Chapter 20
TWENTY
Chantal
Three weeks later…
There was a time when getting dressed in the morning felt like putting on armor—each designer piece was a thoughtfully selected weapon in my arsenal of fabulousness.
These days, after what I’ve been through, it just feels like cosplay.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom of Dad’s penthouse at The Carlisle, admiring the reflection of a stranger.
The Armani blouse is crisp and chic, pairing well with the Bottega pants that have been tailored to hug my hips and ass.
My braids are freshly done courtesy of a stylist Dad hired for an in-home appointment because God forbid Senator Banks’s daughter be subjected to a salon after her “harrowing ordeal.” The same can be said for the shiny mani-pedi I’m rocking.
On the outside, I look exactly like my old self: sassy, bright, fashion forward Chantal Renée Banks (even despite the arm sling and stitches present).
But on the inside? She’s playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
I heave a deep sigh and reach for my highlighter, sweeping the brush across the apple of my cheek and then down the short bridge of my nose. A few spritzes of my makeup setting spray and then perfume at the pulse points, and I’m technically ready.
I’m that girl I once was.
…or I should be anyway.
Maybe I need time. It’s only been three weeks. Being held captive does things to your psyche you can barely understand.
My therapist says to give it a couple months. I’ll be back to normal any day now.
As if there’s a reset button on my back that simply needs to be pressed and then everything’ll be okay again; as if my life wasn’t forever changed the moment I was taken in the Maldives.
I’m still not sure what to make of it. It changes moment to moment.
But one thing that stays the same is the face I see when I close my eyes. I’ve been seeing Lochlan every time I let my mind wander…
I push down thoughts of him and turn away from the mirror.
One thing I’ve always been good at is compartmentalizing. Shoving certain things in certain boxes and carrying on like I need to, always presenting the Chantal most people are used to—fun and bubbly with a side order of wit.
It’s what I’ve been trying to do since the night I was released, though it hasn’t been as easy as it used to be.
I leave the guest bedroom and wander through the rest of the large penthouse.
Dad’s place is peak modern luxury with giant windows overlooking Central Park and smart-activated appliances and expensive art adorning the walls.
He put a grand piano worth thirty thousand dollars in the living room because he was being featured in Time magazine for their “100 Most Influential People” list, and he thought it would make him appear extra sophisticated for the interview.
Walking the halls of his home is a reminder of how our old family home was growing up.
Optics. Optics. Optics.
Our entire life was built around the O word. I didn’t used to mind—even took pride in how I presented myself using art and fashion—but it’s strange when I compare it to recent weeks.
The time I spent at the crumbling old estate that once belonged to Lochlan’s grandpa has given me another perspective.
The property was decaying and infested with rodents, and Old Chantal would’ve taken one glance at it and labeled it a gross, ugly eyesore.
I still would.
But there was also real charm about the home. Beauty in how it had cracks and imperfections and ghosts from the past that weren’t glossed over by modern facades.
I hear Dad’s voice before I see him; he’s barking into his phone, in the middle of a call with his campaign manager, Stephen (what else is new?).
“I don’t care what polling says, Steph! We pivot the messaging NOW before this becomes a bigger story. My daughter’s kidnapping should be humanizing me, not—” He pauses, listening to what Stephen has to say for a few seconds. “Then fix it! That’s what I pay you for!”
I hover in the kitchen doorway, unsure if I should enter the room and interrupt his phone call. But the truth is, when isn’t Dad on the phone with Stephen?
I think he was on a call with him while Mom was in active labor giving birth to me.
They’ve been working together that long.
I’ll be holding my breath forever if I wait for Dad and Steph to hang up.
I pad into the kitchen as discreetly as I can, my left arm immobilized against my chest. The sling makes even the most basic tasks difficult, but I don’t want to bother Dad about making coffee.
He’s fully dressed in one of his signature navy suits, both his sleek red tie and American flag pin secured in place.
Three weeks ago, when I was released from the hospital, Dad was a different person.
He held my hand and had tears in his eyes. He swore he’d never let anything happen to me again and insisted I stay here at The Carlisle where he could keep an eye on me.
It was the most fatherly he’d been since Mom died. He didn’t want me to be alone and thought it best to take care of me.
I wish I could hold onto that version of him forever.
