Chapter 1
Melinda
New York, New York held two things: a ton of snow and mynowcriminal ex−boyfriend. I held a cup of coffee in my hand, and the warmth seeping into my palm helped ease the panic bubbling up in my chest as I stared at the front page of the newspaper. Typically, this wasn’t how I started my mornings, but my butler Harvey—yes, I had a butler and maid due to my father owning a bunch of resorts worldwide—discretely slid the folded-up paper next to my bagel and coughed.
So, there it was.
In big block letters on the front of the page, “DEALER EXPOSED FOR SELLING FAKE ART." The rest of the story kind of blurred together with how fine the print was. He sold a ton of fakes that were supposed to be worth millions but weren't worth a pot to piss in.
The headline reminded me of when I got interviewed by the cops. I had never been interviewed by the cops before, and I had never been so scared in my entire life. I was Melinda Bailey for goodness sake! I had never had a speeding ticket. The officers were so intimidating, too, with their dark blue uniforms and badges, the gun on their hips, and the cuffs gleaming in the early morning sunlight.
“Ms. Bailey, where were you the night of the deal with your boyfriend and our undercover detective met?”
Right. The cops had caught wind of the art ring Trent had made, and that was how he got caught. The cops set up an appointment to buy and boom, I was a suspect.
“I was at home. You can ask the butler and the maid. I was here.”
“Did you know anything about his involvement with selling the fake art?”
“No, how many times do I need to say it? He wasn’t my boyfriend. I didn’t know him that well. I had no idea. I thought he had an art gallery. I thought that was where he made his money. I feel just as much of a fool as everyone else that bought the damn art!”
“We’re going to need you to come down ma’am. We aren’t the enemy. We just want to make sure there was no one else involved that deserved to be apprehended.”
I breathed in my nose and out through my mouth and nodded, trying not to cry. These cops were so intimidating. One was tall with a big mustache and the other was short and stout, looking like he could break me half without blinking. Their eyes were cold with no emotional involvement.
“I get that, but it wasn’t me. I truly didn’t know. I bet I have an alibi for every time he met with someone. I was only with him on weekends or getaways. We weren’t serious.”
They scribbled it down in their notepads and when the short one looked up, his eyes actually softened. “We will need that information as well. After we interview your staff, we will reach back out to you.”
And that was the day I nearly died of a heart attack.
On a positive note, it made me feel a bit smug that the world now knew just how big of a douchebag he was. I had known a long time ago that he had a big ego and loved sleeping around. I wasn’t with him because he was a saint, but because he was fun to be around and because I hadn’t wanted anything serious. But to satisfy his ego and because I didn’t care, we had let everyone who didn’t know us intimately think that we were a serious couple. In the eyes of the public, it had looked great that the world-renowned resort owner's daughter was settling down with a very successful art dealer. To everyone else, we were a couple, but we knew the truth. We weren't ever serious, not really, and sitting here, reading this newspaper that happened to have my name in because I was associated with him, made me freaking regret that poor choice.
No, he had never been my boyfriend. More like a plus one to fancy functions, a hand that held a drink, and weekend fun in the sun. A criminal, though? Really? What were the chances of that? I mean, sure, I had been known to have my blonde moments, but I wasn't an airhead. My hair might shine with ditzy, but my mind was sharp as a knife.
It all started with Sean, the hot playboy I dated in college. He taught me not to take life so seriously, and after we broke up eight months later, I moved on to the next guy that was bad for me. No strings attached was much better than picking up a million pieces of my broken heart.
It all led back to one man. He was the reason I was so afraid of emotion — the reason I leave a guy before the heart got involved. The first man to teach me that emotions were silly things that ruin lives and businesses? My father.
After my mother died, something inside him changed. He turned cold and distant. Emotionally, he was absent and physically? He was hardly ever home. He traveled the world instead, visiting the resort empire he built. He partied harder than I ever had, but I knew it was all a front to hide his pain.
When I was little and he'd go gallivanting off, I’d always hoped he's stay. I’d hoped he would realize we were all the other one had left, but the more I grew up and dealt with things on my own, the more I realized it would never happen. Hopes and dreams didn’t make a man a father. If it wasn’t for Harvey and our maid, Marge, I would have been truly lost in life, especially in those teenage years. Hell, I wished they were my parents.
Not that we spoke about it, but I think they knew. After all, theywerelike my parents. No one else knew about my problems with my father because I kept it all locked inside.
In my efforts to distancing myself emotionally from him, I distanced myself emotionally from nearly everyone in my life, especially romantic interests. Melinda wasn’t allowed to be sad. I was the happy go lucky gal. It was what I had to let the world believe, but really, no one truly knew anything about my emotional life. I was too scared to let people know how I felt. A multi-millionaire's daughter wasn’t allowed to feel things because she had money. What could be so wrong in her life?
Yeah, so many magazines loved to answer that question for me without me ever actually saying a word.
No one knew what I wanted.
Even the judgmental bitches that run in the same circle I did put me down for all the good I’ve been doing. Charities, fundraisers, anything … those women whispered things behind my back saying I was just doing it for the show. If I didn’t have eyes on me twenty−four−seven, I’d disregard some of the manners I grew up with and stir the pot, maybe punch a few of those hypocrites in the face.
“Would you like more coffee, Ms. Melinda?” Harvey asked as he peeked around the corner, interrupting my sad trail of thoughts.
I gave him the brightest smile I could muster and handed over my llama cup—I loved llamas—and nodded. “You know me too well, Harvey. You know I can’t function without two cups.”
“Two cups,” he scoffed. “Have you seen the size of this mug, Melinda? It is more like four cups.”
