Chapter 8
EIGHT
HARLOW
Present day
“Darling, have you heard from Julian? I need to make sure that I’m looking my absolute best tomorrow, and Julian is the only person I trust to do my hair. If he’s delayed it will ruin everything and there won’t be time to replace him. I can’t be expected to do my own hair on my wedding day!” my mother trills, her voice rising as her unwarranted panic sets in.
“He’s currently on a flight from Paris, and will be arriving at the hotel later this afternoon,” I remind her for the tenth time this morning, more than a little exasperated. Her makeup artist, Stephanie, flits me a small grin as she applies my mother’s makeup. She knows only too well how trying my mother can be.
Jorge Visagé is the hairdresser to the stars, and has cost a cool three hundred thousand pounds to hire for the weekend, expenses on top, of course . But to a billionaire like Robert Blade, that kind of money is, apparently, small change.
“Only the best for my darling fiancé,” he’d responded when I’d emailed him my mother’s list of requirements and the corresponding fees, totalling to just over one million pounds. Robert has more money than sense in my opinion, but despite my initial reservations, he genuinely seems to love my mother and has made a huge effort to include me in this wedding. His genuine appreciation for my singing ability has worn my mother down, and she has done a three-sixty turn about the whole idea of me singing at the ceremony. But honestly her approval is the least of my worries right now.
Because I have a stalker .
Or at least that’s what I’m beginning to think, given the escalation of the messages I’ve been getting over the last few months on Instagram since I responded with a simple thank you to that first message I’d received. After that they’ve become more frequent, starting out almost like fan mail. At first I wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman messaging me, but the latest message I received confirmed he’s male. He started off complimenting me on my singing ability, asking when I’d be posting another song, whether I had a Spotify account for my music. But over the last few months, each message has become increasingly more personal, more insistent, more intrusive, and now sexual .
I received the latest message just this morning.
When I listen to your voice I can’t help but touch myself. You taunt me. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m gripping my dick now, listening to you sing.
I should probably just delete the account or block this person, but there’s a small part of me that thinks if this escalates any further then at least I’d have evidence. I’ve received other messages from different accounts too, but I’ve been too afraid to open them in case it’s this person trying to reach me from another account, given I haven’t responded to any of his messages since that first time.
I honestly don’t know what to do, and it’s messing with my head. I’ve considered telling my mother, hoping she’d have some advice, that she would try to help, but then I would have to explain to her about my Instagram account, and that I’ve been performing in secret as Friday Love. I just know she wouldn’t understand. So I’ve kept quiet, concentrating on organising her upcoming wedding and vowing to file a report once the wedding’s over.
“Harlow, are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” my mother scolds, forcing me back to the present moment.
“You really need to stop questioning everything that I do,” I reply sharply, frustrated with her self-absorption, and lack of emotional intelligence. Surely someone who truly cared about their daughter’s happiness and well-being would see that something is up, would notice how jumpy they were, and would question it? Not my mother.
“I’m just checking,” she snaps, looking up at me. “Robert and I just want to make sure that everything goes smoothly for our special day.”
I heave out a sigh, pushing my own worries, and feelings aside. “I know, but everything is covered. I promise.”
“So you keep telling me, darling, but I just worry. Don’t take it to heart, I’m just a woman in love wanting to make sure everything is perfect, and you do have a habit of getting distracted with your…” She waves her hand in the air between us, her eyes dropping to my notebook that I use to write lyrics in, “ Other interests.”
Distracted? I’ve only spent the last few months since Robert proposed working my arse off organising this over-the-top, extravagant-as-fuck wedding, but that doesn’t seem to register with my mother. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, we’ve already established that she doesn’t notice much unless it directly affects her.
“It will be perfect,” I reply tightly, then add, “And how I spend my free time has no reflection on my job. Have I ever let you down before?”
She arches her brow. “Darling, are you forgetting that time when you failed to arrange for a chauffeur to pick me up, and get me to my final interview in New York after you spent the night God knows where. I had to call the hotel’s Maitre’d to organise it for me. It was so humiliating.”
“It was my first night off in months, and I didn’t fail to organise anything, the driver failed to arrive,” I remind her, my cheeks heating, not at her complaint, but at the memory of that night in Sterling’s arms.
