Forty-Two
Aspen
I’m honestly not sure how I managed to keep it together until I got out of the Cosa Nostra compound. Don’t know how I functioned in any normal capacity for long enough to talk sensibly to Mika, go back to my vehicle, and get out of there.
The sense of betrayal I feel is like acid burning away in my chest, and I want to rage and scream, curse and throw things.
I also want to vomit.
In fact, it’s a very real possibility.
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, but right now it’s the only thing tethering me to sanity.
The GPS on my phone guides me through streets I barely register, buildings and people blurring past like I’m watching someone else’s life. Prospect House. The name tastes bitter in my mouth, acrid and sharp.
I don’t know what I’m going to find there.
Don’t know if I’m ready to see whatever truth is waiting.
But the not knowing is worse. The images my mind conjures are worse still.
At least confronting it head-on will give me something concrete to work with instead of this gnawing uncertainty that’s eating me alive from the inside out.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, even though I probably could have walked it in five. Fifteen minutes of my mind spiraling through every possible scenario. Fifteen minutes of my heart cracking a little more with each painful breath.
When I pull up to the address, my stomach drops.
It looks like it used to be a warehouse, and although I haven’t travelled many miles, the neighborhood has seen better days.
There are signs of recent renovation though, especially with this building.
The windows of Prospect House are covered with subdued blinds, warm light glowing behind them.
There’s nothing overtly suspicious about it, nothing that shouts out what it might be.
But all my senses are screaming at me, like something in my gut knows but refuses to put a label on this place.
Somehow, I already know I’m not going to like what I find here.
I sit in my car across the street, engine running, hands trembling. I could leave. Turn around and pretend I never came here. Never heard the name Prospect House. Stay ignorant.
But where would that get me?
No, I refuse to revert back to the naive, stupid girl I used to be. I refuse to run when things get hard.
With that thought, I kill the engine and step out into the cool afternoon air, faking a confidence I don't really feel.
My legs feel disconnected from my body as I cross the street, each step deliberate, mechanical. The front door is painted a deep burgundy, elegant in a way that seems incongruous with the neighborhood.
There’s no sign. No indication of what business goes on behind these doors.
My hand hovers over the doorbell for a long moment. Once I press it, there’s no going back. Whatever’s on the other side will become my reality, and I’ll have to deal with it.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I press the button.
Footsteps approach from inside, measured and unhurried.
The door opens to reveal a woman in her early thirties, not much older than me.
She’s dressed in a sleek emerald dress that hugs her curves.
She’s beautiful in an effortless way, fair hair cascading over one shoulder, red lips curved in a professional smile.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is warm but cautious, her eyes assessing me and her head tipped to one side. There’s a small furrow between her delicate brows like I’m not who she expected to see.
“Umm… I…”
What the heck am I supposed to say?
The woman pulls the door open wider. “Why don’t you come in, instead of talking on the doorstep?”
I nod mutely and step inside, my heart hammering so hard I’m surprised she can’t hear it. The interior is nothing like I expected - although I’m not sure what exactly that was.
It’s tasteful, almost elegant. Soft lighting, plush furniture in rich jewel tones, artwork on the walls that’s actually good. Soft music plays from hidden speakers, lending a calming air to the surroundings..
And there are women. Several of them, scattered throughout what appears to be a large sitting room.
They’re all beautiful, all dressed in various states of elegant undress.
Some lounge on sofas, others stand in small groups talking quietly.
A few glance up at my entrance, curiosity flickering across their faces before they return to their conversations.
My stomach turns to lead as realization crashes over me.
Ohmigod! This is a brothel.
Kaiden is at a brothel.
The woman who answered the door studies me with those assessing eyes. “Are you here as a client, or are you looking for a job?”
“I...” My voice comes out strangled. Sweet baby Jesus, I’ve walked into a whorehouse, and this woman thinks I want to join them… or taste the wares. I don’t know which assumption I prefer.
I clear my throat, trying to find some semblance of composure even as my world tilts on its axis. “Actually, I’m looking for Kaiden Brooks. Mika Rossi said he should be here?”
Although I really don’t want to know if he is, despite what I told myself earlier.