But watching him now, pacing and scheming and treating my trauma like a PR problem to be managed, it reminds me of an old saying—the more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Morning, Dad.”
He doesn’t look up. Just holds up one finger in the universal “give me a minute” gesture while Stephen talks his ear off.
I cross over to the K-Cup machine and attempt to make my coffee with only one functional arm. The pod is a breeze. The mug is fine. But when I reach for the sugar bowl with my right hand, I underestimate the space I need and knock over the coffee mug with my slinged arm.
Brown liquid spreads across the black marble countertop before I can even think to grab a kitchen towel.
“Crap!” I mutter.
The ceramic mug tipping over finally earns Dad’s attention. He glances up to see the puddle of coffee on his counter and his expression morphs from irritated politician to concerned parent.
“Steph, I’ll call you back.” He hangs up without waiting for a response, at my side in two quick strides. “Chantal sweetie, don’t worry about that. I told you not to overextend yourself.”
“I’ve got it, Dad, it’s just coffee—”
“Nonsense. That’s what the help is for. DAYNA!” he shouts. “Kitchen!”
Dad’s housekeeper basically materializes out of thin air, a doughy middle-aged woman with wispy hairs out of place along her hairline as if she didn’t have enough time to tame them. She squeezes herself between us and the mess and sets to wiping it right up.
Dad slides an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the kitchen island where some pastries have been put out.
“You shouldn’t be trying to do things on your own,” he says, his tone gentled by concern. “Not until that arm heals. Whatever you need, Dayna can get it for you. Or me if I’m available. Simply ask.”
“I know, Dad. I just...” I trail off, unsure how to explain that being waited on hand and foot makes me feel more helpless, not less. That I got used to doing things for myself at the estate—even lowkey enjoyed it, in a weird way. “I’m okay. Promise.”
He hardly looks convinced, brow creased, though he lets it go. “Have you called Detective Ruiz back? He left another message about scheduling a follow-up session with the sketch artist.”
I freeze up for what’s only half a second, but it feels long enough considering how I’ve lied.
Since I was released, I’ve given the police a story with mostly fake details, all in a bid to throw the scent off Lochlan and protect his identity.
I’ve told them my captor remained masked at all times and offered other descriptive details that are basically the opposite of what’s true.
The NYPD and Feds are now on a wild goose chase looking for my imaginary kidnapper, and as far as I’m concerned, I’d like to keep it that way.
Anything to buy Lochlan more time. More freedom.
The only people who could thwart my efforts are Ronan and the Callahans. But they haven’t come forward to authorities about what they know.
I suspect Ronan wants to handle the situation with his brother privately. Which, in the mob world, means violent payback and a grave six feet underground instead of courtrooms and lawyers.
“Um, yeah… I called him yesterday,” I fib. “We’re still figuring out a time that works for both of our schedules.”
“Good, good.” Dad nods, accepting the cup of coffee Dayna’s poured for me and delicately placing it within reach. “The sooner we get a clear image of him, the sooner we catch that bastard.”
“Right… let’s, um, hope.”
“Listen, I have to get going, sweetie. But remember, tonight it’s me and you, daddy/daughter dinner like old times.”
I perk up, hope beating inside my chest. “Tonight? I thought you had a lot of planning to do for your big donor’s event.”
“Tonight indeed. The event planning can wait. My daughter is more important,” he confirms. He pauses to check his phone. “That’s Steph calling back. I’m taking this, but be ready—six o’clock!”
“Okay,” I answer.
I’ve barely gotten the word out before he has the phone re-glued to his ear. He waves and then heads down the front hall that leads to the door.
I sip from my coffee with my good hand and decide I’ll try to be optimistic. That might be the quickest, easiest way to start feeling like myself.
Learning to look forward to things again.
Dinner with Dad sounds like a good place to start.
“A dungeon? In New York City?” Simone asks, arching a brow.
We’re seated at a corner table at Café Boulud, surrounded by elegant French décor like a cream color palette and textiles like the crisp linen on the tablecloth.
It’s business as usual for us, another brunch date where Simone, my cousin Monique, and I sip on refreshments and enjoy the light fare Boulud has to offer.
The dining room is packed with the usual Wall Streeters and socialites and the servers that bounce between tables to provide the top notch service the café’s known for.