Chapter 4 "Hurry!" Ares yells. We make a break for it. My heart pounds as my brother Ares, my identical twin Josh and I run as fast as our legs can carry us. Mom lets out a soft cry as she follows. The cookies she gave us churn in my belly. My vision gets fuzzy, everything going out of focus. Even though it's dusk, the sunlight is somehow blinding, making me squint. I don't understand why Mom tries to grab us like this. She and Dad argued loudly when they didn't realize we were listening, and he threatened that she'd never see us again. But kidnapping us like this... Isn't it too extreme? You're such a good boy. My good boy. Mom's words ring in my head. She always called me a good boy. I was always sweet-tempered and obedient. Even Aunt Jeremiah told Dad I might be too nice to survive at the family's law firm. You're a good boy, Bryce. Mom always looked me in the eyes when she said it. I can always count on you. The tenderness in her blue eyes. The gentle smile on her lips. Her light fingers stroking my chin and neck. I love you the most. Maybe she was scared she might not see us again. Dad always says he doesn't make threats, only promises. It's the way of the family, and Grandma and Dad always told us that Huxleys don't use empty words. But would Dad keep Mom away from us forever? She loves us. Right? A soft sob comes from behind us. Mom. My heart feels funny, like a splinter's gliding into it. I slow down a little to look back at her. I don't want her to cry. I need to let her know I'll always love her because she's our mom. I'll never abandon her. She grabs my shoulder. I wince, but swallow a pained cry. She probably doesn't mean to hurt me. "Got you!" The smile on her face isn't normal. It's a little scary, her eyes too bright and wide. "M-Mom...?" "No!" Ares yells. He runs toward us, headbutting Mom hard. She loses her balance, but she doesn't let go. Ares bites Mom's hand. That loosens her grip, and he shoves me toward Josh. "Get outta here! Now!" Ares screams, then bites Mom's hand again. Blood and saliva seep from the wound. Mom screams, then knees Ares in the belly. He doubles over, but he doesn't loosen his jaw. If it's possible, the muscles clench tighter. I freeze, sick to my stomach. It's my fault Ares is hurt. I have to go help him. But Mom... How can she be like this? Josh grabs my arm. "We have to go." His eyes are wide with shock and fear. Mom was always so gentle. And beautiful. The person who held and comforted me when I scraped a knee. Read me stories. Told me legends from her home country of Nesovia. Slipped me an extra cookie when I begged, saying, "Please! Please, Mommy. You know I love you the most!" But the woman in front of me, restraining and attacking Ares, is nothing like the one I've known. Confusion and horror turn my mind blank, unable to process what I'm seeing. Holding my hand tightly, Josh starts running. I follow, my body moving on autopilot. I can't look back and have Josh get taken, too. Ares, I'm sorry. It should be me she's hitting, not him. A hot fist clenches around my neck. I struggle to suck in air, and the sound of my breathing grows louder and more ragged. "Bryce, no! Don't leave me!" she screams, then lunges for me, her arm stretched out. Somehow she catches the hem of my shirt. I fall face-first, my hand slipping out of Josh's grip. The impact makes me see stars. She flips me over and lowers her head until her nose is touching mine. "My baby. You know I love you the most. We should stay together. Remain a happy family of five. Don't you want that?" Then her hands wrap around my neck and start to choke me. I struggle, my arms and legs flailing. My vision dims. Am I going to go like this? Fuck. No matter how I struggle to inhale, nothing can get past the tight hands around my throat. A dog barks somewhere. A girl screams in a voice so familiar it sends a chill down my spine. "Let him go!" Her shout penetrates the terrifying fog. Mom's hands lose their strength, then fall away. The weight on me vanishes. The girl holds my prone body, her presence wrapping around me like a shield. Her warm hand cups my cheek, the gold-ringed green eyes looking down at me with concern and care. The tension inside me eases. I can finally breathe. "Fiona," I whisper, clutching her. "Fiona." I repeat her name as though I can find salvation through it. "Bryce." She looks down at me, the sweetness in her gaze leaching away, replaced by cold mockery. "I always found you disgusting," she says, her voice choppy and harsh. She shoves me away. "No!" I roll and fall into a pit, falling and falling and- I jackknife up in bed, sucking in the cold, dry air. My heart races with the vestiges of panic. Clammy sweat covers me from head to toe. Fuck. Another nightmare. