I shake my head, brushing off her comment about Holt and shifting my attention back to the damn orchids sitting on the far table, mocking me. “No, my yoga class isn’t until this evening, and if I go home now, I’ll either be thinking about my manuscript or last night. Being here is a welcome distraction. It’s better than being left alone with my thoughts.”
Charleigh nods her agreement, which I’m thankful for. “I’ll message Julianna and see if she’s okay after last night. I’ve beenavoiding social media, but Asher told me the news of Rome’s lawsuit is spreading like wildfire. I’m just not sure how much of this is affecting Julianna. Her and Holt have had a hot and cold relationship over the years, but I can imagine it’s affecting her at least a bit.”
“Okay.” I inhale a cleansing breath and click back into my computer, opening up my latest invoice to send to Charleigh for approval.
I’m typing in a few numbers and calculating the cost of our latest shipment, but I can’t help the uneasiness growing in my stomach. It’s a nauseating feeling I can’t shake—one that has me thinking of my grandmother, my parents… their blood touching my toes.
Then all I see are blue eyes. Intense blue eyes peering into my soul right before feeling their owner’s lips against mine, stealing my breath. Heat radiates across my chest and down my arms, pooling between my thighs. My skin hums, the pressure points of his fingertips on my bare back searing me, marking me.
My phone vibrates on the counter again, twice in quick succession. I gasp for air and startle at the sound. My eyes snap open. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them.
Picking up my phone, I turn it over.
A text from Julianna in the girls’ chat is at the top.
Julianna: Girl’s night, ASAP. We need to talk.
After reading the message, I lift my gaze to find Charleigh staring at me, her phone resting in her hand.
Then I look down again, reading the message that came in right behind it, seconds apart.
Holt: We need to talk. Don’t make me beg, Wallflower.
It seems the Capuletis are just as unsettled about last night as I am.
Charleigh quickly taps out a response to Julianna’s text.
I don’t look at my phone long enough to see her reply. I don’t need to.
As for the other text—histext—I swallow the heat brewing inside me and turn my phone over in my hand before slamming it back down on the counter.
SEVEN
JULIANNA
My mother used to tell me love made you crazy.
She was wrong.
Hate makes you crazy.
I’m staring at her picture resting on my brother’s polished, mahogany desk. Mahogany wood that’s been derived and crafted from a legendary designer located in Sweden, no less. I would know because I helped him decorate this office years ago when interior design was my main focus.
I run my finger over the curved edge, barely lifting my eyes to her picture. It’s hard looking at her. An invisible string tugs at my core, reminding me of the giant hole her absence has left on our family. The one currently being torn apart by scandal after scandal. Then the string pulls again, this time harder than before.
I adjust in Holt’s office chair, the back of my bare legs peeling off the leather, burning my skin. I delight in the feeling. It’s a distraction from the impending conversation I’m about to have with Holt—one I don’t want to have but that’s needed.
“Who? Who the fuck wrote it?” my brother’s booming voice echoes from the other side of the double mahogany doors.
Again, I know this because I helped with the remodel. There are two entrances to my brother’s office. The main one, which is connected to his secretary’s entrance leading to the main entrance of Scribe Magazine’s level, and the other through a conference room. A conference room he only uses in the direst of circumstances.
There are several muffled voices at a lower octave than Holts’, surely telling my brother they have no idea who submitted the anonymous article, because that’s the whole point. It’s anonymous.
Years ago, after Holt acquired Scribe Magazine, he wanted to push the boundaries with his work. Holt isalwayspushing the boundaries. But the first course of action he’d taken had been to create an anonymous column—one where anyone could submit a story or opinion completely anonymously. The source could never be traced, and the writer could never be held accountable for their submissions if they were published. Most submissions have been confessions about themselves or others. Some have been to ruin reputations.
I place my hand on my stomach and massage the sickening feeling that’s growing.
With a side glance, I stare at the rich, dark wooden door, wondering when the fuck my brother will end this clusterfuck of a meeting. One minute he’s rattling off about the anonymous article Rome is suing him over, and the next he’s talking about something to do with Rhys O’Connell—a name I swear I’ve heard before.
