When Mike leans forward and hits the button for the sixth floor, which is only ever used for storage and by the janitors, I catch the faintest whiff of alcohol on his breath. As the red floor number on the small screen behind him ticks down, an alarm bell rings somewhere in the back of my mind. My skin prickles with awareness, that horrible, suffocating feeling of dread creeping up my throat.
Something isn’t right here.
It all happens in a flash. I lunge for the red emergency override button, but Mike’s fist crashes into mine and then comes flying at my face. I block his punch, but the force slams me into the mirror behind us, the explosive pain across my back so sharp that my vision turns white.
His next swing at me is sloppy, easy for me to dodge. His fist shatters the cracked mirror, sending shards of glass to the floor. I land a harsh blow to the left side of his face, slamming him against the other end of the elevator. He thrashes when my hands grip his neck, the ring on his finger cutting across my cheek. But I don’t let up. Not when a life with Ophelia is at stake.
“Did my father put you up to this?” I grit out, as his punches lose strength. The elevator rattles to a stop on the maintenance floor, but I don’t release him.
“You were never planning to make me CEO, were you?” he wheezes, the grip of my fingers stealing his oxygen away.
“I’m sure as fuck not going to now.” He gasps for air, begs for his life. I tighten my hold on him. “Answer the question.”
His eyes flick over my shoulder at the sound of the dented doors scraping open, and the fear in his expression melts into something like relief.
A rough hand clamps a cloth over my mouth; my next inhale feels like a ball of fire barreling down my airway and into my lungs, chemicals against delicate skin. It feels like the whole office building lurches sideways.
Somewhere in the haze that floods my brain with confusion, I hear my father’s voice.
And that’s when I realize this isn’t some newfound anger about the CEO job. This is a far more elaborate plan.
I swing my head back, feeling it connect with flesh and bone behind me, but the hand over my mouth doesn’t move.
“Missed me,son?”
Even though the world is swimming, the words my father hisses in my ear permeate the thick fog. A sharp pain amid a dull, pixelated ache.
Nausea churns my stomach. I feel just as helpless as I did when I was a child.
I’m no good to them dead.
It’s the sentence I’ve whispered to the mirror on the worst of my days, in the lowest of my moods. It kept me alive then, and it’ll keep me alive now.
Consciousness slips between my fingers, and all that I can think of as the world fades to black is that strange, wonderful girl I left at home.
Chapter 24
OPHELIA
“Is this a good idea?” I ask Russell, the Corbeau-Greens’ driver, as he pulls up outside Alex’s office building.
It’s 9 p.m., Alex isn’t home yet, and his phone location has himstillat work.
So here Fleur and I are, coming to make sure he’s okay, or to rescue him from a mountain of paperwork. Whatever is necessary.
I just hope he doesn’t mind me interrupting him when he’s clearly swamped.
“Better than him spending a night at his desk.”
Fleur and I have managed not one buttwoconversations on the drive. She’s telling me about fashion campaigns from brands I’ve never heard of, and I’m nodding and saying things liketrue, barrel jeans are so dead(I have two pairs), andyeah, cellular beauty isdefinitelythe way(I have no idea what that is).
Even if I had to google every person and place that she mentioned in order to keep up, it’s definitely something for the win column.
In the front, Russell undoes his seat belt. “I’ll go in with you, miss.”
I imagine Alex at his lowest, or fast asleep on his desk. He probably wouldn’t want Fleur or the staff there. “No, no. You stay with Fleur. He might not want company. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”
I step out the car, inhaling a heavy breath of air thick with the scent of rain and something uniquely New York City. I’m nervous. Why I am nervous?
