolt would shoot out of it and crack her straight in the head.
But alas, she just kept talking. “Mr. Windsor wanted us to sit tight and hold off on filing anything for your brother and not go to the press. But this other lady wants us to go public about your background, do interviews, and all sorts of stuff. And she’d been paying pretty good.
But I figured that since you were married to the richest dude of them all—and he’s seemed pretty dead-set against us talking—he might want to outbid her.
After all, it’s his pretty little wife she’s talking about. ”
She flicked some ash onto the floor. “She’s saying you’re a hooker, can you believe it?
And here you are, sitting all high and mighty in that dress.
Like I said, Chlo, your shit absolutely stinks.
Doesn’t matter if you’re spraying Chanel perfume all over it.
A hooker is a hooker. Your father couldn’t believe that one, but I told him it’s always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for!
” She laugh-coughed again, thoroughly amused by herself.
“Who is the woman who’s paying you?” But I already knew.
“Some rich cunt from Maine. You beat up her daughter.” Lydia’s features twisted. “Mimi something-or-other?”
I nodded. “Mimi Jones. You’re right that she’s rich—but you’re also right that we’re richer.”
“Good.” Lydia took another big drag. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Chlo. I’m sure that handsome husband of yours doesn’t want the world to know he married a skank.”
The fact that Lydia was calling me a skank was indeed the icing on the fucking cake. “How much do you want, Lydia?”
She sat back, smiling. “A lot. I want a lot.”