CHAPTER TWO
STELLA
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My stylist shakes out my long, dark hair and fluffs around with it as I scroll through my phone. I’m ready to get out of here.
Why does it take so damn long to get your hair done these days? We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t cut and color a woman’s hair in under five hours.
I’m meeting my best friend, Charlotte, at Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle in twenty minutes, so need her to stop spraying and stabbing her comb through my barrel curls.
I normally wear it straight, but every time she decides I’d like curls before I leave.
Fine.
Just hurry up.
Bemelmans is a private club. Very old-school New York elegance. My family has a membership, and right now I need to stick to familiar and safe places.
My life is about to change, and I have no idea what to expect.
I have a bodyguard from my father’s security team, as I’ve had all my life, but as of tomorrow, my own guy will start. Dad doesn’t like it, but I put my foot down. And let me tell you, nobody puts their foot down when it comes to the notorious Victor Voss.
Trust me, I was raised by him, so I know.
I reminded him of what he was asking of me and that I was feeling unsafe because of that. Which is likely the only reason he relented.
My father is a powerful man, so as a young child I learned to keep my mouth shut. What other choice did I have? My mother did the same thing, and I followed her lead and instructions.
He was a scary father. I’m still scared of him, if I’m honest. It’s not like he’s a gangster; although when I was young I pretended he was and sadly got killed in some Godfather-like shoot-out.
That’s horrible, I know.
I do love my father.
Don’t we all, regardless of how we were raised?
This time he’s gone too far and asked me to do something I cannot stomach. But the consequences of not helping him are too horrible to imagine.
Two decades ago, he founded Voss Holdings, an umbrella company that owns multiple private clubs, real estate, and other random businesses. Some call him a tycoon and question how legal his income is.
I don’t know what’s true.
All I know is that he’s made a lot of enemies, and because of that, we’ve always had bodyguards and a higher level of security than even some celebrities.
For good reason.
Our home was broken into at least five times, our vehicles tampered with, a private jet almost took off with engineering issues while our family was in it, and every year Dad spends approximately three million dollars on legal fees defending himself.
Mom frequently hosts parties for well-known politicians, the mayor, and the police chief at our home.
I don’t think any of them are like my father.
They fear him, but they aren’t friends.
I get it. I might love him, but I don’t really like him either. Which is fair; he’s never bothered to build much of a relationship with me. Never taken me to the park, attended one of my birthdays, nor picked me up from school.
My memories are of him sitting at the head of the dinner table, asking me what I’d learned, reminding me of the rules in our family and barking at Mom.
Two years ago, at the age of twenty-three, I decided to move out.
He fought my decision.
“I’m an adult, Dad. Keeping me here against my will is breaking the law. Move or I will call the police.” I eventually said after he wouldn’t listen.
Threatening him was a bold and potentially stupid move which could have backfired, but I was young and eager to have my freedom.
“I own the police.”
“Then I’ll call the FBI.” I crossed my arms defiantly.
His brows had raised, telling me he had his fingers in that damn pie too. Ugh.
“I’ll call the White House. I know the president’s phone number.”
I didn’t.
But for whatever reason I’ll never understand, he decided to let me go. Perhaps he truly did think I knew POTUS, I don’t know. The Voss name is powerful.
All I wanted was my own apartment and to live my life without all his rules. I knew I’d always have to have security, but I was a grown woman by then and needed my space and privacy.
“You’ll remain in Manhattan and I’ll buy you the property,” Dad declared.
“I’ve rented one.”
“With my money,” he reminded me.
“My trust fund.”
“Still, my money.”
I glanced at Mom, who stood meekly to the side, shaking her head. “I told you to speak to him first.”
“I don’t need permission. Do neither of you understand human rights?” I’d flung out my arms, exasperated.
“ENOUGH, Stella!” Dad boomed. “I have agreed that you can leave. But you’re not living in a rented apartment. I’ll have my lawyers cancel the agreement and purchase you a penthouse.”
So that’s how I ended up in my fifteen-million-dollar penthouse on Seventh Avenue.
Yes, poor me.
But I haven’t finished my story yet.
You won’t envy me soon.
“There we go,” my stylist pulls off the black jacket and shakes the hair off. “Gorgeous as always, Stella.”
I fluff the curls, smile, and reach for my purse. “Beautiful, thanks, Jasmine. Can you check my booking for next month?”
“It’s in there.” She follows me to the counter, and we process my payment.
Thank goodness. I’ll be on time to meet Charlotte.
Charlotte Kensington and I met at school and have known one another all our lives. She’s now a fashion designer and living a fabulous life. I envy her.
I’m an author published by the biggest publishing house in the world, thanks to my family name. Despite that, my novels are not very successful. Even with the vast marketing budget that indie authors could only dream of—including a Times Square billboard—they aren’t doing that well.
I know they want to drop me, but my terrifying father’s reputation likely keeps me on their books. The fact that they haven’t chased me for my next final draft speaks volumes.
Pun intended.
“If you need an extension, that’s fine,” Rebecca says every time I ring her.
I’ve written two books. This third one has taken me eight months to write four chapters. I hate it and want to toss it all out.
As a young girl dreaming of being an author, I thought writing would be more fun. As an English lit graduate, I imagined pacing my glamorous office as ideas flowed so fast I’d have to race back to my computer where I couldn’t type it all fast enough.
