1
MIA
February in Manhattan should be canceled.
I hug my shoulders against the cold bite of the air. Mybareshoulders, because god forbid Brad Baldwin’s girlfriend have anything to cover herself up with. If it’s thicker than a bra strap, it belongs in his closet, not mine.
Brad Baldwin’s girlfriend.The thought sends another shiver down my spine. This time, it has nothing to do with the wind.
I step the rest of the way out of Brad’s white limo. My cream-colored dress whips around my thighs, too short, too little, too much. I make a less-than-convincing impression of Marilyn Monroe and yank it down. I can only hope the flashing cameras didn’t just catch a flash of something I didn’t intend to put on offer.
Brad sinks his fingers into my arm, pinching like a snake. “Put a goddamn smile on,” he hisses in my ear. “We don’t want them asking questions, do we?”
The cold glint of gunmetal surfaces in my memories, pressed against my son’s temple.
I force a smile and wave.
My heels clack against the marble steps leading up to Baldwin Construction’s latest luxury complex. A billion-dollar venture, all for the modest price of kicking to the curb the not-quite-rich-enough inhabitants of the Lower East Side.
But hey, who’s counting?
Me,I whisper in my mind.I’m counting.
Because, the second you slip up, Bradley boy, I’ll be there to make sure you fall.
I can hear the reporters calling for me, but I filter it out. I’ve gotten pretty good at that, these days—picking and choosing what to let under my skin. Brad’s death grip, for example. I can feel the bruises forming under the lace wrist cuffs he gifted me. He’s pressing on already battered ground, but the pain doesn’t quite register.
Force of habit, I guess.
“Mia!” A young, loud-mouthed reporter nearly flings herself against the cordon. “Is it true you’re getting married?”
I keep my lips sealed and give the reporter an enigmatic half-smile. It’s the kind of thing that’ll let her write whatever she wants in her article.
In my mind, though, I give her a straight answer.
Me, getting married? Not a chance in hell.
She’s persistent, though. “Is it true this is your second go-around with Mr. Baldwin? You have a son together, don’t you?”
My son ismine. No one else’s. Certainly nothis.
“Didn’t you used to be engaged to Yulian Lozhkin?”
My half-smile curdles on my face. “What did you just say?”
“Mr. Lozhkin of StarTech. Isn’t it true you were?—?”
“That’s enough of that,” Brad snarls. “C’mon.” His nails dig into my skin as he drags me away.
I stumble on the steps. “Brad, wait,” I blurt. “My heels?—”
“I don’t give a shit about your fucking whore shoes,” he snaps, just loud enough for me to hear. “Keep up and shut up.”
My whore shoes.Like he didn’t pick these death traps out himself. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
