Chapter 20
REMY
My head is pounding when I rouse from a dreamless sleep with a start.
I don’t know what woke me. One moment I’m in another world, and the next, I’m dragged into consciousness with the force of a tornado.
My head spins as if it hasn’t accepted the crash landing into reality.
My eyelids feel as though someone glued them down while I slept. And my heart is racing.
Fuck, it’s racing too quickly, but the more I focus on it, the faster it goes.
I’m hot. Panting. I need to get up, guzzle a glass of iced water, get my bearings.
But when I try to move, my limbs feel like someone pranked me by attaching buckets of sand to my hands and feet.
Nausea.
Headache.
Pregnancy hormones are wreaking havoc with my body.
Maybe I drift back into welcome unconsciousness.
Or maybe my brain simply blanks out everything that I’m feeling until I’m better equipped emotionally to deal with it.
Because the next time I come around, it’s with the overwhelming gut instinct that this is a thousand times worse than pregnancy hormones.
I know why my heart was racing.
It was fear.
I’ve been getting headaches throughout the first trimester.
I’ve had morning sickness too, and the coffee aroma has made me gag on several occasions.
But this is more of a hangover headache than a pregnancy migraine.
I only remember Cash giving me a half-glass of champagne and very little after that.
Did I get drunk on half a glass, or did he order more champagne and watch me drink it?
Even as this thought materializes, I squash it like a bug underfoot. Cash wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that. But the bitter taste in my mouth is suggesting that somewhere between that first sip of bubbles and waking up in my bed now, I drank more liquor than I’ve ever consumed in my entire life.
Like, ever.
Alcohol doesn’t normally affect me. Ariel often jokes that God gave me the liver she should’ve had, given my take-it-or-leave-it attitude to partying.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that I’m not sick. Really sick. Tears trickle down the sides of my face and pool in my ears. Please God, think of my babies…
My babies.
I try to sit up and the world spins as a metal-heavy clanging starts up inside my skull. I cling to the side of the bed, gripping the sheet in both hands, sweat beading on my forehead while I wait for it to pass. It does. But not enough for me to stand up; I don’t trust the world to support me.
Instead, I sink forward onto my knees on the furry rug beside the bed. Head in hands, I concentrate on my surroundings. The rug under my legs. The faint scent of vanilla and jasmine. The dense black-out darkness when I crack an eye open.
Where the hell am I?
But that isn’t my biggest fear right now. The fear churning my insides like a kaleidoscope and making it hard to breathe is that whatever I drank will have harmed my unborn babies.
I need to get out of here, find Cash and Bash, and get to a hospital.
Then a memory crawls inside my head and burrows into my skull like a parasite that won’t let go: Cash is engaged to another woman.
I saw the ring.
I met the woman who is going to marry Cassius Murray.
He lied to me. They both lied to me. Maybe they did this to scare me into walking away and letting them get on with their lives.
I should get up and fight. I should tell the whole world about the real Cassius and Bastien Murray, destroy their reputation, and accept whatever compensation they offer. I’ll be financially stable for the rest of my life. My babies will never have to go without anything.
But deep down that isn’t what I want. My heart would never let me hurt them, even if I could stand up and walk out of here without looking back.
I slide my legs out from under me on the floor and lean back against the side of the bed. It’s going to hurt, but I need to let the other memories back in too.
The mafia conversation with… their names are right there but it’s so difficult to think… Veronica… Victoria that’s it, and… Sasha, Stella, Sienna. Recalling their names is as tiring as running a marathon.
But I’ve started now. No turning back.
Cash and Bash are mafia.
Cash wanted me to see the Titan.
The dress. I peer down and realize I’m still wearing it.
Champagne, half a glass.
He had to leave, and that’s when his fiancée showed up wearing a gigantic fucking rock that would set me back ten years’ wages, if I had a decent well-paying job.
I’m missing something though. I massage my temples, round and around, and it does nothing to seal up the black hole in my memory.
What happened next is a blur.
People. Too many people. Cash’s fiancée’s laughter following me. Hard to breathe. I needed to get out of there before Cash came back, and then I crashed straight into him.
No, not Cash.
Someone else.
I’m staring at a blank screen inside my mind, willing someone to press the remote control and switch it on.
