“Tonight, you’re taking a break,” I say, sliding in next to her. “No negotiations. Carter can survive twenty-four hours without his bride-to-be.”
She slouches in the backseat, looking a bit deflated. “Never thought getting married came with that many spreadsheets. It feels like I don’t have time for anything else.”
“It’s your wedding. You call the shots. And you shouldn’t push your life back to plan a huge wedding you don’t even want.”
She sighs, fiddling with the hem of her dress. That small gesture reminds me of the first time Mom and I draggedher to a woman’s luncheon. She was totally unprepared and overwhelmed.
“Yeah, but everybody expects Carter’s wedding to be this grand social event. And I don’t want to disappoint Clara. I know what people say about me,” she murmurs, voice barely audible above the hum of the engine. “I’ve overheard them a couple of times.”
A wave of protectiveness surges through me with such force, my ears ring. “Fuck. Them.” I clasp her hand and squeeze it. “Forget about everybody. You deserve to do whatever makesyouhappy. Mom might try to get into full Met Gala mode, but I’ll handle her.”
Eliza still looks unsure. Her gaze drifts out the window, to the brownstones lining the streets, the Hudson River glinting through the narrow alleys between them.
“My brother would marry you in a back alley if you asked him to. All he wants is you.”
The corner of her lips lifts slightly, and I take it as a good sign.
After the car stops, Patrick, my bodyguard, is at my door in a flash, opening it with a smile.
“Come on,” I tell Eliza. “I’ll make you an iced tea. We’ll sit on the terrace and relax a bit. God knows we need it.”
The ivy climbing up one corner of the house sways gently, leaves rustling in the breeze. This neighborhood has a kind of hush I’ve come to love. Here, I can finally breathe.
“Still can’t get over how beautiful your house is,” Eliza giggles, admiring the old brownstone with a look of awe. “It looks like it wants to tell me a story.”
I punch in the key code. “It would probably have some juicy ones. The industrialist who built it was a fan of crazy costume parties. I’ve got some old news clippings in the attic.”
She follows me inside, a new idea taking root. “Did you ever think of throwing one? Maybe—”
Firm hands clamp around our arms, and the rest of her sentence scatters into the quiet hallway.
“Don’t move.” Patrick’s voice is tense, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.
Eliza stiffens beside me, her chest barely moving. No strange noise breaks through the tense air, but I follow his narrowed gaze past the foyer to the arcade leading into the living room. The coffee table is flipped, with its legs up on the hardwood floor. Rosie’s not supposed to come and clean until tomorrow. Nobody else had any business being in my house today.
“Possible intrusion,” Patrick barks into his sleeve. “Send a team. Now!”
He’s pushing us against the wall, shielding us. Eliza’s shrinking behind his tall frame, her lip trembling.
No. Not in myhome. This can’t be happening.
“Move,” I snap. “Let me see.”
“You can’t go in there,” he mutters, eyes darting between the stairs that lead to the upper floor and the living room.
The door bursts wide open, and three other security guards barge in, guns raised.
“Take them to Mr. Rawlings’s penthouse. Now!” Patrick orders, steel in his voice. “You.” He points at one of them. “Clear the upstairs. I’ll take the ground floor.”
“No!” I duck under his arm and march to the living room.
“Jackie!” I hear the edge in his voice, but I don’t care. “The intruders might still be here. It’s dangerous.”
“Good thing you’re here and armed then,” I grit back over my shoulder, before I step into the room and finally take in the scene. And freeze.
My living room is trashed. The furniture is askew or turned over. Pieces of broken ceramic pepper the floor. Paintings areslashed. Every drawer and cabinet door pulled open and left hanging.
“Fuckers…”