That one night of escape is the only thing that has gotten me through these past few months. I’ve done little else but organise this damn wedding, pushing my own wants and needs aside, not to mention my safety. Admittedly, for a while I’d considered that Sterling was the one sending the messages, that he’d somehow found my Instagram account, had recognised my voice, and he’s been sending them as punishment for sneaking out on him that night. But I refuse to believe that’s the case, and maybe it’s foolish to think this, but he didn’t seem like the stalking, creepy type. There have been many people who I’ve met over the years who fit that bill perfectly, but not Sterling.
He was intense, sure, but he was also… wonderful .
Then again, what do I know? No matter how incredible that night was, how connected I felt to him, I don’t know him. I don’t even know his full name, let alone whether he could be capable of sending those messages.
“Well, if you’d been available, instead of doing whatever it was that you were doing, then I wouldn’t have been so inconvenienced. It was extremely embarrassing for me to arrive late for my interview. You must understand that?”
I almost remind her that she practically chucked me out of the hotel room that evening so that I wouldn’t inconvenience her when Robert came to visit, but I don’t. Instead, I swallow my anger and say, “Your lunch will be arriving shortly. I’m going back to my room to check my emails and make some calls, okay?”
“Very well…”
Her voice trails off as she gives me a rare smile, a smile that isn’t practised or plastered on for the press, a smile that I see very little off these days. It makes me feel momentarily guilty, but I shouldn’t. As much as I love my mother, I know her better than I know myself, and this smile, though true, isn’t heartfelt. She knows she’s pissed me off and she’s trying to placate me.
Too bad I can see right through her.
Pushing to my feet, I gather up my notebook, phone, laptop and room key. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’re not coming to dinner tonight? I’m having a little get together in the bar with my close girlfriends who arrived this morning. It’s a bachelorette party if you will.”
“Would you like some strippers to entertain you?” I ask, my face straight, my voice saccharine.
Stephanie smothers a smirk as my mother bats her hand away and leans forward in her seat. “Don’t be so obtuse. Of course I don’t want a stripper! This is just me and my girlfriends spending some time together. God knows I’m so busy that I barely have time for myself. Something Robert insists on changing as soon as we’re married. I will finally be a lady who lunches,” she adds with a simpering laugh.
Oh, give me strength! Sometimes I wonder how I could be so very different from my mother. She wouldn’t know a day’s hard work if it slapped her around the face. She’s spent the best part of almost a decade since I’ve been her personal assistant being chauffeur-driven from one interview to the next, waited on hand and foot whilst I’ve run around making sure all her ridiculous needs are met. The woman has so many self-care spa days that it’s almost impossible to squeeze in an interview or press junket to keep her relevant.
“Well, it sounds positively lovely,” I say with more than a little sarcasm, “But I have some last minute things to finalise–”
“I thought you just said everything is in hand?! What last minute things?” she asks with a scowl, her voice rising in pitch, that smile from a few moments ago replaced with an expression I know all too well.
“Everything is in hand. I just need to make sure the security detail has the final schedule for this evening’s late arrivals. There’s been some changes to our requirements given that Councillor John Hoxton and his wife, Elodie’s, flight from Europe was slightly delayed. It’s nothing that I can’t manage.”
“Oh well. Yes, that’s important,” she nods, appeased, then adds, “I shall see you in the morning then?”
“In the morning,” I agree, dropping a kiss to her cheek. “Have a lovely evening, Mom.”
“I will,” she replies before adding, “Make sure to order something from room service. The food is delicious.”
“I’ve noticed. The Wagyu burger, and truffle chips I had last night was so tasty,” I reply, my stomach rumbling at the memory. I skipped breakfast this morning as well as lunch because I’ve been so busy, and I’m suddenly starving.
“You might want to order a salad then, hmm? You don’t want to be bloated tomorrow, that silk dress will show every flaw. You know how easy it is for you to put on weight.”
Bloated? Flaw? Put on weight? Urgh!
My mother thinks being a US size six is too big, and I’ve fluctuated between a size six and ten for most of my adult life. Admittedly, there was a time when I’d force myself to throw up just so I could keep my weight down all in order to conform to my mother’s ideal of beauty. It was a time of my life when I’d felt my lowest, and I’ve clawed my way back to a healthy weight. But if my mother had her way I’d be a tiny size two like her. It’s unrealistic, not to mention unhealthy for my frame. Blowing out a breath, I don’t bother to respond to her parting dig, instead I stride across the room and leave.
An hour later I’m sitting at the dining table of my suite, surrounded by a veritable feast. I decided to order macaroni and cheese, which they serve here as a main dish rather than a side, a bowl full of vegetables smothered in garlic butter, some mouthwatering bread, and a slice of the most decadent chocolate cake. I’ve already devoured the macaroni and cheese, half of the vegetables and all of the bread, and I’m just about to take my first bite of my chocolate cake when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.
