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45
PEARL
* * *
Fury’s giving me the silent treatment, and it’s screaming as we wait for the elevator. “I’m sorry,” I say for the hundredth time. “It was reckless and stupid, and I feel bad.” I’m sure Brad, Danny, and James would have figured out how to get Fury out of jail—blackmail, threats, murder—but it would have been a stress no one needs.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He gestures to the elevator doors opening, and I wander into the cart, Fury following. “Okay, I might forgive you.”
“Might?” I nudge him with my shoulder, rolling my eyes. He doesn’t budge an inch.
“I’ll think about it.”
I see his hidden smile when I stare up at the big beast as he hits the button for the lobby. Everything worked out in the end. I smile at the door, a little giddy. A lot sore between my thighs. He loves me. I never thought Brad would ever admit loving anyone. He’s conditioned not to.
But he has. And not only that, he’s embraced it.
I’m floored.
And so fucking happy. Perhaps naïvely so.
On that thought, my contentment wavers, and I’m brought back down to earth. Dinner tonight. I’ll open up. Be honest. Between now and then, I need to think about how the hell I explain. I’ll start from the beginning. Make him understand.
“Pearl?”
I blink and look up at Fury. He points to the open doors. “Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming.” I step out, smiling. “Did you know Otto has taken Es—” My smile drops, my words fade, and my heart jumps into my throat. The whole world spins around me, my past world and my current world, melding and blending into one, the sounds of the hotel lobby blurring into an unbearable white noise of screams from my other life.
He’s.
Here.
He’s here, and he’s sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching the elevator doors.
Watching me stepping out.
Casual.
Thoughtful.
He knew I was here. How? Did he follow me? Track me? I wince, an old pain returning, and I reach up to my nape, rubbing at the scar.
* * *
I look back at Father as my mum hurries me around the landing. “You must be silent,” she says, her heels clicking on the wooden floor as I blindly stumble along behind her, my arm stretched out to keep hold of her hand.
I look through the wooden spindles and see my father swing the front door open. “Leave,” he demands.
“Or what?” He steps into the hallway, shoving Dad aside, looking around at the luxury. “Am I interrupting one of your cigar smoking, Scotch-drinking poncy parties?” He plucks the Cuban from Dad’s hold and sucks on the fat stick. “Why am I never invited?” he asks.
“Because you’re not, you immoral piece of shit.” Dad growls.
“Of course. You think I’m below you. You think I’m unworthy of the expensive smokes and swanky liquor.” He takes the crystal tumbler from Dad’s hand and knocks back the rest of his drink, including the ice cubes. Then he crunches hard and drops the glass to the marble floor. It shatters, making me flinch, as Mother gasps, dragging me on. “Oops.” Then he walks along the hallway, his arm stretched out, swiping all of Mother’s Royal Dalton figurines off the antique French cabinet.
“Get out of my house!” Dad roars, stomping toward him. His face, enraged, is the last thing I see before Mother tugs me through a doorway.