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, willing the spasming nerves behind them to settle. I can't go into the office like this. The Fogeys-the elders of the family-will worry, even if they don't say anything too overt. Ares and Josh will notice and wonder if I'm okay. We all know what Mom's kidnapping did to us, even though we don't delve too deeply into it. We're lawyers, not psychotherapists. And The Fogeys hired the best therapists money could buy for us. They probably did a decent job. I quit waking up crying and having nightmares every night. Now I don't cry. And the nightmares are only occasional. Not ideal. But manageable. Ares, Josh and I are all still a little bit broken, but most of the time, we're okay. When we aren't, we pretend we are. And when we can't pretend, we offer each other what support we can. After all, we're Huxleys. Pietas et unitas. Without loyalty and unity, we're nothing. When my pulse is back to normal and I'm no longer gasping like a fish tossed up on land, I put on workout shorts and head to the home gym to run. Since Gardy passed away, the only way for me to quickly shed the aftereffects of a nightmare is a hard run, lasting at least half an hour. I step onto the treadmill. I should get a new dog. Maybe another golden retriever... Except I keep finding reasons not to. Much as I adored Gardy, the last few years of her life were hard. Watching her grow weaker and sicker was painful. Not only that, every time I saw her, it reminded me of Fiona Oberman-a girl as beautiful and treacherous as my mother. Unlike my mother, though, Fiona lacks self-respect, I think gloomily as the treadmill accelerates. My arms and legs pump, my heart beating faster. My head begins to clear. Why did my nightmare have to end with Fiona holding me, then tossing me aside? It never involved her until today. I shake myself mentally. Fiona isn't likely to reappear in my life ever again. She knows how much I despise her. She's a traitorous bitch, but she's not an idiot. But Mom? Mom has no shame, and now that Josh and I are thirty, she'll be back. She didn't finagle Dad into giving her the right to visit us again as adults just to stay away for the rest of her life. The family should've put her in prison. Or, failing that, hired a discreet hit man. Grandma actually might have, if Mom weren't the only daughter of Nesovian mob boss Vincent Dunkel. He might not love his daughter, but he could never afford to look weak by failing to protect his own flesh and blood. Also, The Fogeys wanted to end any entanglement with the mob as quickly as possible. Dad got the divorce he wanted. Ironic, since Mom tried to kidnap us to avoid getting divorced. But the family has always been firm on never getting involved with organized crime. And Dad had already discovered what an unhinged lunatic Mom was by then. Mom can come back and make a big fucking stink all she wants. But she'll never be able to deceive and manipulate me. I'm no longer her innocent little boy. You know I love you the most. Bullshit. There's no love or purity of heart-except for the blood members of my family. Pietas et unitas. Loyalty and unity. The motto is engraved into our psyches the moment we're born. We might squabble with each other, but if anybody else tries to fuck with us? Oh, hell no. You're a good boy. Yeah, not anymore. Aunt Jeremiah no longer worries about my not having the right temperament to swim with the sharks of Huxley & Webber. I'm no longer the naïve kid who believed "I love you" actually means anything. It's just a tool for manipulation. After the thirty minutes are up, I warm down, stretch and shower. Select a dark charcoal three-piece suit. A gift from my stepmom Akiko, it was hand-stitched in Tokyo by the same tailor who dresses all of the men of her zaibatsu family in Japan. She worked so hard to chip away at my distrust and sullenness after Mom tried to kidnap us... The images come again: Mom managing to nab Ares, but losing Josh and me because Ares resisted and bought us time to escape. Self-reproach drips like poison: it's my fault Ares got taken by Mom. I close my eyes, exhale, and imagine water leaking from a faucet-then turn it off. Nobody needs that guilt, especially not me or Ares, the one who suffered the most. He fought so that Josh and I would be safe and happy, not so we would dwell on the past and what could've been. I take extra care styling my hair, ensuring it's slicked back perfectly. Loop a muted burgundy tie into a trinity knot. A Cartier Tank on my wrist, onyx wolf-head cuff links and I'm ready to face the world without letting anything touch me. The family law firm Huxley & Webber takes up most of a sleek skyscraper. Every Huxley born is expected to work-and thrive-at the firm, and most of us