That couldn’t possibly fucking happen.
And yet…
Had I not told myself I would embarrass Sarah when I realized she’d arrived as Sasha Carpenter?
Had I not told myself I would shame Sarah atThe Red Courtwhen she came with me?
Had I not told myself I would destroy Sarah at some point over the course of the weekend?
Three possibilities, three swings and misses. No, not even—I’d never swung the bat in an attempt to break her. I had struck out looking.
Hmm.
Perhaps there was more to how I felt about Sarah than I was letting myself even realize. I would have to do something rarely done—I would have to set myself reminders, give myself tasks to make sure I did not forget my original mission with Sarah. Shehadkilled Virgil—I could not fucking forget that!
I let out a sigh. A too loud one, apparently, as Dante gave me a look. Fortunately, neither Adrian nor Lucas seemed to notice. But I told myself I had to do better. Bad enough that I might be losing my mind; to lose the confidence of my brothers would be unforgivable.
But by the time my brothers stood up to leave a couple of hours later, I had my plans in place. The instant that they were out of sight, I pulled out my phone and texted Sarah.
“Meet me at Reid’s private terminal at 8 a.m. tomorrow. We’re going to another gala. Do not be even one second late.”
She would not refuse. She knew better than to refuse. Even though her career had already gotten a nice bump from the people she’d met and the press that would invariably trickle out in the coming days, I could still ruin her in a heartbeat.
But as tonight had shown, a heartbeat wasn’t what I was going for. I was going for something longer.
You might even say I was going for creating the feeling of a lifetime of being intertwined before I got what I truly wanted.
10
SARAH
Long ago, in what felt like a prior life, I had learned never to question an order from Cassius. Not because I was some subservient, weak woman who did what he wanted, but because there was always a payoff to be had. What could sound like an utterly cruel demand or a hint of a setup could turn into the most romantic weekend in months or, at the very least, a wonderful dinner and an unforgettable adventure.
But so much had transpired and so much had left me in a tailspin, both in the long time since and the very recent past, that I was left wondering what the hell was happening now.
The private terminal at Reid Airport at 8 a.m. for another gala. The text pretty much spelled out exactly what was going to happen—I was going to get on a private plane, either owned or rented by Cassius, and we were going to another art show. My work probably wasn’t going to be on display this time—even billionaires weren’t God—but knowing the art schedule this time of year, it was likely that Cassius would put me on display in some fashion.
The key phrase in all this, of course, was “in some fashion.” I wasn’t yet willing to trust that this wasn’t some ploy to pull me in and shatter me. True, we’d had some moments of intenseattraction, incredible curiosity, and even unnerving touch in the last week. But one thing I’d learned from art was that the greatest tragedies emerged from the highest of stakes.
Cassius might not have intuited that from art, but he sure as hell would have from business.
But all that said, who was I to pass up a private flight to another gala? Who was I to give myself another opportunity to revisit the magic of my youth, now with several more zeros on the price tag?
Who was I to say no to Cassius?
Unlike the previous days, when Cassius had arranged all my travel, I had to get an Uber to the terminal myself. It seemed like a test of Cassius’—how badly did I want this private jet trip? It wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing, even under normal circumstances; he’d even told me he’d tested his brothers like this from time to time. The Uber driver inquired a bit about the private plane, but I kept mum, simply saying that a rich friend that I couldn’t hope to keep up with wanted to go some place.
That wasn’t entirely false. It just dramatically undersold the truth.
The Uber dropped me off about ten minutes before eight. I went up to the front gate, but before I could speak to anyone, a black vehicle pulled up to me. A window rolled down; it was not Cassius.
“Come with me for the Vale flight,” he said.
A little unnerving, but again, I knew how Cassius worked. I got in the vehicle, and it drove about a quarter-mile inward to a small jet, maybe big enough for six people outside the flight crew. The vehicle stopped, the driver saying nothing, as ifexpecting me to know what to do. I got out and looked at my watch. It was seven minutes before eight.
And now I’d have to wait.
At least it was November in Vegas, not a particularly brutal time of year, but this move was still deliberate. Cassius didn’t want to hurt me, but he wanted to remind me he was in charge. My time was less valuable than his, in a sense. He would arrive when he would arrive, but I was expected to arrive in time to meet his needs.
