prologue
ELLIOTT
Life was a mind fuck.
Take my looks, for instance. I wasn’t being arrogant; it was just a statistical fact. I was a good-looking man. I could walk into any room in Los Angeles and walk out with a girl on my arm before the first round of drinks hit the table.
The mind fuck? Only one girl had preoccupied my mind for most of my adolescence, and like a fever that wouldn't break, she’d spilled over into my adult life. I’d figured that once I tastedenough variety—once I’d had enough bodies in my bed to blur the memory of her—the desire would fade. It hadn’t. If anything, the distance had only sharpened the hunger.
The further mind fuck was the reality of us: we hated each other. If given a weapon and an alibi, I’m fairly certain we’d both commit murder just to get some peace. I wasn’t entirely sure what her excuse for hating me was, but I was one hundred percent certain of mine.
She was the reason my parents were dead.
It was unforgivable. It didn’t matter how much I wanted her or how many times I saw her face in the dark. Desire would never outweigh the debt of that night. Hatred was the only thing keeping me upright.
Oh, and the final mind fuck? She worked for me, too.
one
VANESSA
If looks could kill,the air between me and Elliott would be a crime scene.
I had been in his office for ten minutes, and true to form, neither of us wanted to be the first to break. It was a game of chicken we’d been playing since we were kids, even though he was the one who had summoned me here. I knew what the meeting was for. He knew what the meeting was for. Eventhe tabloids, currently feasting on the carcass of my reputation, knew what the meeting was for.
My ex-boyfriend, Javi, had been fired last week. We’d broken up a month ago, but in a final, jagged act of spite, he’d taken my designs with him. He hadn't just stolen them; he’d handed them to Ava—the woman he’d been cheating on me with—wrapped up in a pretty little bow.
It left me hollowed out. I had no designs for the Spring Bridal event—or at least, nothing I felt was show-worthy. Ever After’s star designer had nothing to show, and in this building, having nothing to show was the same thing as being dead. RIP me.
I looked around, trying to focus on anything but the roar in my ears and the pounding in my head. The mahogany desk, the heavy leather chair behind it, the spotless windows with their panoramic view of the city—I’d be jealous if it all didn’t feel so final. The ticking of the clock was sharpening my migraine, but it was nothing compared to the whiskey-colored eyes boring into mine, goading me to speak. When he finally broke the silence, his voice wasn't just cold—it was sub-zero.
“I went down to production,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when I found all your gowns wrapped up and taped off. Like a crime scene.”
“Is there a question in there?” I asked dryly massaging my temples.
“Why?”
“You and I both know why, Elliott. Save us both the effort and get to the point.”
“You seem to give plenty of effort to men who treat your intellectual property like a clearance rack.” He curled his lip, his voice dripping with a sneer. “You don't seem to care about your time then. But since I’m still your boss, I’ll decide what happens to it.”
“I didn’t realize you kept such close tabs on what I did with my time.”
"Javi has everything to do with your current failure." Elliott turned away from me, shoving his hands deep into his pockets staring out at the Los Angeles smog covered skyline. "You let a thief into the vault. You let him walk out with the only thing that makes you valuable to this firm." He spun back around, his gaze lethal. “I'm the one who has to clean up the mess. And I’m tired of sweeping up after you."
He walked back to his desk and picked up a single sheet of paper. He didn't hand it to me; he laid it on the edge of the mahogany, waiting for me to take it. He was wearing his dad’s favorite cufflinks.
"We're letting you go, Vanessa. Effective immediately."
I stared at the paper on the mahogany desk. It looked so small. A single sheet of paper to erase ten years of blood and silk.
“Funny,” I whispered, finally meeting his whiskey eyes. My voice didn't shake. I wouldn't give him that. “You talk about thieves in the vault, Elliott, but you’re the one standing in a house built on my back. You’re firing me for being ‘messy’? Look in the mirror. This firm has been a disaster for years—I was the only one keeping the seams from bursting.”
Elliott didn't flinch, but his grip on the edge of the desk tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“You’re done, Vanessa,” he said, but the ice in his voice was starting to crack.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my studio key—the one with the frayed silk ribbon Catherine had tied on it the day I was officially put on the payroll. I dropped it onto the termination papers. The metal clinked against the wood, a hollow, final sound.