do exactly that. My brothers and I did exceptionally well-Harvard undergraduate and Harvard Law. I'm content with my career and the work I do. Dealing with The Fogeys can get a bit annoying. After all, my dad and aunt are name partners and can be meddlesome from time to time. I'm half an hour early. Aunt Jeremiah joins me in the elevator, holding a travel mug full of coffee. Her blood-red hair is pulled back into a knot, and the same shade gleams on her lips. Her skirt suit and stilettos are jet black. It's one of her court appearance looks. Somebody's going to die, and it's not going to be her. "Good morning. You look a little pale." Her observation makes my eyebrow twitch a little. Does it show that I had a nightmare? Even though I had the run? "Should sleep more," she says. "How did you know?" I often sleep poorly, but have never mentioned it to anybody in the family. Nobody knows I have bad dreams, not even my doctor. "You didn't leave until two last night." "Neither did you," I say, trying not to sound defensive. "Yes, but I'm a vampire. Haven't you heard?" A corner of her mouth curves upward. "You aren't." "You should still sleep, if only during the day," I say, running with it. "As for me, I have to put in the time. Divorce cases are delicate." "There's nothing delicate about a Hollywood divorce, sweetie. They're going to sling mud at each other, saying shit that will undermine your position and make you wish you could feed your client into a wood chipper." "Jesus." I suppress a shudder at the imagery. I wouldn't put it past her to do exactly that if a client pissed her off. She believes in winning, not doing damage control for idiots who can't keep their mouths shut, no matter how wealthy they are. That's why, despite her dictatorial attitude, people still beg her to take their cases. They know she doesn't lose. The elevator dings, and we step out of the car together onto the half-full floor. Nobody can afford to slack off when one of the partners is known to arrive early. I stop by the break room to grab a coffee, then head to my office, shutting the door with my heel. My assistant won't be here for at least an hour. She has to drop off her kid at daycare because her husband is out of town. What would it be like to be able to trust your spouse with something as important as your own children? Amélie, usually sharp and sarcastic, glows when she talks about her family, especially her husband. Apparently, it was love at first sight. Yeah, right. More like a psyop by the guy. There's no such thing as love, much less at first sight. He's just waiting for the perfect opportunity to backstab her. I haven't told her, but if she ever needs to divorce his ass, I'll do it pro bono. I'll ensure she gets everything, including the kid, the house, the car-even his underwear. I turn my attention to the huge stack of documents on my desk. The first one's about the Oberman family trust. I frown slightly while sipping my coffee. Why Zachary bothered wasting his money discussing the situation with me is beyond my understanding. The trust has been hollowed out completely by the trustee, who basically let Aaron do whatever he wanted. Zachary sought advice on undoing it, but unfortunately, that wasn't how the trust was set up. If there had been more time and Zachary could have afforded the fee, I might've pored over everything and found a loophole to exploit. But the man had a sudden heart attack, leaving everyone stunned, including me. Now there's nothing left of the estate except debt. I doubt it could pay the latest fifty-thousand-dollar invoice from Huxley & Webber. The firm will try to collect, but we'll probably have to eat it. Grandma will lecture me to be more careful about avoiding deadbeat clients. But who would've thought a family with a history like the Obermans would be teetering on the verge of bankruptcy? Even if I'd known the family was insolvent, I would've still taken Zachary on, on the off chance that he'd mention Fiona. See if that would stir anything. She made me think she was some kind of angel, only to stab me in the heart. And he did speak to me about her with a faint smile, but I felt nothing. Who cares if she moved to Wisconsin, or that she works in marketing at some cheese company, or that she's still single? She's probably still pining over Jude Morven... Although if she wanted him, she should've stayed in L.A., where he's living off his family's money, like the pathetic, invertebrate parasite he is. Yeah. She's so stupid she didn't even stay in L.A. to chase after that loser "soul mate" of hers. Why should I have any feelings for her? I'm too rational for that. Since I'm not going to get paid, I push aside Zachary Oberman's files and start reviewing the Hollywood divorce. I