Chapter 9
nine
ELLIOTT
I sat at the bar Rob and I frequented, nursing the same glass of whiskey I’d had for the last half hour. My tie was undone, my top buttons were open, and my hair was a disaster from the number of times I’d run my hands through it.
That confrontation… it had been brutal. I had seen her angry before—most of the time at me—but that was something else entirely.
It was raw. It was pure rage. With me, there was still some element of playfulness, like she didn’t fully mean the vitriol she spat.
But that look she’d given Javi? That was the most hate I had ever seen her possess.
I didn’t know she had it in her. For all the anger I’d harbored toward her for what had happened with the wedding gown designs, I hadn’t even stopped to think how she felt about it. I felt like a massive asshole.
I hated the feeling. I much preferred it when we were trying to eviscerate each other with words, beating each other metaphorically until we both called it a draw.
“I knew I’d find you here.” I recognized Rob’s voice as he took the seat next to mine. He had been at the gala, too; he must have just left. “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” he told the bartender.
“It’s Macallan,” I said.
“Put it on his tab,” he added. I didn't even have the energy to laugh.
“You guys are already all over social media.” Rob pulled out his phone and slid it over. A picture of me, Ness, and that pathetic excuse for a man filled the frame. I pushed the phone back toward him.
“I was there. I don’t need the replay.”
“Is she okay?” he asked. It wasn't to get a rise out of me; it was genuine concern.
“No,” I said. “She’s not.”
“Can I ask you something?”
I knew he was going to ask whether I agreed or not. “You’ll ask anyway,” I muttered.
“If you say this girl killed your parents—or is the reason they're dead—but you’re so clearly obsessed with her… shouldn’t you, you know…” He trailed off for so long I finally snapped at him.
“What?”
“Pick a lane? You can’t have her and hate her at the same time. She doesn’t seem like the type to be into that.”
I shot him a scathing look. He just took his drink, shrugged, and patted me on the back before wandering off to a group of women in another section of the bar.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper.
I’d swiped it from the room where Ness had been before we’d left.
It was a cocktail napkin. On it, in black ink, was a sketch of a gown.
It was architectural yet fluid—a masterpiece drawn in the time it took for the salad course to be served.
She thought I didn't notice. I noticed everything.
I knew she reached for her hair when she was lying. I knew she hated the color yellow because it reminded her of a dress she’d been forced to wear at nineteen. And I knew that when I’d touched her on that dance floor, her heart had been hammering a rhythm that matched mine.
Thirty days.
I’d bought a month of her time for fifteen thousand dollars. To the room, it looked like a playboy’s whim. To Morgan, it looked like a peace offering. But as I stared at the endless rows of liquor bottles, I knew the truth. It was a siege.
Vanessa Miranda was the only person who had ever looked at me and seen the man behind the James empire—and she’d had the audacity to dislike him, even after what she’d done.
I was going to spend the next thirty days making sure she couldn't breathe without thinking of me. I’d give her the resources, the studio, and the gowns she deserved.
I’d give her everything, show her what she was missing, and then, when the thirty days were over, she’d beg to stay. She’d beg to come back to me.
My phone buzzed on the bar top. A text from Morgan.
Morgan: She’s home. She’s safe. But Elliott? If you hurt her again during this 'wish' month, I will help her bury the body. No joke.
I set the phone down without replying. I wasn't going to hurt her. I was going to win.
I took a swallow of the scotch, the burn familiar and grounding. I looked back at the napkin sketch.
"Thirty days, Ness," I whispered to nobody at all. "Let's see who breaks first."