14. Chapter Fourteen
14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
January
Seven Months Earlier
New York
Visions of a little blond boy haunted Samantha’s dreams that night. By seven A.M., her alarm screamed into the quiet room, forcing her to the edge of the bed, where she sat staring at Liam’s photo.
She glanced at it again ten hours later, on her way back from Midtown on the subway. The gallery opening was a coupleof hours away, and she couldn’t tell if her body vibrated with the hum of the rails or her own nerves.
Tonight, she would drink, dance, and celebrate with the people she loved most.
Later, when she and Tristan were alone for the first time in weeks, she would tell him everything she knew about his father. Although nervous, she believed in her soul that he would understand, that he would want to help, that he would put his hurt aside and help his little brother.
Samantha stood as the train slowed, holding onto the handrails as she moved toward the exit. Her hair appointment had taken longer than she’d expected, and Tristan’s flight was due within the hour.
Determined not to panic, she pushed toward the exit. Inch by inch she made it through the crowd and out of the terminal. Crisp air met her lungs when she made it to the street, but she didn’t stop.
She reached her building five minutes later completely breathless, finding security standing at the door. She shot up a hand, gained Mr. Covington's attention, and the guard let her inside.
“Sorry I’m late—” she said to Mr. Covington, “I had no idea it would take that long.”
His warm smile quieted her as he placed one hand on her shoulder. “Go get ready, girl, your fans are waiting for you.”
She paused for a moment, absorbing his words as she glanced back over her shoulder. A line of patrons was already forming outside. There were hundreds of people on the sidewalk ... in part for her . Her heart skipped a beat, and she glanced back at Mr. Covington.
He had a twinkle in his eye, like a proud grandpa at his grandchild's first piano recital. “Go!” he said as he shoved her toward the steps.“You deserve this.”
She didn’t hesitate, bounding up the steps two at a time, each second stretching into an eternity as she rushed toward the living room.
“Where’ve you been?” Margaret asked from the kitchen. “I was about to send a search party after you.”
“My stylist was running late,” Samantha said in a panic. She stopped scrambling, finally taking in her roommate's appearance for the first time. Margaret, who normally wore overalls, combat boots, and little to no makeup, was wearing a floor length emerald gown that reminded Sam of a mermaid. Peter, who could pass for feral on most days, wore a solid black suit with a magenta-colored silk-tie. His curly mane unkempt like always, yet somehow looked impeccable.
Seeing them like this breathed life into Samantha and emotion climbed up her throat.
This night signified so much—it gave meaning to everything they had sacrificed to be there and purpose to all the nights they had lain awake, riddled with self-doubt. They’d been working toward this night for five months, five months of blood, sweat, and tears, but they’d finally made it.
Like Mr. Covington said––they deserved this.
She deserved this.
“I’ll go get ready,” Sam stated, bounding up the stairs that led to her bedroom.
“Samantha,” Mr. Covington called from the steps that led to the gallery floor. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
In her peripheral vision, she could see her dress upstairs, hanging from the door jamb of her bedroom, and she was instantly torn in two directions. “I just need to throw on my gown—” she stated, but his eyebrows furrowed, and a slight shake of his head told her he wouldn't have it.
For five months Mr. Covington had been her boss, and he’d never denied her anything.
“Of course,” she stated, and reluctantly moved in his direction. Thirty minutes remained before Tristan arrived—thirty minutes before hundreds of people gathered for the exhibit. Mr. Covington knew this better than anyone—yet—here he stood demanding her attention.
She gripped the handrail on the stairs, hiding the shake in them. “Is something wrong?” she whispered.
He didn’t speak right away, and his eyes were intense when they finally met hers. “I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t think it was important, but he’s very insistent.”
The air in the stairwell felt thick, making it nearly impossible for her lungs to pull in a full breath.
“Who?” she asked quietly, even though she already knew the answer.
“He says his name is Thomas Montgomery.” He leaned and whispered, “He says it’s an emergency.”
Panic filled Samantha’s chest, and she flicked her eyes back toward her dress, feeling the distance grow farther. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs,” he answered without skipping a beat. “Security is keeping an eye on him. Is something wrong, Samantha? Just say the word and I’ll have him escorted out of the building.”
For a second, she thought about it. Thought about having him taken out like trash—but she couldn’t. Even now, after all that had happened, she had love for Tristan’s father. She’d known him her whole life, and because of that, she also knew he wasn’t the type of man to take no for an answer.
If she had him removed from the building, he would only come back. Though next time Tristan would be there. Next time hundreds of people would be there as witnesses.
“It’s fine,” she stated after a long pause. She rushed past Mr. Covington as she headed downstairs.
The Gallery floor was already full of people dressed to the nines in tuxedos and floor-length gowns, making her hyper-aware of her attire.They were laughing and socializing as they waited for the show to begin, but her gaze locked on Mr. Montgomery. He stood below one of Peter’s stained-glass windows, his large frame commanding, as colorful light danced along his profile.