swear-if Bebe Brooks makes one more social media post about her imploding marriage with Xavier, I'm going to break her fingers. * * * "What do you mean I can't talk about that piece of shit? I'm American! I have rights!" Bebe's impressive tits heave under the low-cut dress. Those breasts are real-and made her an overnight sensation on some pseudo-porn site, where she got her start. Now she does more respectable acting, but the melons are still the stars. My day was going fine until she showed up for her appointment because she had to talk about "something important." I maintain my bland smile despite her shrill screams and the beginning of a headache. She seems to believe that, of the two of us, she knows more about constitutional law. "Yes," I say in my most professional tone. "You do. But you aren't free of the consequences from exercising those rights." Bebe has a coquettish physical quality that serves her well on screen. She pouts, obviously upset that I'm not siding with her. Tears spring to her eyes, then start falling in rivulets. "He's an asshole!" "Do you want him to keep FruFru?" I should get a prize for keeping my expression blandly polite. FruFru. The couple's French poodle allegedly attacked four gardeners. Not that anybody can blame the dog. If some asshole named me FruFru, I'd bite some gardeners, too. "No!" More tears fall, jacking up my impatience. "Then please do as I say. I can't help you if you keep scoring own goals." "But you're Bryce Huxley! You can-" The door to my office bursts open. Amélie stumbles in, but is immediately pushed aside. "Bryce, I can't wait anymore! You have to hear me out!" Fiona. The voice hits me like a bucket of ice water. I stare, then blink slowly. Maybe Bebe's tears have given me a brain tumor and I'm seeing things. But an illusion couldn't push my assistant aside. Fiona is even more beautiful than I remember, her auburn hair pulled back into a low ponytail to show off her exceptional cheekbones and delicate features, those large cat eyes and the lush mouth that tasted like honey and nectar. I could never get enough of kissing her, stroking her taut, smooth skin. The impact of seeing her is- Uncomfortable, I decide. The weird tightening in my gut is nothing more than indigestion, the shaky boom of my heart just an aftereffect of too much coffee this morning. Fiona doesn't seem to be having a great time, given the pallor and dark circles under her eyes that her makeup can't hide. Her black pantsuit makes her appear even thinner than she is-she's shed weight she didn't need to lose since graduation, giving her an air of fragility that wasn't there before. Her black shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, like she can't bear to show any skin. Or maybe she just doesn't want me to see any. I still don't know why she changed so quickly back in college. It was like somebody flipped a switch in her heart. We'd been dating for a semester after she saved my dog. I fell for her so hard, so fast, that even Josh was a little worried. But I brushed his concern off, believing she and I were happy-on the same page. Disbelief and fury hammered me when I walked in on her rolling around in my bed with Jude Morven. My vision went red, blood boiling as rage burned. "How could you?" I demanded in a shaky voice. She gave me an unreadable look as she wrapped her arms around Jude. "Just decided to trade up. Besides, I never enjoyed sleeping with you. You make my skin crawl." Time should've dulled the cruel response's edge, but recalling it still hurts. At least my heart doesn't bleed like it did back then. I torched the fucking mattress, along with all my love for her. I wanted to kick my own ass for ever thinking that she was genuine or beautiful-my angel. "Who is this tramp?" Bebe screeches, jumping to her feet. Her tears vanish. Normally I'd find the term amusing, especially coming from my trashy client. But Fiona fucked Jude, used to wear very little for him and clung to him even when he had other girls on his arm, so I guess "tramp" fits, although I'd add "pathetic" as well. "Nobody. An old acquaintance," I say coolly. That's the nicest way to describe my relationship with Fiona. Pain flashes in her golden-green eyes. Instead of sheer derision, a small ache of my own unfurls in my heart. I harden my jaw. What the hell's wrong with me? She turned her back on me first. She messed up, not me. She deserves nothing, especially not sympathy. "Why the fuck is this acquaintance interrupting my appointment? Does she know who I am?" Bebe raises her inch-long lacquered talons. I quickly move around the desk. I can't let my client commit assault and battery with witnesses in the room. "I'm so sorry. I told her you have appointments, but she wouldn't