Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Chantal
When Monique texted me about finally hitting up the new vintage thrift shop in SoHo, I was fully on board. My girl has impeccable taste when it comes to finding one-of-a-kind pieces, and honestly, I could use a distraction from everything that’s been going on.
What she failed to mention was she’d also invited Simone.
I walk into the shop—this cute little place with exposed brick walls and racks of designer pieces from the sixties and seventies—and immediately spot my best friend standing near a display of vintage Hermès scarves.
Simone glances up at the same time I do, and the expression on her face makes it very clear she had no idea I’d be here either.
“What are you doing here?” Simone asks flatly. She turns to my cousin. “Neek!”
Monique steps out from behind a rack of brightly colored Pucci dresses, her long sisterlocks gathered in another cute updo. Today she’s out-dressed both of us in a cute lemon-yellow frock that’s straight from the ’50s and complements her medium brown skin tone and her curvy frame.
“Is there a problem?” she asks simply. “I invited my two best friends out for an afternoon of shopping. That’s not a crime, right?”
“You really have watched one too many true crime shows,” Simone says. “Am I hallucinating, or are you doing what Seamus Callahan did to his sons to us?”
She shrugs. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Girl, think again,” I scoff. “I didn’t sign up to be ambushed.”
“Ambush is such a strong word,” answers Monique coolly. “I prefer... strategic intervention.”
“Okay, I do have to respect this level of gaslighting,” I admit, and Simone begrudgingly nods.
But Monique remains unbothered as she floats over to another rack and admires some pieces from old-school Gucci.
“I don’t know what your problem is. Maybe you should talk to each other like adults while I go find a vintage Gucci belt. Excuse me.”
She disappears behind the rack as if she wasn’t the one who set up today’s outing.
This is not at all how I imagined my Saturday going.
I turn to Simone to find her arms still crossed and her expression tight. Releasing a slow sigh, I decide maybe to take the advice from my cousin.
“Sooo… um, how’ve you been?”
“Fine,” answers Simone, clipped. “Busy running interference for LDS as always. Planning my honeymoon with Ronan. He’s still dealing with some family stuff.”
“Um, yeah, heard about that.”
Awkward silence lingers between us as we reach a brick wall and our conversation tapers off. A salesgirl with a septum piercing nervously glances over at us, probably sensing the tension radiating off our bodies.
I sigh again and give it another try.
“Look, Sim—”
“I just don’t understand, Chani,” she blurts out at the same time. “How can you be with him? After everything he did? He kidnapped you. He tried to sell you to the Russian mob. He’s been terrorizing Ronan for months. His son tried to kill me.”
“I know what he did.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve completely lost your damn mind.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “This is textbook Stockholm Syndrome, Chani. Why can’t you see it? You were his prisoner, and now you think you’re in love with him? That’s not real. That’s trauma.”
Her comments sting more than I want to admit, but I force myself to hold her gaze.
I’ve given her accusations a lot of thought, especially in the weeks I spent apart from Lochlan. I searched the depths of my mind, heart and soul for answers.
For clarity on whether my feelings for him are real, or if this really is Stockholm Syndrome.
If I only fell for my captor because I was programmed to.
But I know myself. I know how the hell I feel, and it’s insulting when people think they know better than I do. Even someone like Simone, my bestie.
I counter her points with a few of my own, always one to hold my ground.
“You really want to talk about unconventional relationships, Sim?” I ask. “You? The woman who was literally shopping for a hitman to take out her husband before she fell in love with him?”
Simone blinks in rapid succession, suddenly tongue-tied. “That’s… that’s different.”
“How so?” I step closer too, matching her energy.
“You pulled a knife on Ronan. He pulled one on you, right? What a romantic wedding night. You hated each other’s guts until, like, two seconds ago, and now you’re crazy in love planning a damn honeymoon.
But somehow my situation is the one that doesn’t make sense? ”
“She does have a point,” Monique calls out randomly from somewhere behind the Gucci rack.
“Stay out of this!” Simone and I say in unison.
“Okay, okay. Sheesh. Both of you are irking my nerves, by the way.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to calm down. Getting into a screaming match with my best friend in the middle of a thrift shop is not the vibe.
“Look, I get how it looks from the outside,” I say, tone softer this time.
“Seriously, Sim, I do. If you told me a few months ago I’d be in love with the man who kidnapped me, I would’ve said you were crazy.
