"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." I ease her down from the wall, keeping my arms around her until I'm sure her legs will support her weight. "Saturday is going to be fine. My parents are going to love you. And then we're going to figure out who sent that text and make sure they never threaten you again."
She doesn't argue, but I can see the doubt in her eyes. She's been hurt too many times, let down by too many people, to believe that happiness can last. It's going to take more than words to convince her.
Good thing I'm a man of action.
I take her hand and lead her toward the bathroom, already planning the rest of the evening. A hot shower together, a good dinner, an early night with her wrapped in my arms. Small gestures that add up to something larger. Proof that I'm not going anywhere.
Saturday will come soon enough, with all its complications and dangers. But tonight, we have each other. And I'm going to make sure she knows exactly what that means.
CHAPTER 5- JADE
The Crawford estate takes my breath away, and not in a good way.
I've seen pictures of mansions like this in magazines, sprawling Mediterranean villas perched on the cliffs of Pacific Palisades with views that stretch all the way to Catalina on a clear day. I've imagined what it might feel like to walk through rooms where a single piece of furniture costs more than my yearly rent. But imagination is nothing compared to reality.
The driveway alone is longer than the street I grew up on in Boston. We pass through iron gates that open automatically at our approach, then wind up a path lined with perfectly manicured hedges and flowering trees that scent the air with jasmine and something citrusy I can't identify. By the time the house comes into view, my palms are sweating and my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure Phoenix can hear it.
"Breathe," he says softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "It's just a house."
"It's a castle," I correct him. "There's a difference."
He laughs, but I'm not joking. The main house rises three stories high, all white stucco and terracotta tiles and arched windows that glow warm with light. Cars are parked along thecircular driveway, a fleet of luxury vehicles that probably cost more collectively than most people earn in a lifetime. Valets in matching uniforms scurry between them, opening doors for guests who emerge in clouds of expensive perfume and designer fabric.
Phoenix pulls up to the entrance and hands his keys to a young man who looks barely old enough to drive. I watch his Porsche disappear around the side of the house and feel a small piece of my escape route vanish with it.
"Ready?" Phoenix asks, offering me his arm.
No. I'm not ready. I'm wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, borrowed jewelry that could be a downpayment for a great condo, and shoes that pinch my toes with every step. I don't belong here. I don't know the rules of this world or the language these people speak. I'm going to embarrass myself and Phoenix and everyone will know I'm a fraud.
But I take his arm anyway and let him lead me inside.
The interior of the house is somehow even more overwhelming than the exterior. The foyer opens into a great room with ceilings that soar at least twenty feet high, supported by exposed wooden beams that look like they were salvaged from some ancient European monastery. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flanked by oil paintings in gilded frames. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over clusters of guests who hold champagne flutes.
The smell hits me next. Fresh flowers, expensive candles, something roasting in a distant kitchen that makes my stomach growl despite my nerves. Underneath it all, the faint scent of money itself, that particular combination of fine leather and aged wood and the confidence that comes from never having to worry about anything as mundane as bills or budgets.
"Phoenix!" A woman's voice cuts through the crowd, and I watch a tall blonde in a red dress descend on us with air kissesand exclamations. "Darling, it's been ages. And who is this gorgeous creature on your arm?"
Phoenix introduces me with practiced ease, and I smile and shake hands and say the things I'm supposed to say. The woman's name is something with a V, Victoria or Veronica, and she's married to someone important whose name I immediately forget. She looks at me the way you might look at a new piece of furniture, assessing whether I match the decor.
More introductions follow, an endless parade of names and faces that blur together in my memory. Everyone wants to know who I am, where I'm from, what I do. I trot out the answers Phoenix and I rehearsed on the drive over.
Writer, Boston, working on a novel. The responses are warmer than I expected. Several guests lean in with genuine interest, asking about my genre and my publishing plans. A woman in emerald silk turns out to be a screenwriter who's adapted three bestsellers for Netflix, and she spends ten minutes telling me about her agent and offering to make introductions. A man with silver hair and kind eyes mentions that he produced a film that won at Sundance last year, and would I be interested in discussing adaptation rights when my novel is finished?
It should feel validating. These are the kinds of connections writers dream about, the doors that open when you know the right people. But every conversation reminds me that I'm only here because of Phoenix. They're not interested in me. They're interested in Phoenix Crawford's new girlfriend, and if that girlfriend happens to write, well, how charming, how quaint, let's see if we can use that somehow.
I'm beginning to wonder that myself when I spot them across the room.
Nicholas Crawford stands near the fireplace, greeting guests with the easy confidence of a man who owns everything hesurveys. He's tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out his charcoal suit perfectly. His dark hair is slicked back, mostly straight, though a strand has fallen across his forehead. He has the kind of jawline that belongs on magazine covers, and dark eyes that seem to assess everyone they land on. Phoenix has his father's height, his build, but where Phoenix runs hot, Nicholas is all controlled power. He looks like a man who's never lost at anything in his life.
Beside him, Olive Crawford is receiving compliments on the flower arrangements from a cluster of women in designer dresses. She's not what I expected. She's beautiful, yes, the kind of effortless elegance that comes from decades of wealth. Her dark hair is swept back in a simple chignon, and she's wearing a dove-gray dress that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe back home. But there's something sharp in her eyes as they scan the room, an intelligence that's assessing and calculating. This is a woman who sees everything. This is the woman who was once my mother's best friend, before something shattered that bond beyond repair.
"Ready to meet them?" Phoenix murmurs in my ear.
I want to say no. I want to turn around and walk out the door and never look back. But I've come too far to retreat now.
"Let's get it over with."