listen," Amélie says, looking at Fiona like she'd love nothing more than to murder her. Fiona bites her lip, not meeting Amélie's gaze. "You made me wait more than three hours. I thought you were messing with me." Apparently appalled at being called an unprofessional liar, Amélie glares at Fiona. "Well, are you satisfied now?" "I'm sorry," Fiona says. Given Amélie's temperament, she probably didn't take kindly to Fiona's appearing out of nowhere and demanding to see me. So she undoubtedly put Fiona in an area without a direct view of my office. My eyes linger on Fiona's soft lips. Then I recall how she said she finds me disgusting. "Call security and drag her out," I instruct Amélie. She nods. "Oh, I will be happy to-" "Wait!" Fiona says. "You said you'd do me a favor for saving Gardy!" I pause as the memory of how we met floods my mind. Some asshole had hit my beloved golden retriever, and it was Fiona who found her, took her to the vet and cared for her until she could reach me. Gardy wasn't just a pet, she was a source of comfort and sanity after Mom's attempted kidnapping, critical to my recovery. When I offered to pay, Fiona declined. "No need. It's what any decent person would do. I'm just glad Gardy is fine." The smile she gave me soothed the jagged edges that had stayed inflamed for over a decade. I couldn't help but smile in return. "Okay. But any decent person would repay you for your kindness. If you ever need anything, you let me know, and I'll take care of it. No limit, no expiration date." I meant every word. I wanted to help her somehow, save her day, no matter what it cost. Except she never called in the favor, while we were dating or afterward-probably because she and Jude were having too much fun cutting me up. Guess Fiona finally remembered the impulsive promise I made and decided to cash it in. Fine. I don't want to owe her anything anymore. "Bebe, can you give me five minutes?" I say. "You want me to wait?" Bebe's eyes widen incredulously like I told her she has to recite the Book of Psalms before she can divorce Xavier. "Don't you want to win?" "Ohh! Fine. FruFru is mine!" "He will be." I glance at Amélie. "Five minutes. Not a second more." She nods, narrowing her eyes at Fiona, then escorts Bebe out and closes the door. I prop myself against the desk, resting my hands on the smooth edge, my legs spread and stretched-a picture of indolent arrogance-and wait for Fiona. Her chest heaves as she takes a shaky breath. My eyes drop for a second. Her tits aren't that remarkable after Bebe's. It's an uncharacteristically petty thought. But somehow I can't seem to look away from her. She starts to take the seat Bebe vacated. "I didn't tell you to sit." Her eyes flicker with surprise and a hint of humiliation and desperation. The last doesn't shock me. She wouldn't be here, with someone she said sickens her, if she had any other option. And I wouldn't be listening to a treacherous ex if I hadn't made a promise. But regardless of how revolting she is, I'm going to be the bigger person and keep my word. I glance at my watch. "Four minutes and forty-two seconds." Her cheeks turn bright red. She stiffens her spine as she stands before me, standing a foot away from the tips of my well-polished loafers. "I need two million dollars," she blurts out. I tilt my head and regard her thoughtfully. I didn't see anything in Zachary's estate that would require a large cash infusion. It's bankrupt, but nothing a decent bankruptcy proceeding won't take care of. The Obermans don't need a law firm of the caliber of Huxley & Webber for that. "Two million." She nods. "A loan. I'll pay it back." I? What about Aaron, or Sherry? "And if you can't?" Her breathing shifts, growing less steady. She closes her eyes briefly, as if to gather courage, but the fluttering lashes betray her. "I have a stable job. I'll pay it back." "People with stable, well-paying jobs don't generally dig themselves into two-million-dollar holes." "Bryce." My name is a plea on her lips, and it sounds almost too sweet to be real. It isn't real. She's trying to use you, to backstab you again. Still, the impact of her voice makes my gut clench. Her eyes look up into mine like I'm the only thing that can save her world, and my heart beats wrong, like it's torn between the desire to believe the illusion she's weaving and the desire to strangle her for trying to play another game with me. I loathe myself for reacting like this, and I hate her for making me feel this way, as though all the ugly words and deeds between us never happened. Some things can never be unsaid. Some things can never be undone. Her phone pings. She ignores it, but I want to break eye contact, to get a moment of reprieve to regroup before I deliver my blow. I need it to