A protective surge made her spine a little straighter as she moved across the floor. He wore a black tuxedo like every other man in attendance, yet something was different. Perhaps his elegant posture which was so much like his daughter’s, or the set of his jaw which was so much like his son’s.
“Mr. Montgomery,” she whispered as she came to stand beside him, hoping to appear as his friend to those around them. Shoulder to shoulder, she leaned in close and whispered into his ear, “This is not a good time. I’m going to have to ask you to leave?—”
“I’m not going anywhere.” His gaze remained on the window.
There were hundreds of people lining the sidewalk outside, but all she could focus on was her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Tristan would arrive at any moment. Soon, all her loved ones would be there—Tristan, Renee… She drew in a sharp breath, and the weight of awareness made her eyes blur with emotion.
“You planned this, didn’t you?” She slowly turned toward him. “You knew they’d be here. You knew and?—”
“I need their help, Samantha. I told you that last night.”
She wiped over her eyes, shaking her head. “Renee’s pregnant.” All she wanted was to force him to leave. To give him every excuse she could think of. “She can’t—” She couldn’t form the words. She covered her mouth with her fingers.
“What?” Mr. Montgomery’s voice was quiet when he turned to face her.
Her back stiffened and she turned away, realizing what she’d done.
“What did you say?” For a mere second she heard emotion in his voice. Heard an understanding that gutted her.
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Montgomery. Please leave.” She didn’t want to be so cruel, but she had no other choice. More people entered the building, and she looked down at her clothes. The same sweatsuit she’d worn on the train. The same boots. “This isn’t the time,” she mouthed in his direction. “The event is about to start, and I need to get ready.” She turned on her heels to head back upstairs, but his grip on her forearm stopped her. “I’m not going anywhere, Samantha, not until I talk to my kids.”
She scanned the gallery floor, realizing what he meant. There was no way out of this situation but through it.
“I was hoping for privacy,” he continued. “But I’ll take any opportunity I can get.” His voice was calm, perfectly clear, not hiding the threat he imposed upon her. Either she helped him find a place to have the conversation, or he would have it right here, in the middle of the gallery, in front of everyone.
The room spun and Samantha glanced over at the security guard who still watched from a distance. She could give a simple gesture and have them haul Mr. Montgomery from the building, but the scene that would create stopped her. Samantha moved toward the stairs, spying a handful of photographers by the door. Press from every form of media would be there tonight. It would only take one wrong move to turn this whole event into a total shit-show. She wanted to run and hide, for a hole to appear in the floor and swallow her. Instead, she turned toward Mr. Montgomery, braced her legs apart, and prayed her body didn’t buckle beneath her.
It was then that she saw how tired he was, then when she saw the desperation that made her gut wrench. He reminded her of a wild animal, forced to chew off his own limb. Crazy with his love, insane with his desire to save his flesh and blood.
He was fighting for his little boy’s life, and as much as she hated him for this moment, she understood him. She herself would do insane things for someone she cared about. Including making a scene in front of hundreds of people.
Adrenaline began pumping through her veins and she leaned forward, grabbing hold of Mr. Montgomery’s lapels to steady herself. “I want you to listen to me. I will give you space to talk to your son because I know this needs to happen. Tristan needs to know what’s going on. He needs to know about his brother so he can make an educated decision. I will pick up the pieces when you’re gone, but I have one condition.”
Mr. Montgomery’s jaw clenched. “What’s that?”
“You allow me to talk to him first.” Her voice trembled. “I need time to explain.”
They both stood in silence for a second, and a glimpse of remorse crossed his stony features.
He nodded, and before she could second guess what it meant, she turned toward her apartment again. “Follow me.”
“Sit,” she barked in his direction as they entered the kitchen. Her roommates were still by the counter, their confused stares burning a hole through her body.
“I don’t have time to explain,” she said in a rush. “Don’t let him out of your sight. Tristan will be here any minute.”
There were a million questions among them, but she headed upstairs toward her bedroom.
Pulling her shirt overhead, she yanked the dress from the door jamb as she closed the door with her foot. She tossed it onto the bed before settling down at her vanity, swiftly applying her makeup to mask the fact that all the blood had left her body: blush, eyeshadow, lip gloss, and mascara. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. She pulled her shoes from the closet, stripping to her panties, as Margaret’s voice bellowed up the staircase. “Samantha!”
Chills raced down her spine.
“Samantha!” Margaret called again impatiently.
Feeling numb, Samantha raked the dress down her body, then half stumbled out of her bedroom.
Tristan was standing on the landing when she reached the top step. His face was pale and frozen as he stood in front of his father, face to face for the first time in over two years.
In so many ways, they were identical. Same body, same jaw, the same larger-than-life presence.
