Page 2 of Revenge

Another week passed with still no word from Rudolph. I slouched at my desk, swirling the remnants of my hot chocolate and pushed away the memory of Mr. Carbuncle manhandling me through the crowd of angry sixth-formers. My arm throbbed in remembrance. The terrible janitor had acted as though he blamed me that the ambush he’d set up with Charlotte had turned violent and bloodthirsty.

I shook away those thoughts. Rudolph couldn’t have forgotten about me. He had been just as eager to bring down the Bourneville family, who had lied about the ransom amount and asked for double to drop the criminal charges against me. He also wanted to hurt the headmaster of Mercia Academy for demanding an unnecessary donation to expunge my school records. I stared into my notepad, barely seeing the shorthand symbols. Jackie was right. I had to be patient.

One morning, I was putting the finishing touches to a piece on elitism within British public schools, when my cellphone rang. My heart thrummed with excitement as I scrambled to click the answer button. It was from an Unknown Caller, but that could mean anything. Even Rudolph from one of his many offices around the world or one of his many assistants.

“H-hello?”

“Hi, this is Frank from the Tom Ford concession at Bourneville’s. We’ve completed the adjustments to your gown, and it’s ready to be picked up.”

My heart flip-flopped. Regardless of what had happened, I still wanted that gown. “I-I’ll come at lunchtime.”

Bourneville’s department store wasn’t quite so magical when approached from Piccadilly Circus tube and with the cold wind mingling with exhaust fumes from double-decker buses, but its beautiful, stone Georgian exterior reminded me of Mercia Academy so much, my heart ached. Those weeks before everything had gone wrong had been a whirl of dancing lessons and of basking in the affection of the three most handsome and witty boys in the academy.

I closed my eyes, letting the cacophony of traffic fill my ears. But it did nothing to distract me from the painful truth. The triumvirate’s affection and attention had been an illusion created to distract me from discovering the truth. I forced the memories out of my head and stepped through a set of automatic doors.

Ignoring the fragrant aromas from the perfume and makeup counters, I made my way toward the escalator. As soon as the device pulled me up to the first floor, I scanned the walls at the far distance, passing over security guards to catch a glimpse of Henry. My heart sank, as did my self-respect. Had I always been this pathetic?

The man who had originally fitted me into the dress wasn’t at the Tom Ford concession, but the young woman advised me to try on the gown to see if it needed any last minute adjustments. I refused and took the dress away. It wasn’t like I would ever use it. This wasn’t Cinderella, and Jackie was no fairy godmother. She was more likely to take her husband to the charity ball than some intern who had been foisted on her by the tycoon who had bought her newspaper.

When I returned to her office, she had already started her interview with Sergei Bachmann, a young man who couldn’t be more than nineteen. He sat on her leather sofa with his back ramrod straight, and his arms folded across his chest.

Sergei had the look of someone who would be distinctive when they were older: long black hair, strong eyebrows, and a patrician nose. Combined with high cheekbones and startling, aquamarine eyes, the effect was rather striking. Leaning against the wall was a handsome blond man who looked like a bodyguard.

“Sergei, may I introduce you to Emilia Hobson, our intern.” There was an edge to Jackie’s voice that said she was only tolerating my lateness because of my connection to Rudolph.

Shame crawled through my gut. My eagerness to grasp anything related to the triumvirate was now affecting my internship. What had made me think I could travel from Fleet Street to Piccadilly Circus and grab a sandwich in less than an hour? I held out my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Sergei stood and brought my knuckles to his lips. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you were Russian.”

He flicked his black hair off his face. “I spent most of my years at the Institut de la Musique in Paris. A fine school, but we did not have girls as charming as you.”

I shot Jackie a nervous glance, but she gave me one of those subtle nods that told me to flirt back.

Batting my lashes, I twirled a strand of my light, auburn hair. “I heard you were playing at the Royal Academy charity ball in a few days, Mr. Bachmann.”

“Call me Sergei.” His lips quirked into a smile.

“I’d love to see you perform.” My voice rose a few octaves.

His beautiful blue eyes twinkled, reminding me somewhat of Edward’s. “Then you must come as my guest.”

Butterflies took flight in my stomach. If I arrived at the ball on the arm of an up-and-coming musician, the triumvirate would have to notice me. I had expected one of them, maybe Blake or Henry, to call, but the three maintained a wall of silence that implied they had discarded me like used chewing gum.

A gust of triumph inflated my chest. Soon, the triumvirate would know I hadn’t been packed of to the States like. My face broke into a smile. “Thank you, Sergei, I’d be delighted.”

Chapter 2

The next few days whizzed by, each evening spent trying on the Tom Ford gown in my hotel room and experimenting with different hairstyles and accessories. The silk ivory garment hugged my b-cup breasts, cradled my waist, and skimmed the swell of my hips, ending in a dramatic fall of bias-cut fabric to my ankles. I swept my light hair into a chignon, exposing my neck and teardrop gold earrings. The only other piece of jewelry in my ensemble was a matching, gold bracelet.

“Stunning, not desperate,” I repeated a mantra I’d recited most nights. “Elegant and aloof.”

I may have looked like a debutante, but I felt like an impostor. Jackie told me to gather whatever I could about Sergei, and I agreed but refused her offer of a recording device on the grounds that it would spoil the line of my dress.

On the evening of the ball, Sergei picked me up from the foyer of my hotel, a marble-floored space lit by dozens of chandeliers. The man looked devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo and one of those black capes lined in red silk worn by suave fiends like Dracula. His glossy, black hair hung over his shoulders, making me wonder what Edward would look like if he didn’t keep his own short.

Sergei’s gaze swept up and down my gown, settling on my shoes. I’d bought them two days before and had wiped out my bank account. “Emilia,” he said in an accent that was a mix of French and Russian. “You look enchanting.”