hurt so bad she'll never come crawling back. "Check it," I order her. She hesitates, her eyes lingering on my face. "Now." She looks down. I breathe a little easier as the prickling sensation lessens. Her fingers flick over the screen. She tightens her grip around her phone. Her lips part to let out a shaky breath, and her eyes fleet everywhere, unable to settle, as though she's searching for a solution to an impossible problem. Finally, she looks at me. I'm not the answer, sweetheart. Suddenly she drops to her knees. The abrupt gesture of self-humiliation is stunning, freezing the gears in my head. What the hell is she up to? She bites her bloodless lip. Her hand reaches out and rests on my knee. The touch sends a shocking heat through my veins. Her fingertips flex, digging into the muscles. Sparks of something far too dangerous and uncontrollable start to erupt. A jolt rushes up my spine. A knot of desire, loathing, disbelief and fury twists inside. I grip the edge of my desk tighter. My breathing roughens. It takes all my discipline to remain still and wrestle back some self-control. I clench my teeth at her attempt at manipulation. If she thinks she can play me with moves like this, she's wrong. The visual-her on her knees, a hand on my leg, looking up at me-only reminds me of seeing her like this with Jude, and how she cried her heart out on her knees when she thought he might never wake up from his coma. She could blow me right now, and I wouldn't be stirred to do what she wants. Fuck her and her methods. "It's a matter of life and death," she whispers. "Please." The way she says please is just like the way she used to when we were in bed. But she probably did the same with Jude. Still, my dick hardens, and I hate myself for responding. I loathe her for still having the power over me. "That's your problem." My voice is arctic. She merely stares at me, light in her eyes dimming. Why is she trying to make me feel like the villain? It takes two heartbeats before she places her palms on the floor and slowly pushes herself up. The tight tension in my gut eases, but only a little. Her breathing is erratic. If it were anybody else, I might be worried that she'd pass out. She starts to undo the top button of her shirt, but her fingers shake too much. I let out a cold laugh. "Sweetheart, don't flatter yourself. A woman who's been around the block as much as you isn't my type. On top of that, you can't even be faithful." I rake her body insolently with my eyes. "You have nothing I want. Not anymore." Dropping her hands, she turns red, then white, then back to red. Her eyes lose focus and wander aimlessly, tracing nonexistent patterns on the carpet. Two knocks at the door. I push myself off the desk. "Your time's up." The words seem to jolt her out of the trance. "Bryce, you said you'd do me a favor!" she says. "Anything I asked!" "Yes. Which is why I took five minutes out of my busy schedule, with a paying client, to listen to you, just like you asked. Now I owe you nothing." She turns so pale so fast, I ready myself to step forward and catch her. I don't care if she gets injured, I tell myself. But I can't have her injured on the premises, because that would be a lawsuit. The door opens, revealing Amélie and two security guards. "Take her away." "No!" Fiona reaches for my wrist, and I pull away. I'm not letting her touch me, skin to skin. The guards take her, linking their arms with hers and tugging at her. She twists and flails. "No! You liar!" I smile and wave. I suppose she's somewhat right. Telling me what she wants as a favor shouldn't count as the favor. But if this isn't the outcome she wanted, she should've tried to make an appointment, not that that would've done much good. All the people near my office crane their necks to see the show. Let them. Why would I care that Fiona's embarrassing herself? "Where's Bebe?" I ask. "Miss Slinky Writhemore said she needed to touch up her roots and left. Apparently, she forgot a hair appointment." Amélie doesn't roll her eyes, but it's in her tone. "This," she says. "This is why aliens kidnap us and stick things up our butts." She shuts the door as she leaves. I let out a soft breath at the restored peace. Where did Fiona ever get the nerve to demand anything from me? I start toward my desk, then catch a glimpse of a black shoe. It's a stiletto with a pointy heel. I pick it up. Not a designer item. Probably something picked up at a department store clearance or something. Huh. The Fiona I knew always splurged on pricey shoes. She always had better footwear than clothes in her closet. Still, it's a sexy item. Guess her taste hasn't deteriorated, even if she quit spending a small fortune on shoes. 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