She wished she could freeze time so she could tell him what had happened in the hours that led to this moment. But the scene before her was out of her control, unraveling before her like an afghan.
Her throat closed and all she could do was stare. They both wore the same black tuxedo, the same white shirt underneath, their legs braced apart in that same Montgomery style.
Tristan’s chest lifted slowly as his lungs filled with air and raw emotion turned his neck red. His clean-shaven face was the same shade. He turned to Samantha, doubt swarming in his eyes—his expression so raw, she could barely keep herself upright.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
“I can explain,” she barely squeaked out.
His gaze shifted to his father. “What are you doing here?” His voice was loud. Chilling.
“I wanted to talk,” Mr. Montgomery said. “You wouldn’t take my phone calls. I had no other choice.”
“So you flew three thousand miles to bombard me?” Tristan bellowed. “You convinced my girlfriend to plan this behind my back?”
“Tristan!” she cried. Is that what he really thought happened?
“She’s trying to help,” Mr. Montgomery shouted.
Tristan’s eyes met Samantha’s again, and for the first time in all the years she’d known him, his brokenness was directed at her. That beautiful broken heart that was whole when she held it practically shattered in her hands.
This is a mistake! Her soul became lifeless. Limp. Paralyzed with fear and hurt.
“Speak!” Tristan barked at his father. “If it’s so damned important, say what you came to say.” His eyes never left Samantha’s, as though asking her why she would do this to him.
“You have a baby brother,” his father began. “His name is Liam, and he has stage four acute lymphocytic leukemia.”
She didn’t think it was possible for Tristan to break any farther, but he did. His entire face crumbed before her very eyes, shattering into a thousand tiny shards until he was almost unrecognizable.
“What?” His voice was no more than a whisper when he turned back to his father.
“I need your help, son.”
“You need my help?” He almost laughed. “ You need my help.” He sounded almost manic.
Samantha pressed her hand against her stomach, sure she was going to vomit.
“He needs a bone marrow transplant,” Mr. Montgomery continued. “Since Renee is pregnant, you’re his best chance.”
“Renee is pregnant?” His eyes met Samantha’s again. She thought he might cry. “What else are you keeping from me?”
A sound came from his throat. A cry, or laugh, or maybe some chaotic mixture of both. Her legs collapsed on the steps, and she reached for the banister to steady herself. “Tristan.”
He stepped toward his father. “Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when Ren needed you to walk her down the goddamned aisle?”
“I’d love nothing more than to tell you.”
Samantha pulled herself upright, both hands gripping the handrail as she began walking toward Tristan.
In a silent gesture, Tristan held up his hand, stopping her. “You knew about this and didn’t tell me?”
She wrapped her arms around her waist and shook her head. “I just…” Her mind went blank, and she couldn’t think of the right words. Not telling him had made so much sense last night, but now…
“I. Trusted. You.”
His words stripped her of life.
He looked toward the floor, then before she could think of something to say he was descending the steps to the gallery floor.
She stood in shock as she watched him disappear from sight, trying to process all that had happened—the confusion, the hurt, all the misunderstandings. Everyone was silent, as though the events of the last two minutes had left them all paralyzed. Then, the soft sound of a harp began to echo up the stairwell, and Sam realized the festivities of the evening had already begun.
She faced Mr. Montgomery, hurt and rage building in her chest. “I told you.” Her voice trembled. “You were supposed to stay out of sight. You were supposed to let me talk to him first!”
Margaret ran toward her. “It happened so fast. I—I didn’t know what to do.”
“Are you okay?” Peter asked, seeming to come from out of nowhere.
“What do you need? Tell us what to do,” Margaret demanded.
Her vision went blurry, and her world spun. “Zip me up?” she said, deadpan.Tell Mr. Covington to do the introduction without me.”
Peter began to protest, but she quickly shook her head. Nothing else mattered but Tristan. She grabbed the hem of her dress and ran down the steps.
“Tristan!” Her voice was stronger now, and she didn’t care about the hundred or more people who turned around to stare at her.
A sea of black suits and ball gowns surrounded her, blocking her every move, but somehow, she managed to push through the crowd. Fear clutched her throat, making it almost impossible to speak. “Did a man come out here?” she asked the security guard when she stepped outside. There was no snow on the ground, but white clouds of smoke replaced the space where her breath should be.
“I’ve seen many men tonight,” the security guard joked. “You'll have to be more specific.”
“Blond,” she said with impatience. “Tall, athletic build.” The panic in her voice must have been tangible because he suddenly stopped grinning.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Just a minute ago.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Ma’am?”
“Which way did he go?” Her voice was guttural.
He pointed down the sidewalk into the city.
Without another thought, Samantha picked up the edge of her gown and began running. No shoes, no coat, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was finding Tristan. Finding Tristan so she could explain.