Page 11 of In Love and Revenge

She looks up at me as she types. ‘I love that top on you.’

‘Thanks.’

I adjust the thin strap of my gold-sequined camisole. It’s a copy of a vintage piece that belonged to my mother. The original one, which was seized, along with the rest of my father’s and my possessions, was worn by a famous British actress. She gave it to my mother as a thank you after she looked after her wardrobe when she was filming a movie in the Cotswolds.

That was my mother’s passion, working in the wardrobe and costume department for films and TV. She was just starting out, working as a general dogsbody, when she found out she was pregnant with me. But my father said she always left an impression on those she met, not only from her sheer love and joy of the work, but for how determined she was to chase her dream of running wardrobe for an entire production herself one day. She never made it. But I’m going to live that dream for her. And for my father. For both of us. I had it all planned out. After I finished university, I’d applied for internships at production companies. It took a while, but I managed to get one all set up. ThenDad was arrested. I’ve put everything on hold until he’s free, focusing on the fashion vlog instead. I want him to be here to witness me do what Mum always dreamt of. I want him and Mum, wherever she is, to be proud of me.

I was wearing her original gold top in the first vlog of mine to go viral. It started as a bit of fun a year ago, a way for me to share my love of clothes, fashion and maybe show those production houses my skills. But I’ve built up a following and now I’m gifted items from fashion brands from time to time.

The imitation top is lighter and cheaper, but wearing it reminds me of her. Reminds me I can do this. That no matter how dire things can seem, there is always that possibility, that chance, that things can get better. One day it’s wearing a favourite top. The next it’s overthrowing an unjust court ruling and freeing an innocent man.

I just have to keep going and never give up.

I glance back towards the reception desk, feeling smug, but there’s no sign of Rafael.

Reaching into my purse, I pull out a red lipstick and turn to touch my lips up using the mirrored wall on the rear of the lift.

The closing doors jerk as large fingers curl around them. They slide back open to reveal Rafael. He stands there, all six foot something of solid arrogance.

‘I’ll send a car to pick you up. Where are you going?’ he snaps, making the offer sound more like an accusation.

Dove looks at him in suspicion. ‘I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m perfectly capable of getting my own cab home.’

He ignores her, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

‘Just looking out for you, sis. There are all sorts of’ – his nostrils flare– ‘unscrupulouspeople about.’

I narrow my eyes at him as his attention drops over my body with a look of derision.

‘You’re acting weird. Piss off,’ Dove says, half-joking. She’s never needed looking after, so I know she won’t be about to let her older brother start now.

But this little display of theatrical concern wasn’t for her benefit.

It was for mine.

Rafael’s eyes meet mine with a finality like he thinks he’s won. But my returning smile has the corners of them pinching just a fraction with confusion. If he thinks I’m bothered by his pathetic dig then he’s mistaken. Because now I know my comment got to him. It got to him so much that he had to come over and stop our lift to perform his weak comeback.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Dove tells him as the doors start closing again.

‘Bye.’ I hold a hand up and wave to him using just my pinkie, making sure to give it an extra wiggle to accentuate my point.

The resulting line between his brows is so deep you could park a plane in it.

I smirk.

His eyes burn into mine until the doors meet, and I hold them without faltering.

I found a new favourite sight to add to my mental image bank: Rafael Fairfax being pissed because he knows I got one up on him.

It’s even more satisfying than I imagined.

Chapter 3

Rafael

The thin strap of the lemon-coloured floral sundress slips, exposing her shoulder. She doesn’t notice and keeps chatting to the camera. Her face is animated and glowing as she talks through her outfit, twirling in a circle to show the way the hem kicks up in the air as she spins.

I shift in my seat, my rock-hard dick crying out for attention. Instead of touching it, giving it the much-needed friction it’s desperate for, I pick up a pen from my desk and balance it on the table, sliding my fingers down, then pausing, before I spin it on its head and repeat the move.