There’s a lull in the conversation, and I can feel eyes on me, but I refuse to acknowledge anyone other than the woman I’m speaking to. I don’t want to see the pity that I’m sure I’ll see in their eyes.
What I do see is a flash of recognition from the woman in green. She nods her head and gestures to a hallway at the back of the room. “Come into the office,” she murmurs, turning to lead the way.
I keep my head down, staring at the plush carpet, not sure where to look and certainly not wanting to see the evidence of where my so-called husband spends his time.
“You’re Aspen,” my host remarks as she closes the door to a tidy, efficient office space. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She holds out her hand, and I take it automatically, shaking her hand seconds before she delivers a death blow.
“I’m Kitty.”
The name hits me like a wave crashing over me, its force knocking the breath out of me and leaving me dizzy and disoriented. My hand goes slack in hers, and I have to fight the urge to yank it back like I’ve been burned.
My palm goes clammy, heat flashing up my arm like a surge of static. The handshake turns brittle, my fingers numb and unresponsive, as if nerve endings have snapped.
The skin tightens over my bones as my jaw clenches so hard I fear I’ll crack a molar, and there’s a sharp ringing in my ears.
The sort that comes with a sudden drop in blood pressure, while the thud of my own pulse drowns out every other noise in the room.
The space between us is punctuated by a silence so dense, it nearly vibrates.
For a moment, the edges of my vision cinch in, like a camera lens snapping shut, and I wonder if I’m going to pass out.
The name floats on the air, then crashes straight through my composure, scattering any trace of calm. It’s like someone’s thrown open a window in the room, the light suddenly too sharp and everywhere at once.
This is Kitty.
The woman who sent those desperate messages. The woman he ran to and never returned from. The woman who, according to Kaiden himself, was the only other woman in his life for the ten years we’ve been apart.
She’s even more beautiful up close, and that knowledge twists the knife already lodged in my chest. The specter from my nightmares now has a face.
“You’re the reason my husband disappeared four days ago.” I manage to say, my voice coming out sharper than I intended.
Something flickers across Kitty’s face - surprise, maybe, or concern. She releases my hand and moves around the desk but doesn’t sit. Instead, she leans against it, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.
“Is that what you think?” Her tone isn’t defensive. If anything, she sounds... sad?
“What else am I supposed to think?” The words burst out of me, all the hurt and anger I’ve been bottling up for days finally finding a target. “You send him desperate messages, he runs to you, and then he vanishes for days. What conclusion would you come to?”
“That there’s more to the story than you know.” Kitty’s voice remains calm, which only irritates me more. She gestures to a chair. “Please, sit. Let me explain.”
“I don’t want to sit.” I’m aware I sound petulant, childish even, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“I want to know where my husband is and why he’s been ignoring me for four days while apparently spending time with you.
He…” I swallow around what feels like a mouthful of cotton. “He already told me about you and him…”
The words curdle on my tongue, thickening the saliva until it’s a struggle not to choke, leaving a bitter, tinny aftertaste at the back of my throat.
Kitty’s expression softens in a way that makes my stomach clench. It’s not the look of a woman caught in an affair. It’s something else entirely. Something that almost looks like... compassion?
“Look, I think you’ve gotten the wrong impression about what this place is. About what I am to Kaiden or him to me.”
“It’s a brothel,” I say flatly. “And he told me he’s only been with one other woman in ten years. You.” My voice cracks on the last word, betraying the fragile hold I have on my composure.
To my surprise, Kitty shakes her head. “Oh honey, no,” she responds, a sad smile playing on her lips. “Kaiden and I have never been in a relationship like that. He simply isn’t capable.”
The words don’t compute. I stare at her, trying to reconcile what she’s saying with everything I’ve built up in my mind. I’m almost offended that she’s implying Kaiden has commitment issues, and my first instinct is to defend him.
She pushes off the desk and moves to a small sidebar, pouring two glasses of what looks like whiskey. She holds one out to me, and I take it automatically, my mind spinning.
“You see, the only woman Kaiden ever wanted is you, so there was no chance of anyone else ever getting close to him. Not even me.”