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I swipe both hands roughly down my face, grumbling curses.
Get it together, man!
A sharp rap at the door precedes it cracking open. I glance up and instantly regret it, all professional focus flying out the wall-length windows. Maddie hovers hesitantly in the entrance, wearing a curve-hugging gray shift dress meant to appear professional. Yet all it manages to do is look naughty as hell. She is sporting sky-high heels, making those exquisite legs stretch for eternity.
I wonder if she is doing this on purpose.
At home, I have been staying on the second floor behind closed doors, replaying the VR therapy programs and steeling my resolve. But now, my tongue dries up like the Sahara as her hair catches the morning rays.
“Come in, close the door,” I manage to croak through gritted teeth.
Eyes glinting, she steps in cautiously. I clear my throat gruffly, the anger at myself sharpening my tone. “Hope your morning has been productive?”
“Yes . . .” she trails off, confusion plastered all over her face. “Did you want to discuss the progress on the social media front?”
“I do want you to give me a brief about it, but that can wait. I called you to give you a heads up that we’ll be taking a short trip next weekend. Please arrange your schedule accordingly.”
Maddie looks surprised. “A trip? I thought things were . . .”
She doesn't finish the sentence, but hurt flashes across her face. I fight every instinct to go comfort her, keeping my tone detached.
“My father specifically requested your presence. We've been invited to the family estate in St. Maarten.”
I explain the expectations. There will be formal dinners, socializing, but also beach time. The subtext is that Walt will be scrutinizing our relationship under a microscope before deciding whether his prodigal son is worthy of the crown.
Maddie is uncertain, as if debating whether to ask what happens if we don't convince Walt we are committed soulmates. But she just nods silently, eyes downcast while I battle the urge to kiss her lips.
I settle for balling my fists under the table, steadying my voice. “We’ll leave next Friday afternoon from the office. I'll have my assistant email you some more details and give you the credit card.” Her eyes widen. “Use it. And let me know if I need to speak to Amanda.”
She blinks rapidly, eyes glistening. “No need for that. I will let her know.”
I flinch, dismissing her curtly. Staying disciplined is the only way to go through this. Hell Week was nothing in comparison to this torture.
But I can’t risk it anymore.
This arrangement needs to come to a swift close.
17
SHATTERED ILLUSIONS
I top off our wine glasses and hand one to Grace with a beleaguered smile. The cozy carpet is soothing under my freshly pedicured toes as I lean back into the plush sofa Aunt Viv insisted we retrieve from storage during our move to the city, seemingly ages ago.
So much has happened since.
“To girl's night,” I say, clinking my glass against Grace's.
She grins. “I'll drink to that.”
I take a long sip, letting the cool Pinot Grigio wrap me in its crisp embrace. We picked well for our little soiree. The rich smell of Chinese takeout fills our living room.
My gaze roams over the familiar furnishings mixed with the apartment's more modern fixings. Mom's antique cabinet houses our TV across from Dad's old recliner. But splashes of bright accents and trendy metallic touches bring our inherited decor into the twenty-first century.
As luxurious and comfortable as Jack’s brownstone is, I miss living here. There is simply no amount of comfort that can replace the feeling of being loved.
I breathe out shakily. Some tension dissipates, now that I have gotten used to his cold shoulder.
“Where’s Aria, anyway?” I ask, leaning back.
