I feel half-wild and primal, and half-hollow, like something dangerous just slipped free inside of me and won’t go back into its cage. Tomorrow night is going to be the death of me.
Chapter 11
April
By the time the driver pulls up outside the office, my heart is doing uneven jumps against my ribs. Anthony told me to go downstairs at three-thirty, and the handful of stares I’d gotten leaving the office, both early and unannounced, made my skin crawl.
My bag is heavy. It’s stuffed with things I’d bought this morning at a small lingerie boutique called Liquid and Lace. I can still feel them touching my skin, and I wish they were. They made me feel so ridiculously confident for once in my life that I want to put them back on. I’d been halfway to Agent Provocateur, planning to hit Fleur du Mal on the way back, when the window display caught my eye. Soft lace, delicate embroidery, sheer panels,corsetry, all in a shade of red that made me stop dead in my tracks. I don’t know why, but itcalledto me, as if Anthony was in the back of my head screaming,“That one!”
I tried on ten sets after being measured. I’d taken five with me. The total made my throat feel dry, but he told me to find things that were of better quality and to buy multiple pieces. I had to believe he’d be fine with it, even if they were from a shop he didn’t mention. The set I loved most is tucked at the top of myduffel, in its own little bag, just like a secret. He’s going to ruin it, and I’m embarrassingly sad about that.
The ride to the airport is quiet except for the sounds of late afternoon traffic. My nerves build with every mile of Manhattan we leave behind. It’s not the first time I’ve made this journey to the private terminal at JFK, but this time Anthony’s not sitting beside me, giving clipped instructions or reviewing briefing notes. There’s no team of executives, stylists, or assistants. Just me, my thoughts, and the electrifying realization that this, this whole thing, is happening.
At JFK, staff greet me with unnerving warmth, like they’ve been prepped to wait for me specifically. Someone takes my bag while someone else offers me a sparkling water, but I’m too jittery to drink it. After my ID and passport are checked, I walk up the steps of Anthony’s jet, remembering past flights with him that had always been professional and tense in ways he never acknowledged.
But this time, there’s no cold, grey stare following me up the aisle. No quiet, rigid presence sitting at the table beside me, checking my work. He left hours ago. Midday. And somehow that makes it so much worse. He’swaitingfor me somewhere.
One of the crew members smiles at me as I buckle my seatbelt in the black leather chair Anthony always chooses. “We’ll be touching down in Turks and Caicos in approximately three and a half hours. Do you need anything before takeoff?”
Turks and Caicos?I blink at her. “I-I’m sorry,what?”
“Do you need anything before?—”
“No, no, the other thing.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Swan. Mr. Voss requested that you be flown down to Turks and Caicos. Were you unaware?”
My pulse spikes instantly. Other women probably get flowers or a hotel suite the first time they’re meant to sleep withsomeone–to get pregnant–so the man can save his company. I get to go to an island in the Caribbean.
“Here,” she says gently, setting down a small sheet of thick card paper with the itinerary printed on it.
16:30 — Falcon 8X takeoff from JFK International
20:00 — Falcon 8X touchdown South Caicos
20:20 — (Hired, scheduled) Leonardo AW139 takeoff from South Caicos
20:35 — Leonardo AW139 touchdown Edward Island
I stare at it in utter bewilderment, then slip my phone out of my pocket to Google what in the world a Leonardo AW139 is.
A helicopter. He’s putting me on a goddamn helicopter, to what Google Maps seems to imply is a private island.
He’s insane.
I send him a text telling him as much, but I don’t hear anything back. I spend most of the flight staring out the window or at my laptop, attempting to work on the draft for next week’s company newsletter. I’m trying not to imagine what on earth Anthony is planning. The clouds turn bright red and pink at the edges as the sun sinks, and every passing minute tightens something far in the back of my throat. Every mile takes me further from common sense and closer to a man who doesn’t seem to possess any.
When I land, warm air rushes inside the cabin as soon as the door opens. It’s humid, salty from the ocean, and thick with the smell of fuel from planes and helicopters. I barely take in a breath before someone’s taking my passport and stamping it. The ink from the stamp isn’t even dry when I’m led across the tarmac toward a waiting helicopter. It’s already running, already ten minutes behind, its blades spinning overhead and kicking up the wind, its lights glowing against the dark around me.
Anthony is nowhere to be found. He’s not at the airport or on the helicopter. Somehow, that makes my knees weaker than if he’d been here.
The helicopter lifts, and I grip the edge of my seat for dear life. This is worse than flying. I hate it. The handful of times I’d been on a helicopter in my life had been a shaky nightmare. But once this one gets going, it quiets down, and the ride is smooth. I try not to look out the window. Flying low always gets my pulse going too high, and by the time I feel the jostle of us landing, I hadn’t even realized we were descending.
One pilot helps me down the steps and onto the helipad. The island is fairly small, but filled with palm trees, warmth, and the smell of the sea. The impressive estate sprawls in front of me, lit up by lanterns. A stone path leads from the helipad to the grand house, and beyond it, it turns to wooden boardwalks and lush greenery. Staff move discreetly around me, ushering me toward the house, taking my bag, talking to me, but I don’t really hear what they’re saying.
I’m taken down a long hallway to a guest suite that looks nothing like a “suite” and everything like some kind of fantasy holiday rental. High vaulted ceilings and gauzy curtains stirring in the breeze through the open glass doors. The bed is large enough to fit half a hockey team. My bag is already on the mattress, and beside it is a little black envelope with my name written on it in white ink.April.
I open the flap on the front and pull out the plain white card beneath.
