Page 11 of Backlash

That makes today a diamond by any standards. I choose to see it that way.

Things could have gone on longer. I could have wasted even more time letting Sterling get the best of me. I could have let Malcolm dictate my entire future. I stood up to both of them. I walked away. If that’s not cause for celebration, then I don’t know what is.

The food arrives so quickly that I can feel my ass getting bigger. I might have to set some boundaries if they can get chocolate cake to me at this speed. Or not. It’s my life now.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to Windfall and pack while Malcolm is at work. Today, I settle for a silky Eaton robe I find in the master closet. But celebrating by myself turns out to remind me I’m alone. Usually, I’m okay with that. Even surrounded by friends, I’ve never quite fit. I’m always the odd one out. The one being dragged toward socialization. I’ve embraced that over the last few years.

But Sterling changed everything. He reminded me of what it’s like to be perfectly understood. Even when we’re at odds, he gets me. For a moment I was completely, utterly myself with him.

I let my guard down, and he attacked. I don’t know why I expected anything different to happen. You can’t blame a predator for striking. I practically laid down and begged for it. Just like he said I would.

Never again.

It’s something to drink to, so I pop the bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass. Room service, in its infinite wisdom, sent two champagne flutes. It feels like an insult to see it sitting there empty, so I pour another glass and place it next to the framed photo of my mother.

“To being rid of bad men,” I say to her and clink the rim of my glass to hers. I down the contents of my flute with one swallow. “You going to drink that?”

Great, now I’m talking to my dead mom. Maybe that’s because she’s one of the few people I’ve ever known who never said a bad thing about people. She always saw the good in them, but not in the innocent way my best friend Poppy does. She saw flaws, but she didn’t focus on them. People always say I take after her, but they mean in the looks department. I have her green eyes and fair complexion. That’s where our similarities end. I’m nothing like her. I’ve got too much of my father in me.

“Why did you love him?” I ask her. “You saw what he was. What good could you possibly have found in him? I watched how he treated you for years and you always found a way to see past how he controlled you and used you. I mean, he probably brought other women to this very room! Why? Why were you in the car that night? Why did you let him drive? You knew! Why is this all I have left of you?” I wave my hand wildly around the hotel suite, forgetting my glass and sending champagne spilling across the desk. “Shit.”

I slide open the drawer of the end table, looking for something to wipe it off with. All I find is a stack of paper and some pens. I try the next drawer, only to discover it’s locked or stuck. For some reason, this puts me over the edge. The tears I’ve been fighting break loose and fall down my cheeks. I yank on the desk drawer, determined to get it open, but it won’t budge. Definitely locked. It’s not like it will have what I need anyway. I wind up grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom to soak up the mess.

“Don’t cry over spilled champagne,” I order myself.

But I’m not crying over it. I’m crying for my mom and the life I thought I would have. The life I will never have. I’m crying because I want to know the answers to those questions, because maybe if I did, I could figure out why I’m stuck—just like that stupid drawer—repeating mistakes, holding onto the past, never learning. Opening the top drawer, I reach to the back, feeling around for a key, but only find dust. It’s the story of my life: there’s always a missing key.

6

Sterling

Her phone goes straight to voicemail when I call, which means it’s dead or she turned the ringer off to avoid me. I’m past being angry at her for jumping to conclusions, and now I’m in full-blown panic mode. If I can find her, if I can explain…

But I don’t know where to start. Scrolling through my contact list, I stumble on Cyrus’s name. He gave me his number weeks ago to set up a lunch date or whatever these rich fucks do to fill their meaningless days. Cyrus, for better or for worse, lives with Poppy. Poppy is Adair’s best friend. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to put it together.

He answers after a few rings.

“Cyrus, it’s Sterling,” I cut him off mid-hello.

“I was wondering if you’d ever get around to calling me. We still need to get together. Charity galas aren’t exactly—”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” I don’t have time for idle chit-chat. “Listen, is Adair at your place? I’m trying to track her down. I thought she might be with Poppy.”

“She’s not here. I can ask Poppy,” he offers.

“No, don’t worry about it,” I say quickly. The last thing I need is to spook her any more or to get all her friends involved. I doubt Poppy will take my side on this one. “Let’s make sure we get together.”

I hang up before I can waste more time on a dead end. Zeus wanders over and sits at my feet, staring up at me while I stare at my phone.

I call Jack because I can’t think and he’s pretty good at it. “Weird question,” I say when he answers, “Have you seen Adair?”

“Misplace her?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Cute,” I say curtly. “Seriously, she took off, and she’s not answering her phone.”

“Did something happen?” Jack’s tone switches to all business. That’s the other upside of calling him for help. Luca would still have three more quips on deck before he started taking things seriously.

“Doesn’t it always?” I mutter. “She saw a text on my phone.”