Grabbing my phone I look at the screen. It’s Robert.
“Robert, what can I do for you?” I ask, dropping my fork to the plate, internally groaning.
If it isn’t my mother harassing me every five minutes making sure that everything’s in hand , it’s Robert making sure all my mother’s needs are met. I can’t fault him for it, but I just want this wedding to be over, and my mother distracted by her new husband, so that I can finally start my own life.
“Just checking in,” he replies. “How are you, Harlow?”
“I’m fine,” I respond, a little flatly to be honest.
“Really? You sound stressed.”
“It’s been a long few months,” I admit.
“I see…” his voice trails off for a moment.
“Robert, I don’t mean to cut this call short, but I’ve got to send some more emails to the security team and I–”
“Harlow, I just want to let you know that I appreciate everything you’re doing. This wedding wouldn’t have happened without you. I’m honoured to welcome you into my family.”
“I… Thank you,” I reply softly, feeling a sudden well of tears burn my eyes. It’s been a long time since anyone, namely my mother, has thanked me for anything.
“Credit where credit’s due,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Is your suite to your taste?”
“It’s beautiful.” The suite is stunning, and far too grand for my needs, but I appreciate it nethertheless.
“Only the best for you.”
“It’s very generous of you. I would’ve been happy to have a standard room. This wedding is already costing you quite a substantial amount of money.”
He barks out a laugh. “I’m a billionaire, Harlow. I can afford it.”
“Even so…”
“Whatever you need, you just ask and I’m sure I’ll be able to accommodate you.”
Accommodate me? Why does that phrase seem so loaded ?
“I don’t need anything, but thank you, that’s very… kind,” I reply, glad we’re on the phone and he can’t see how uncomfortable I’m suddenly beginning to feel.
“You’re going to be my daughter very soon–”
“Step-daughter,” I interject.
“Semantics,” he replies, before adding, “And I want you to feel part of the Blade family. Making sure you’re comfortable, that you have everything you need, is the least I can do.”
“Was there anything else?” I ask, wincing at how abrupt I sound. It must be the stress of organising the wedding, my mother’s constant digs, and the anxiety building inside of me from these messages I keep receiving. It’s not Robert’s fault I’m projecting. “Sorry, I’m a little tired, that’s all,” I add.
“That’s understandable, but there was one more thing.”
“Okay, shoot,” I say, aiming for lightheartedness to try and dispel this uncomfortable feeling brewing inside of me.
“My son…” His voice trails off, and I can practically see the scowl he must be wearing at the mention of his elusive child.
“Yes?”
“He’s decided that, in fact, he would like to be my Best Man.”
“He does?” That’s news to me, I hadn’t even realised he was attending the wedding given his name wasn’t on the guest list.
“He’s been home for a couple of weeks now, and let’s just say he’s seen sense.”
“A couple of weeks? I didn’t realise.”
“Perhaps it was remiss of me for not introducing the two of you earlier, but you’ve been so busy with the wedding and arranging your mother’s schedule, and given you both only arrived in Princetown a few days ago, I didn’t want to add any more pressure by introducing you to my son who can be… difficult .”
Difficult? Great, that’s all I need.
“I guess I’ll meet him tomorrow then?”
“Indeed, and given he’s had a change of heart, I’ll need you to arrange a boutonniere for him. Can you do that in time?”
“Of course, I will call the florist directly, and get them to deliver an identical one to yours tomorrow morning. That should be manageable.”
“Excellent, well, I shall see you in the morning then.”
“Of course… Oh, and Robert, you’ve never actually mentioned your son’s name. I’d feel awkward not knowing it given we’re meeting tomorrow for the first time.”
“I’ve not?” he asks.
“No, you haven’t,” I reply.
“His name is Sterling,” Robert says, before abruptly hanging up.
Sterling?
Wait? His son’s name is Sterling ?
No. It can’t be.
I stare at my phone, mouth agape, a sudden rush of goosebumps covering my skin.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a coincidence.”
But that doesn’t stop me from reaching for my laptop, and doing a quick search. It takes me a while, because apparently Robert’s son avoids being in the spotlight as much as I do, but eventually I click on a link with a grainy photo attached to it.
“Oh fuck!” I exclaim, because staring back at me is the man I had the best sex of my life with just four months ago, the very same man that I left sleeping with nothing but a note to say goodbye.