The voice is right there. Faint but present. Fuck, Remy. What did he do to you?
Who? Cash?
The dots are not connecting though. What am I missing?
George. It was George, but not George.
Shit. I’ve lost it. The black hole has opened wide and swallowed previous events whole, leaving me with an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with whatever I drank, and everything to do with falling for the wrong man.
Men.
Everything about this situation is plural for God’s sake.
Voices.
To begin with, I wonder if they’re in my head, but I have no control over the whisper-buzz of their conversation, so they must be real.
I crawl across the floor, feeling my way with my hands, until I miss a step and lurch forwards.
My chin hits the floor, jolting my front teeth, and scraping the skin raw.
I sit up and touch my tingling jaw. It’s wet. I open and close my mouth and my skin tingles as fresh blood oozes out. Tears spill from my eyes and I sniff hard.
“Stop being a fucking baby, Remy.” I try to channel my inner Ariel, and it works. A little.
My ears are still ringing, and the clanging in my skull has become a steady rhythm that probably belongs to a well-known rock anthem, the name of which I don’t even try to remember.
Keep crawling. See a door ahead. My pulse races when I fear that it might be locked.
My legs tremble as I straighten and reach for the door handle.
I almost cry out when it opens.
Holding my breath, I open the door a fraction at a time until there’s sufficient space for me to crawl through.
The light from the next room is blinding, and I peer out from beneath fluttering eyelids.
I don’t recognize it. There’s a huge flat-screen TV on the wall.
Mustard-colored couches arranged around a glass coffee table.
A drinks trolley pushed up against one wall.
I’ve never seen the artwork before, or the thick-pile gray carpet, or the teal cushions.
I can’t see who’s talking, but I’m certain I don’t recognize the voices.
Two men. At least two, maybe more.
Then a door opens and someone else enters. Tall. Lanky. Expensive suit that still manages to look casual on his angular frame.
George?
Why did he leave me here with strangers? Why didn’t he take me home? He was going to help me. I remember now, he was angry with Cash, and he said that he would help me get away from the Titan.
I open the door wider.
The other men come into view. They speak to George briefly, and then they leave. I only get a chance to see their backs, so I’ve no idea who they are.
I need to speak to George. He must’ve brought me here—wherever here is—to sleep off the hangover from hell. He doesn’t know about the pregnancy. He would’ve had no clue that I wasn’t drinking. He can take me back to the residence halls now, and I can get an appointment at the OB/GYN clinic.
He tosses something onto the coffee table and peers directly at me. He smiles when he sees me on the floor, approaches me slowly, almost cautiously, eyeing me up like I’m a feral animal programmed to attack in self-preservation.
When he is within touching distance, he crouches on the floor. He doesn’t try to help me get up.
“Look at you, Remy Jones. Did you learn nothing from your sister?”
I blink. I don’t know what he means. Danielle died eight years ago; George barely even knew her before she passed.
“What a fucking state to get in.” He shakes his head, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Pity those poor babies you’re carrying.”
He tries to touch my belly now, and I back away, hitting my elbow sharp on the edge of the door. I wince. More tears sting my eyes, but I don’t let them spill. He isn’t here to help me. George Quinn never helps anyone but himself, and I don’t know why I thought he might’ve changed.
“Where am I?” I croak, confirming that he’s the one in control.
“That information is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.”
His face is pink and sweaty as though he has been out jogging.
His hair is combed back from his forehead, and there’s a faint trace of something sticky clinging to his jawline.
He was always obsessed with his looks. He refused to let my mom cut his hair because he didn’t trust her to style it to his specification.
And I cling to the small hope that he would be mortified if he could see his reflection in a mirror now.
It gives me the strength to sit up straight and stare him straight in the eye. “What do you want, George?”
His grin makes my stomach churn. “Nothing much. Only a little selfie. Me and you. To send to your boyfriends.”
I shake my head to clear it, but the pounding continues undisturbed. “A selfie?” I must’ve misheard him.
But he pulls his cell from his pocket and unlocks it. “I could give you time to freshen up, but—” he shrugs “—I don’t want to. It won’t make any difference anyway. I have what they want, and they’ll pay me to get it back.”
“They…?”