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Taking a deep breath, I glance at the letter again. I found the envelope in the mailbox. It was addressed to me which means this isn’t a mistake. Someone’s gone through a great deal of trouble to cut out newspaper letters and glue them together to form one menacing sentence:
Either you cough up 200.000 dollars and hand them over at Lincoln Park after midnight this Friday, or everyone in high society will know what’s in your little black book.
Blood goes to my head, making me dizzy and I let out a groan as I stretch out on my bed. Squeezing my eyes, I want to scream because this isn’t supposed to be happening. What did I do to deserve this?
Rolling over to my back, I put my hands on my stomach and take a couple of deep breaths. The white marble chandelier shimmers enchantingly over my head, sparkling just like most things in my room. Even the wall painting that portrays a dancing ballerina in a field of crème roses has pecks of glitter here and there.
My stepbrother can’t stand it.
He can’t stand anything about my love for luxury handbags, everything that glimmers and high heels.
Ignoring the dip in my stomach, I get up and pull out the desk drawer but the black book isn’t there. It’s a journal to be honest...a diary, hugged by expensive Italian leather but it contains all kinds of dirty secrets.
And they all have to do with my stepbrother.
In those pages, I’ve written down every single little fantasy I’ve ever had about him. They range from sweet and romantic to outright raunchy and if anyone in high society ever reads those words, my reputation will forever be ruined.
Wrapping my arms around me, I whimper helplessly when I think of whoever has taken it.
They’ve read my most intimate thoughts, seen the little charcoal sketches I’ve drawn of my stepbrother. Of him and me being....inappropriate with each other. Cheeks heating, I try ignoring the increased pounding of my heart.
Whoever took it must’ve done it while I was taking my evening classes in The modern feminine woman, or while I was out shopping or gossiping with my friends at that coffee shop that recently opened just around the corner.
Basically, while I was out doing pointless things!
Now my whole future could be ruined just because I couldn’t be bothered with locking the journal away in a safe but instead I kept it in my desk where anyone could have snatched it. It really could have been anyone considering a ton of people walk in and out of this penthouse.
Trying to think clearly, I try to figure out who it could have been.
There’s the chef who cooks dinner for us around three times a week. Then there’s dame Blanca, my piano teacher who comes every Tuesday. And then there’s a ton of males who show up in the wee hours.
I’m usually getting my beauty sleep by then but I have woken up on occasion, caught glimpses of them only to be shooed back into my room again by my stepbrother.
I have no idea what that whole deal is about and I’ve never cared to know. A year ago my mother married a charming older gentleman and quickly took off to norther Europe, leaving me here with my stepbrother who moved in to keep an “eye on me.”
Before mother left, she told me to be good, mind my own business and to not under any circumstances put my nose where it doesn’t belong. For convenience sake, I took her advice but now I think it was a mistake.
Exactly who are those pale haired men that dress in black and have business with my stepbrother?
Did any of them ever walk into my room and steal the journal?
It couldn’t have been Dame Blanca.
And it definitely wasn’t my stepbrother.
Maybe it was the chef...
My face blooms at the thought of that plump, little man reading my carnal fantasies and I wish I never had written all of that stuff down. But I was bursting with feelings. If I hadn’t put them down on paper I would have exploded like a unicorn piñata all over the place.
Leaning against the desk, I pinch my lips and wonder how the heck I’m supposed to get a hold of 200.000 dollars. I don’t have that kind of money. My stepbrother gives me an allowance every week and I don’t have a savings account at the bank.
Think, think...
And then it hits me.
My designer bags. I’ll sell those. Every single one of them and it should be enough to cover the costs.
Flooding with sudden relief I open up the double doors to my walk-in closet and almost get a heart attack.
