18. Monique
Monique
The thing about waking up in someone else's space is that you spend the first thirty seconds doing a very thorough inventory of your own choices.
After a few days of coastal meetings, we’re back at the hotel, in his suite. The morning light is coming through the windows at an angle that makes the coastal property look genuinely beautiful.
Weston is watching me from the bed with one eye open. He sees me looking for something.
"It's under the chair," he says.
"How did you know?"
"You've been walking in a circle for four minutes with only your right shoe on."
I stop and find the shoe under the chair. I put it on and pull my hair back with the elastic on my wrist.
I check the room for anything I might be leaving behind, a habit so old it runs before I decide to run it.
Weston watches me do all of this from the bed. He stands and grabs his shirt.
"You don't have to walk me out," I say.
"No, I’m coming down with you," he says and gets up.
He hands me my jacket when I can't find it, which was hanging on the back of the door. When I take it from him, his hand catches mine for one second and stays there.
I look at our hands, then at him. Neither of us says anything.
After a moment, we walk to the elevator.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. Morning light on the marble. The day shift settling in, the overnight staff wrapping up, the early-morning hush of a hotel before the guests remember they're awake.
Juan is at the desk.
He looks up when we come in. His eyes move from me to Weston and back again. He grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
"Good morning, Juan," I say, with as much dignity as I can assemble on short notice.
"Good morning, Monique," he says. Then very deliberately, he goes back to his screen.
Weston, behind me, says, "Morning, Juan."
I walk faster.
"Morning, Mr. Blackwood," Juan says. I look back and see the corner of his mouth has gotten significantly worse.
I make it to the entrance and through it. I stop on the pavement outside, and I turn around.
Weston is right there, hands in his pockets, looking at me with the expression that means he’s finding something funny.
"Not one word," I say.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face is saying things."
"Come on. My face is completely neutral."
"It absolutely is not." I look at him. "That man has worked overnight shifts with me for almost a year. He’s going to think about this every single day for the remainder of his career."
"Probably," Weston says.
"You aren’t helping."
"I'm just standing here quietly."
He puts his hand at my waist and presses his mouth to my forehead. I stand there on the pavement in my yesterday clothes with my damp hair, and I let him do it.
My sternum does the warm-wide-open thing again, and I’m going to need a significantly longer period of alone time to process this than I currently have.
"Go get ready," he says. "Noah's throwing another business gala. I'm bringing you as my date.” He flashes a wide grin. “It's at the same venue as the yacht auction."
“A gala?”
“Yes. See you there okay? Now go.”
The drive home is fine. I shower and do my makeup. The dress I’m wearing fits perfectly — navy, simple, the one I keep for occasions that require something better than my work uniform.
I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and add the small gold studs.
I'm in the lobby of my building, sling bag across my chest, heading for the door, when Adrian Reeve steps into my path.
He's not blocking it. He's slightly to the left of the door, hands in the pockets of a very good coat, looking at me like we’re at a meeting.
"Monique," he says. "Do you have a moment?"
My hand tightens on the sling bag. "Of course."
He gestures toward the small seating area by the entrance with two chairs and a table with yesterday's newspaper. He moves toward it with ease, and I follow.
We sit.
"How are you doing?" He smiles.
"I'm well." I keep my voice level. "On my way to a gala with Weston, actually."
"How lovely. I’m heading there myself." He nods. Then he looks at his hands for a half-second, the only break in the eye contact since we sat down, and brings his eyes back up.
"I wanted to speak with you about your father," he says.
Every muscle in my body locks.
My palms flatten against my thighs while the expression holds.
And underneath all of that, something cold moves from the base of my spine up to the back of my skull, slow and certain, and I sit in it.
"Victor Castellano." He watches my face.
Breathing is suddenly harder than it should be.
His gaze pins me in place. "I want you to understand who I am because I think it will make this easier.
Your father borrowed a considerable sum of money from a man some years ago.
A man who collected debts in ways that made his debtors very reluctant to default.
" He tips his head to one side. "Are you following me? "
My mouth is dry. I know who he’s talking about. Tall, muscular, mean, dark eyes. I picture him standing in the doorway, glaring down at me. You got my money? The last time he came, he threatened to make me pay for Victor’s debt if he didn’t pay up. I ran before any of that could happen.
I swallow. "Yes."
"That man is no longer involved," he says. "I acquired his interests some time ago. The debt was transferred. I'm the one holding it now."
"But you're…" My voice stays level. "You're not him."
"No," he says. "I got rid of him."
The memory hits me all at once. A bus ticket to Newport. The bag across my chest with the strap pulled tight. The kitchen table, and the man who used to sit across from Victor and look at me while they talked.
He got rid of him.
"You really thought nobody would come looking for you?" He leans forward by maybe an inch, looking at me.
"Here's what I want," he adds. "It's simple. You deliver Victor Castellano to me, or you repay the outstanding balance." He names the figure, two hundred thousand dollars.
"I don't have that money," I say.
"No." He nods, pleasantly. "But your boyfriend does…
and some." His eyes are steady on mine. "So is it Victor or the money?
I'd recommend Victor. It saves everyone a great deal of difficulty.
Do you want me to turn my attention to Weston instead?
Or would you make things easier for everyone involved and just find your father? "
"I don't know where he is," I say.
"I don't care." He stands, straightens his coat, unhurried. "Find him."
My chin lifts slightly. “He’s found me once. He’ll find me again.”
“Good. And you don’t need to be afraid of me, Monique. I’m not a drug dealer. I’m an investor — I work with money carefully. If Victor and the money don’t come through, you’ll be working for me.”
I shake my head and blink hard.
He glances toward the door. "I should go ahead to the gala. You should too. We don't want to be late."
He gets up, buttoning his tux jacket as he does.
"Oh, and by the way, if Weston ever finds out, I'm doubling the interest. Best keep this between us." He walks out.
The door closes behind him.
I go still in the chair.
Victor or the money. My father's safety on one side, and on the other, the man I've let closer than anyone in six years — now a name on Adrian's list.
The old reflex says carry it alone. Tell no one. Solve it in the dark the way I've solved everything else.
But I know where that road goes. I watched my mother walk it. And I know what Adrian is counting on — that I'll fold quietly, the way women do when a man makes the weight their problem and the silence their job.
I sit in the chair and look at the door he walked out of.
I don't have the bottom of this yet. But I've started looking for the edges of it, the way I read any room I walk into — where the exits are, which wall is load-bearing, which part doesn't lock.
He thinks he's walking the rooms.
So can I.