Like, never ever in a million years. But I got to know him.
The real him. Not the villain everyone thinks he is. ”
“He IS a villain, Chantal. He killed people. He—”
“And Ronan hasn’t?” I raise an eyebrow. “Your husband runs a criminal empire. Let’s not pretend any of these men are saints.”
“That’s... also a fair point,” Monique adds helpfully.
“NEEK!”
“Alright! I’ll shut up now.”
Simone pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting off a headache. “It’s not the same thing. Ronan never actually hurt me or the ones I loved.”
“Lochlan didn’t hurt me either—not in the way you’re thinking. Was being held captive rough? Hell yeah, it was. But it was also one of the most clarifying experiences of my life.”
“I guess that makes it better somehow?”
“He gave up his entire war for me. The war you’re pissed about. He spent months planning his revenge against your husband. Against his whole family. But he walked away from all of it because he didn’t want to put me in danger. What does that tell you?”
Simone remains silent, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not finished. I go on as her expression flickers with deep, conflicted thoughts. Maybe even… consideration.
“Lochlan’s the first man who’s ever treated me like a person,” I say candidly.
“Not like a cute young thing to show off at events. I’m not his trophy or his prize.
He actually gets me. He appreciates me. So yeah, the way we got together was fucked up.
I’m not denying that. But what we have now?
It’s real. I’m in love with him, and that’s not going to change, Sim. ”
My rebuttal is met with more silence except for some old Motown song playing on the store speakers.
Simone studies me for a long moment, then slowly shakes her head. “I can’t accept it, Chani. I’m sorry.”
“That’s your prerogative. It doesn’t mean you’re not my best friend anymore. But I’m gonna do me regardless.”
She scoffs out a laugh. “You always do.”
“Hopefully someday you change your mind.”
We part ways on that uncertain note. Simone frowns and then turns and walks out of the shop. I’m left standing alone among the vintage racks until Monique appears at my side, her brows drawn in concern.
“Well that was a flop.”
“It’s okay. Thanks for trying.”
She loops her arm through mine. “Give her more time. Come on. Let’s find you a cute jacket. Retail therapy fixes everything, remember?”
Once upon a time, I used to love coming over to Dad’s penthouse. The doorman always remembered my name. The marble lobby smelled like fresh flowers. It wasn’t uncommon to come across a cute, pampered goldendoodle puppy out and about for a walk with his snooty senior-aged owner.
Everything about The Carlisle felt like peak Manhattan luxury, and I ate that shit up.
But ever since Dad’s death? It feels like a cold and desolate mausoleum.
The executor is a middle-aged man named Gerald something-or-other, with a receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and suspenders.
He’s polite and cordial but gives new definition to the term chatterbox. He’s been droning on for the past twenty minutes about assets and estate taxes and probate court, and I’ve been nodding along while mentally checked out.
Nothing he says matters. I’m selling everything.
“Your father was a remarkable man,” Gerald says, flipping through a stack of papers. “I had the privilege of voting for him in every election since he first ran for city council. Truly an excellent public servant.”
I make a noncommittal sound.
“Not to mention, such a devoted husband and father. Met him a few times at charity events.” He shakes his head sadly. “The way he cared for your mother during her illness... it was inspiring.”
Tension shoots through my heart like an arrow. I bite down on my jaw and give another vague, nondescript sound.
You’d think Gerry would get a clue. Yet he goes on some more.
“I hope you’ve seen the way he spoke about you in interviews—always so proud of his little girl.”
“Are we done here?” I interject tensely. “I believe I’ve made my intention clear regarding his estate and assets. It should be a pretty cut-and-dry process, right?”
“Well, executing a will is never just cut and dry. But yes—if you have no plans to contest anything, then it should be about as simple as can be for a man with your father’s wealth and assets. Gosh, I really can’t believe he’s gone. The good ones always go too soon.”
I barely hold back from giving a frustrated roll of my eyes.
Part of me wants to correct him. Tell him what Dad really was behind closed doors. That the devoted husband let his wife die to avoid divorce costs. He was the same proud father who not only tried to sell his daughter to the Russian mob but was unapologetic about it until the bitter end.
If only he knew everything about Senator Keith Banks’s public image was a carefully constructed lie designed to further his career.
But I won’t be the one to tell him.