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I glance around his bedroom. It was dark when we arrived last night after dinner and my focus was on Pierce. The mattress I’m lying on is cloudlike, and the bed frame is solid cherry. The sheets are satin soft, the pillows definitely feather. This bedroom screams money. Lots of money.
I throw off the covers and carefully leave the bed without disturbing Pierce. Nabbing Pierce’s shirt from the floor, I pull it over my head. I need to use the bathroom, but I don’t want to risk waking Pierce, so I slip out the door and wander down the hall. The floors are dark hardwood. Possibly Brazilian cherry. I find a second bedroom two doors down, smaller than the master, but at least three times the size of my own.
I use the private bathroom before I continue my self-guided tour.
The morning sun almost blinds me when I enter the living room, the wall of windows showcase a gorgeous skyline. The décor is a fusion of modern minimalist and antique rustic. It’s very Pierce. I run my hand along the back of the vintage leather couch—at least it looks vintage, but based on the buttery smoothness of the leather it can’t be very old, and like everything else in here, it’s expensive. I need to look up this building. My purse is where I dropped it when we arrived last night, by the dedicated elevator to his penthouse.
That’s right. A dedicated elevator. That small detail tells me all I need to know about how much it costs to live up here. I root around in my purse and find my phone. I log into my account on the listing site and punch in the address for the building. Only two condo units are currently available for sale. They aren’t corner penthouses and they’re listed at two million dollars each. “Good God,” I mutter, flipping through the pictures. Based on square footage and location, this has to be at least twice the cost.
I rub my forehead, my stomach knotting. A patent lawyer salary can’t afford this penthouse. I mean, I’m sure he makes excellent money as a patent lawyer, and the rental properties are probably helpful, but this doesn’t quite jibe.
I continue my exploration of Pierce’s penthouse. I stumble across his office, which is a grand, gorgeous space, one wall lined with ornate, hardwood shelves filled with legal books. On each shelf is a wooden sculpture of some kind, and I have to wonder if they’re Pierce’s creations. His office desk faces the wall of windows. I cross over to the executive chair and drop into it. This is where lawyer Pierce must sit and do lawyery things.
I picture him dressed as he was when he approached me in the grocery store. Tom Ford suit hugging his sculpted body. Tie begging to be yanked. I run my fingers along the edge of the desk. I bet it would be fun to play lawyer with him in here. He could wear his suit; I could be his naked desk ornament.
I sigh and swivel in the chair. There are several folders stacked to the right, all labeled with his neat printing. A few pictures line the shelves to the left—of him and his family based on Amalie and Lawson’s presence, and there are a couple that seem to include his brother-in-law-to-be.
On his desk is a copy of The Moorehead Review, a magazine dedicated to the upper crust and their financial dealings. It’s not the most reputable news source, but there are some interesting, although biased, articles in there on occasion. I flip to one about real estate in the Hamptons.
It seems to be about a huge hotel mogul coming in and buying up properties, particularly in Hamptons Bay. I turn the page and my stomach drops as I scan the image and then the article. One page is taken up by a glossy color image of a very familiar face. A very attractive familiar face. I scan the byline and a name pops out. Lexington Mills. Lex. The MMA fighter-superhero who’s engaged to Pierce’s sister stares back at me with his shockingly blue eyes and wide, almost smirky smile. He’s ridiculously attractive, even in a two-dimensional magazine photo.
He’s leaning against a desk and beside him is a man who must be his father. To his left are two other equally attractive men. The Mills family. Mills Hotels. They’re massive. Like the biggest. They were who my father wanted to be. The competition he could never catch. The same competition who brought him down. Because he scammed them along with everyone else, Marley and I included. And I’d unknowingly helped him do it.
I read on, devouring the article, snagging on a line about the Mission Mansion. There’s no reference to the shady dealings of my father, but there is a mention of the prime location of the rundown mansion, its sadly vacant state, and its buyer appeal. I flip back to the beginning and read it all over again. There’s conjecture that the Mills family would like to put up a hotel in the Hamptons. While this would ultimately drive up the housing prices, there are drawbacks with that plan. Excessive tourism, overcrowded beaches. And a huge gaudy hotel would ruin the landscape.
A sick feeling crawls up my throat. How long ago did I tell him about the Mission Mansion? It’s been weeks since I mentioned my summers spent there, and last night I finally came clean about my real connection to it. Pierce had more than one opportunity to mention this, especially knowing how important it is to me.
Is this what they’ve been planning the entire time? To buy up all the property around the Mission Mansion, put enough time and money into renovations to increase property value, and then sell it off to the Millses so they can build a huge hotel?
I want to believe it’s too elaborate a ruse, but at the same time, there are so many red flags flapping in the breeze. And this is exactly the kind of thing my father would’ve done to get what he wanted.
My stomach churns with the myriad possibilities, none of which are good. Pierce is far too close to the people in this scenario to be in the dark, and I’ve been so wrapped up in him and the Paulson renovation that I haven’t been staying on top of much else. I don’t know what to do, what to believe. I need to talk to Marley. My head has already gone to the worst places. I need perspective and I need out of here, before Pierce wakes up and this entire thing collapses. I don’t want to accuse him of something that isn’t true, but I also can’t ignore this feeling of doubt that’s twisting up my stomach.
I tiptoe back to his bedroom. He’s hugging my pillow, his spectacular bare backside on display. I quickly and quietly gather my clothes from the floor and dress in the spare bathroom. I pull my hair in a ponytail and fix my makeup as best as I can before I head for the elevator.
I call for an Uber on my way to street level, relieved when it arrives not two minutes later. I consider calling Marley on the trip to the train station, but I don’t think it’s the best plan. I need to be in front of a computer when I have this conversation with her, so I can figure out what the heck is going on and how Pierce is involved in this.
I bite my fingernails, tears pricking my eyes. He seemed so genuine last night. Things felt different, like maybe he’s serious about me being his girlfriend, and not temporarily. Or maybe it was a ploy to get me out of the Hamptons and keep me distracted, from what, I’m unsure. The train ride from Manhattan to the Hamptons seems to last forever. My phone is at 30 percent and draining fast. I didn’t bring a charger so I have limited battery life with which to search Pierce Whitfield.
I don’t know why I haven’t bothered to do this before now. Or maybe I do know. I liked getting to know him without dissecting a dating profile. And I don’t want him to search me. Although, to be fair, Sutter isn’t my last name by birth, and Marley and I have done everything we possibly can to separate ourselves from our father’s infamy. But sometimes things slip through. An old article, pictures, things that could easily lead back to us if we still lived in Long Island instead of the Hamptons.