I let out a snort as I put my wallet away.
I truly thought that my characters and I would go on an adventure as I brought them to life on the page.
Mine don’t. They feel flat.
It all feels forced.
Right now, nothing is flowing. Which is understandable under the circumstances.
My bodyguard follows me out of the building and across the sidewalk into the waiting black car. He climbs in front after my driver shuts the door, and we head to The Carlyle.
Inside Bemelmans, the dark redwood ambience is moody with its dim lighting and intimate tables. It’s not busy, which I like. A bartender pours whisky for a customer and gives me a cursory glance.
When I see Charlotte, my face breaks into a smile.
She’s so busy in her successful life that I don’t see her enough. I miss her. For all I know, soon I won’t see her much at all.
“Charlotte.” I feel tears prick my eyes but blink them away before we straighten from our hug.
“Your hair looks amazing, girl. And oh my, I love this dress.”
We both grin.
It’s one of her designs that she sent me at the start of the season.
A long-sleeved utility belted midi-dress in black with puff sleeves that cuff at the wrist. The neck has a black sheer lace detail showing a hint of cleavage.
I’m wearing black patent Christian Dior stilettos and three diamond bangles which match the large studs in my ears.
“This old rag. I nearly threw it out.” I sit at our regular table as Charlotte faux-gasps.
She knows I love it. I’ve been photographed in it by the paparazzi and landed on the front page of the tabloids. Their attempts to catch Victor Voss’ daughter at something illegal or dating a playboy have been an utter failure. Not for lack of trying, trust me.
That I became a fiction author must have burst their bubble tremendously. There’s not a lot they can claim I do while sitting at a computer screen all day long in my penthouse.
Not that I do a lot of writing.
Mostly it's procrastination and questioning my career choices.
“If you play your cards right, I might send you the yellow dress you loved from Fashion Week in September.” Charlotte orders us both a chocolate martini and then wiggles in her seat, settling in for a long chat.
I miss being in college, feeling like a normal kid.
Mostly.
“Yes, please. God, I fell in love immediately with that one. Oh, and the shorter, white one. Both will be perfect for the Hamptons next summer.”
I fall silent.
I don’t know what next summer will look like. Our family has a house there, and we go every year, but next summer is not going to be the same.
Nor the one after that.
“I will get them sent to you the moment they’re available.” We clink our drinks together when they arrive. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” I sip the delicious drink and sigh.
“God, that’s good. I can’t believe we’re talking about summer. It feels so far away. And sorry, but how is it November already?”
“I know. But you love Christmas, so don’t tell me you’re sad.”
“I hate the cold, but I do love the holiday season.” She takes another sip. “So...”
My brows lift.
I know this girl. She’s about to make an announcement.
“So?”
“I’m going to move in with David.”
I gasp. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Hear me out. We’re both busy with work and find it difficult to see one another. Ships in the night. We discussed it and think that moving in together would help.”
Um, no.
“Okay.”
“You think it’s a bad idea.”
“No.”
“Stella,” she pushes, frowning at me.
We’ve always been honest with one another, even if we hate what is said. It was a promise we made in our teens. Sadly, I’ve already broken that promise.
To keep her safe.
“Okay,” I nudge my glass an inch or two away and spin the stem. “Question.”
“Go.”
“Have you said I love you?” I know she hasn’t.
“Well...it’s implied.”
“That’s not how it works, babe.” I shake my head. “I know you’re pragmatic, not nearly as emotional as me, but you should be in love before you take a serious step like this.”
Charlotte nods slowly, thinking as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “No. You’re right. Love does exist; we’re just not the type to say it a lot.”
“David told you he loved you?” I ask, as only her best friend could.
Her parents are both superior court judges, and from what I’ve witnessed when in their home, I doubt they have ever told her how much they love her. They are kind, but not the cuddly type.
For the record, I’d like to state that Charlotte’s parents and mine have never met. They are from different worlds and different sides of the law. Her folks were not happy when we became friends. Until they met me.
Or rather, until they got to know me a little bit.
“He doesn’t have to say it, I know, Stella. Honestly,” Charlotte insists.
My mouth twists as I try to believe her.
“Okay. Then do something for me. Before you move in, tell him how you feel and watch his response. Listen to what he says back,” I challenge her. “I know a relationship is more than roses and platitudes, but it can’t only be about convenience.”
She glances down into her drink, fussing with it. “We’re busy; it makes sense. It doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
“He’s a stockbroker. Not a doctor. Can he not make time for you?” She glances away, so I reach out and touch her hand. “Charlotte, do you love him?”
“I don’t know if I need love.”
I blink; unsure I believe her. “Of course you do, babe. We all do.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I realize my error.
Last week I told her I was getting married.
She’s never met him.
Neither have I.
I can’t tell her or anyone why I’m doing this, but I wanted my best friend to know. To understand why she can’t be there and be my bridesmaid. That it’s nothing to do with our friendship.
It’s simply not safe.
Words I did not add.
She thinks it’s some family connection arranged by Dad that I’m against but obligated to fulfill. Which I am...but not in the way Charlotte assumes.
She was shocked.
“Why have you never told me this?”
“I was embarrassed. I hoped it would never happen.”
“That’s a bit bold coming from you, given you’re marrying a stranger,” she challenges.
Touche.
The trouble is that I don’t have a choice.
I never had a choice.