Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Tristan
Ella Brooks: Safe and sound. Thank you for driving me back.
Me: Goodnight, Ella.
Iwait until she writes to me before leaving her street.
Which gives me ten minutes to answer a few emails and receive Brenton’s confirmation that, yes, it was a Vodianov car parked in front of her house just before we arrived.
Why were they there? Brenton is still pulling strings to uncover Mara Brooks’s banking files, which are unusually hard to get our hands on.
Instinct tells me to back off, let her live her life, and go on with mine.
Yet, another part of me wants to break in at night just to watch her sleep.
Just to make sure I will not find another red mark on her skin.
Speaking of which, I will pay a little visit to that stepmother of hers and give her my opinion on the matter.
I come home, untying my tie in a rush, suffocating from not having her presence around me.
Trying to shake her away in an attempt to think, I turn on the television.
Money games, singing competitions. Nothing captivating enough to tear me away from the residence she is establishing beneath my skin.
Standing at the windows, eyes on my backyard, I shove whiskey down my throat, the scotch not burning enough to undo her damage.
Running a palm over my face, I hiss at the sting of the bruise she took care of earlier.
Plans are already in motion. Strategies to take her away from her house, her job, and put her back on the path she should have been on all along.
Although my mind wanders to other places too, dangerous ones made of promises and bonds and trust and things I have never dreamed of experiencing with another living soul.
Her name beside my family name, shining like evidence.
Ella, forgive me.
I’m afraid your life is about to change, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
* * *
Morning comes faster than usual since I hardly slept, my thoughts tormented by a thousand storms made from the same waves, all carrying her name.
I waited all night, like a prisoner on death row, hoping for the miracle of her granting me another message, but it never came, because she slept soundly, which I realize was selfish of me to wish otherwise.
If she does not write to me at night, then I will break in to watch her sleep.
Which seems reasonable enough. Roaming my hand over the empty pillow beside me, I take in my large and clinical bedroom, the black curtains dragging the light out, reminding me how little of it I still have inside me.
Her hair could be spilled here, right where my fingers drape over the fabric.
I grab my phone and watch from my bedside table, along with Mara’s Brook report I received around two a.m., Brenton’s skills are sharp and lethal, aiming right where I wanted.
Her bank statements from the last decade, former and current off-the-books financial maneuvers, and records from former employees displaying a not-so-great-looking portrait of a CEO.
Too much cash flow for a company of this size.
Where is all her money going? Investments worth millions poured into funds that have collapsed over the last two years.
Bad instinct bleeding on paper and confirming my own.
Her company, Ethereal Design, is bleeding as if slaughtered at the jugular, faking success with a bandage made of dubious cash injections and new investments from foreign countries through virtual businesses, shell companies, nonexistent fronts, sending us straight through Russia and confirming it all.
Ella’s stepmother is doing business with the Vodianovs to save her company.
How this whole deal even began, I will have to find out.
In the meantime, I am holding above her head a sword capable of ruining her reputation.
In the same way that she is holding above Ella the constant threat of her hand.
I have never hurt a woman. Thankfully, there are different ways to wound someone.
Not every cut needs to slash the skin. Some can be deeper, tormenting their victim from the inside, aiming at the heart, the ego, the irrepressible urge to exist in our world, all taken away from them with a snap of my fingers.
Her schedule is in the report; I check it against my own. Perfect. I have enough time to drop by and give her a short hello before my first investor meeting this morning.
A shower washes Ella’s scent away from me, the predator lurking inside my gut needing to focus and hide my intentions behind a social mask made of a lethal mix of calm, authority, and strategy.
The chess game is already playing in my mind, and Mara Brooks’s pawn is flinching at the end of my barrel.
Shaving my stubble neatly, I let the blade slide over my skin.
Towel around my waist, I take in my reflection.
At least taking out my anger, rage, and every frustration in my private gym is worth it.
There is a sense of enjoyment in hiding this, like a machine with all its upgrades, ready to strike at any time, switching suits for boxing shorts.
I have not always been this way, but I have come to realize that discipline and consistency can build a body and just as much train a brain to endure pain daily.
The sink next to mine is empty. No toothbrush. No makeup scattered everywhere. No lotions and things women seem to use. Empty. Even the marble mocks me. And still, if Ella were here, I doubt she would be the kind to use those things.
I gave Paul his day off since he has been working far more hours lately and has a family waiting for him at home. That must be nice. To have someone waiting by the door, cooking for you, children running around, clinging to your legs.
I have never imagined this for myself. Why would I inflict the solitude of late hours of work on a woman who deserves comfort and attention?
Why would I distract myself from my duty as firstborn, to steer the ship, keeping my eyes on the storm at all times?
And what woman would ever want to endure the coldness of my personality, the risk implied in sharing a life with me?
A target on her back. That is all she could gain.
For the Vodianovs to aim right at my heart, offering them a way to kill me on a silver platter.
My father loved our mother in his messed up way. And Nate loved his wife.
Love was not out of the picture, nor a foreign concept to me.
I was born into it, nurtured into understanding its power and the sacrifices it required, especially as I watched my mother from the last step of the staircase, waiting for my father to return home after dark.
Sometimes I would hear her cry and run to him as he passed the door, as if the wait had been unbearable.
Sometimes I would hear her cry because he wouldn’t even take her in his arms. She wanted to spend every second of her life with him and would always tell him that it was never enough, to which he would respond with an inaudible, exasperated grunt.
Now my mother had turned into a shadow of herself, cosplaying the woman she used to be when her heart was still beating for him.
One black coffee later, I am in my garage, adjacent to the house, holding six cars, each one with a dedicated purpose.
With Paul off duty today, I slide into a black Mercedes, keeping the music off as I repeat the steps in my head.
Drive to Ethereal Design. Catch Mara Brooks off guard in her office.
Drill my point into her skull. It takes me thirty minutes to arrive at her headquarters, the Westhaven traffic is slow since the sun has not fully risen yet.
It is not the way I thought I would start my Monday, but some tasks do require a little more flexibility, which I admit is not my strongest suit.
Since it is about Ella, who, for a reason I cannot explain, has taken possession of my thoughts and desires, I will correct my aim in whatever direction is needed.
On the other hand, her headquarters are exactly what I expected.
Large, clear, bright, and airy. I climb the wide stone stairs, the exterior resembling ancient Roman ruins.
I have to give it to her: despite the building's newness, she did manage to give it something of a soul, even with its superficial, fake exterior. Two translucent sliding doors open, which surprises me, given that it is only seven, and from the empty parking lot, I can see that there aren’t many employees here yet.
A young woman with black hair pulled into a knot and a fitted dark purple dress greets me.
Her smile trembles as she recognizes me.
“S-sir, I…”
“Where is Mara Brooks’s office, please?” I snap, wishing I could end this faster just so I could go back to more pleasurable leisure, such as finding a way to see Ella.
Or, if need be, track her down. How would she feel about carrying a GPS device in her purse?
Would that be crossing a line? And why does the thought make me grin from ear to ear, a foreign sensation I have not honestly experienced in a while?
Something about Ella tells me she would not care that much.
That perhaps, perhaps she would actually like that.
Or she could push me away, signing the word creep with her pretty fingers and telling me off. I will need to sort this out.
“Down…down the hall, sir then to your right,” the woman stammers.
I offer her a curt nod, almost feeling bad for her.
Kathy would never be this unprofessional.
I recall her greeting an extremely rude businessman who once called her “grandma.” A man I have long killed and bought since, economically speaking, I mean.
His remark was a personal offense, since my employees are to be cared for and work in a respectful environment.