Chapter 3
three
ELLIOTT
“You fired her!” Morgan squawked as she barged into my apartment.
I didn't look up. I just continued throwing a tiny rubber basketball across the living room. My French Bulldog, Steve, watched it bounce, then looked back at me with a judgmental stare that said he had zero intention of fetching it.
“Hello to you too, dear sister,” I said, my snark feeling half-hearted even to my own ears.
Morgan was my exact opposite—an absolute optimist who refused to let the tragedy of our parents' death dim her light. She’d even stayed best friends with her. The girl I refused to think about, yet who somehow occupied every square inch of my brain.
Morgan planted herself directly in my line of sight, breaking my standoff with Steve. She slapped a gossip magazine onto my lap, the glossy cover staring at me like an accusation.
VANESSA MIRANDA AND JAVIER ORTIZ OUSTED: EVER AFTER DISASTER.
The cover photo was a shot from an event six months ago.
Javi had his face buried in the crook of her neck, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. I knew the picture well, it had been burned into my retinas.
A surge of hot, jagged anger slammed into my chest—the kind that made my vision blur.
I wanted to reach into the glossy paper and rip his hands off her.
I wanted to strangle him for touching what was never his, and then I wanted to strangle her for letting him.
She had dated several guys in the past—a fact I hated myself for knowing—but out of all of them, she’d dated Javi the longest. Six months of seeing his hands all over her. Six months of Javi Ortiz thinking he was man enough to hold her. I hated him the most.
“The tabloids are having a field day, Elliott,” Morgan snapped, oblivious to the fact that I was currently imagining Javi’s head on a spike. “How could you do that to her? After everything?”
“She didn't have the designs, Morgan,” I said, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous register I used when I was losing control. “Business doesn't care about ‘everything.’”
"Oh, stop with the 'CEO' act. We both know you don't care about the profit margins of a Spring line as much as you care about making her hurt." Morgan stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. "You’ve never forgiven her and you’ll never let her forget it. What is she supposed to do now, huh?” Morgan picked the magazine back up and shoved it in my face. “Now that her reputation is in the garbage, nobody will hire her and she doesn’t have a job. You know she takes care of her parents..” Morgan paced the length of my rug, her heels digging into the wool.
“And what about Saturday, Elliott? Did you even think about that through your haze of corporate spite?” I stiffened. I knew exactly what was on Saturday.
“The engagement party,” Morgan said, her voice dropping into a deadly, quiet simmer. “In case you forgot, she is my Maid of Honor. I already sent out the seating chart. She’s supposed to be at the head table. Next to you.”
A muscle jumped in my jaw. I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just chosen to ignore the reality of standing five inches away from her while the entire elite of Los Angeles whispered about why I’d cut her throat professionally forty-eight hours prior.
“I’m not changing the seating chart,” Morgan warned, pointing a finger at my chest. “You’re going to sit there, and you’re going to look her in the eye, and you’re going to realize exactly what you’ve done to her.
People are talking, El. They think you’re a monster.
And for the first time in my life, I’m starting to agree with them. ”
I looked at Steve. The dog had finally picked up the ball, but he wasn't bringing it back. He was just holding it in his teeth, guarding it—waiting for a challenge.
I knew the feeling.
I knew she took care of her parents. I knew the balance in her bank account was dwindling toward zero. In fact, there wasn't much about Vanessa Miranda that I didn’t know; I made it my business to know everything, if only to sabotage her every chance I got.
“I couldn’t let her get away with what happened," I said, my voice cold as I turned back to the window. "You and I both know she was distracted by Javi.” It took everything in me not to snarl when I said his name. I stood up, smoothing the front of my shirt, feeling the cold weight of my father’s cufflinks against my wrists.
“If the party is the problem, I’ll handle the rest. I’ll talk to her and offer her another job. Maybe she can design a capsule collection and we can sell it under a pseudonym.”
“Yeah, because she’ll just come crawling back to work for you just like that,” Morgan replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’s not going to show up Saturday to play nice, Elliott. She’s going to show up for me, despite you..”
She was right. Vanessa was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a pushover. If I offered her a job now, she’d throw the contract in my face and tell me where to shove it.
“Don’t worry, Morgan. I’m not the kind of guy who doesn't have a Plan B and a Plan C.” I watched the city lights flicker like dying embers. “The Catherine James Foundation is having the gala next week."
Morgan paused, her anger flickering into confusion. "Yeah. So?"
"Vanessa is the keynote speaker. She still owes the foundation that much.
" The plan was already knitting itself together in my mind—dark, manipulative, and exactly what I needed. "If she needs money and a way to save her reputation, I’ll give it to her. But it’s going to cost her more than a sketch. "
Morgan looked at me like I was a stranger. "What are you planning, El?"
I looked back at the magazine cover one last time—at Javi’s hands on her skin—before flipping it face down.
"I'm going to make sure she’s exactly where she belongs," I said, my voice final. "Under my roof. Where I can keep an eye on her."