But this? Somebody threatening her life? It ignites something primal in me. The protective streak I thought I’d buried roars back to life, no matter how deep the scars she left behind.
Of course it takes mayhem like this to force me back. After all, she’s an expert at leaving a goddamn mess behind her.
God, I hate this woman.
And still…I ran through the city like a madman the second I thought she might be in danger.
Chapter Two
JACKIE
“What the hell!” Blanca’s voice hits a pitch that could shatter glass. It could be weaponized if somebody figured out how to capture the frequency. “You were nearly blown up, and didn’t even call me!”
I chuckle at how fundamentally Blanca her reaction is. It’s not far off from the little blonde girl, with the perfect ponytail and mini pink deux-piece, who stiffly declaredshe’dnever heard of my family, then casually shared the contents of a lunch box packed by her personal chef.
“Sorry, been kinda busy doing damage control,” I mumble into the phone, turning in place while I try to find the best spot in my office for the obsidian crystal Lilly gave me. Supposedly for “good luck and protection”. She fully hyperventilated when the news broke. The voicemails she left me after the attack hadmecrying for her distress. I didn’t have the heart to refuse it.
“I really don’t get you,” Blanca sighs. “You could be settled nicely by now, planning fundraisers with your husband’s money, doing the social circuit with me.”
“That’s an idea,” I say absentmindedly.
Lilly might have said something about putting it on the front left corner of the desk. I nudge a pile of files aside and place the stone down carefully. Even if it’s the wrong corner, it’s not like I’ll accidentally summon a demon from another dimension. Hopefully. That’s the last thing I need right now.
“Get married already and let somebody else deal with all these problems,” she huffs. I know she means well, but as usual,she’s relentless when going on one of herget a husband while you still canrants.
Blanca reminds me of my dad in that way. Impossible to argue with, sticking to their single-point plan, convinced I need saving from myself. I had to beg him to give me my first job here.
“Business analyst?” he’d said. “Sweetie, that’s no place for a delicate flower like you. Better ask your mother if she needs help with that luncheon instead.”
I bet he never said that to Carter.
Dad’s been gone for four years, and nowI’mthe one sitting in his former office. It should bring me some sense of satisfaction. Except I find it hard to enjoy the view with all these death threats hanging over my head. They tend to sour any good mood I have left.
“One day I’ll wear you down,” Blanca says cheerfully, “and you’ll let me find you a rich husband. This year’s lineup is particularly impressive.”
As if her taste in men wasn’t enough to put me off the entire concept. She might be loyal and sweet, but her high-school crushes were a stress test to our friendship.
Arguing with Blanca is something I’ve learned to avoid, though. I’ve spent too many years watching her cry over her family’s callousness, and I can’t stomach upsetting her. Not when she spent our entire childhood baring her teeth at every kid who even looked at me sideways.
“Sure,” I say. “Will let you know.”
“You have to come to the Hamptons this weekend! The ladies are literallydyingto see you after everything.”
Blanca and her forever unfortunate word choices.
I don’t have flaws. Not really, from a statistical point of view. But even if I did, being stupid certainly wouldn’t be one of them. The ultra-exclusive sorority Blanca ran like a benevolent dictator in college didn’t pick me for my great personality or ravishinglooks. They recruited me because she all but threatened them, and for my last name. By then, the Rawlings were no longer nouveau-riche. After twenty years, there was no one who didn’t know the tech empire my dad had built.
I’d had zero interest in taking the pledge. But between Blanca’s endless pleas and my mother’s near meltdown —“It would be social suicide to blow them off”—resistance felt pointless.
Plopping into my comfy leather chair in the most unladylike manner, I weigh my options. I’d rather swim in shark-infested waters than suffer through a weekend sipping rosé and listening to backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive jabs delivered with sugary smiles.
It’s such a shame, because the wine is usually exquisite.
“I’ll check my schedule and get back to you,” I say. “Speaking of which, I’d better go. I have to talk to my assistant.”
“If you say so,” she replies, her tone oozing disapproval. “It could be like the good old days. You, me, and the girls.”
She was a lot less persistent when I lived on the other side of the Atlantic. Since I’ve been back from London, I’ve perfected giving the illusion of interest by strategically showing up at a handful of the sorority events, but it’s starting to wear me thin. I love Blanca, butthe girlsare the reason I dry swallow a propranolol before stepping out of the limo.
