What I wouldn’t give for the freedom to hide under the bed, cowering in the face of a threat. I have to face this, face everything, with or without Jack by my side.
Jack, Jack, Jack.
The center of my universe. The yin to my yang.
Our new life together is getting off to a rocky start.
* * *
Jack sticks his head back inside the suite a little before five. “Darling? Are you up? They’re expecting us in the library. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
“Finally. I’ve been texting you. Where have you been?”
He glances at his Patek Philippe, the only outward trapping of wealth he allows himself. It is sleek and unobtrusive, water-resistant, a college graduation gift from his parents. Jack, and his brothers, went to Yale, where Brice studied. Another huge difference between us. I’m a Nashville Watkins School of Art alum. There was no reason for me to go to a traditional college—I wanted to be in the arts. But Jack, he’s Skull and Bones all the way.
I have a regular Apple Watch like the rest of the world, though Jack hates it. “I don’t know why you want to be so connected. Anyone could track you down. They aren’t secure.”
But I insist. I like it. I may have changed myself from the skin out for Jack, but I can’t give up everything that gives me joy.
“Sorry, darling. Henna said you were doing a fitting, so I stayed out of the way so I wouldn’t see the dress.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Tell me what? Are you okay? You look upset.”
“Someone ruined my dress. Someone painted the word WHORE on it in blood.”
Jack goes utterly still, his face a blank mask, but I can feel the rage roiling inside of him. I fight back threatening tears. I can’t fall apart again.
“Who would do such a thing?” Jack asks quietly, so quietly I wonder if he’s talking to me or himself.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s an awful, terrible trick. Can Henna fix it?”
“No, I don’t think so. I have the dress I was going to wear to the rehearsal. I can try that instead.”
“I don’t care if you wear your jeans and Converse, my love. It’s not what you’re wearing that matters. But I know you loved the dress. I don’t know what to say. If I had any idea who did it... I am so, so sorry.”
He wraps me in his arms and I sigh in relief. I can handle anything with him by my side.
“Darling. I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.”
“We’ll figure it out. I’m sure Henna has told Ana by now, and the whole place will be in a kerfuffle soon enough. I take it it’s time to sign the prenup?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
“The lawyers have been very patient this afternoon. Shall we?”
“Let’s go. Take my mind off things. I don’t want to be cooped up with my thoughts anymore.”
I follow Jack back down the hallway to the grand staircase, this time trying to memorize the path. I don’t want to get lost if I’m on my own.
When we got engaged, everyone warned me I’d have to sign an iron-clad prenup if I wanted to go through with it. No problem on my end, I have no intention of needing it. Leaving Jack is unthinkable; he feels the same, I know. We are meant for each other. We balance each other. We complete each other. And now that we’ve been to death’s door together, nothing will tear us apart. I mean, he could be implicated, right? Hiding the truth about a crime?
No, we’re in this together, for better or worse.
16
Prenup, or Else
The Compton library is done up in old-world style. The room is expansive, two stories of bookshelves, floor to rafters, and the rest dark, well-oiled oak wainscoting. The scent of lemon and ancient paper permeates the air. This is my room; I realize it immediately. I feel utterly at home. Yes, I love painting, but reading is a close second. There are so many books that my mouth goes dry with anticipation.
Not only collectors of important works of art, Jack’s family possess some rare and exciting texts in their many homes. This is the library of an investor, yes, but also of a reader—paperbacks with bright covers peek out from the staid gold and gilt, a human touch in the midst of the opulence.
Despite how much is crammed in, the room doesn’t feel crowded, rather elegantly stuffed. There are some well-lit oils here and there—warships a-sail, hunting scenes—more traditional as befit the library’s purpose. They don’t excite me as much as the modern art, but they are impressive pieces.
There is a stone fireplace that a five-year-old could stand in comfortably, the wood stacked and ready for the match. To my right is the second-story balcony accessed by a massive curved staircase with wrought-iron spindles. The dark oak handrail is wide enough children could slide down it. Jack and his brothers slid down it.
Our children will slide down it. There will be shouts and cries and games in this room.
It hits me—this is happening. It is really happening. I’m going to pledge my life to Jack, to be his wife, the mother of his children. I do a giddy spin, taking in the rest of the room.
Toward the nave is a stunning stained-glass window, the detail remarkable. It depicts two men, one wearing a horned devil’s mask, one holding paper and pen. Faust. A man caught in the act of selling his soul to the devil for all eternity.
A shiver passes through me. What a strange scene to have in your library. Then again, the idea of all the knowledge in the world bringing ultimate power was a cornerstone of the Compton computer software system. Putting power in the hands of the people, for the greater good, that is Brice Compton’s mantra. It’s fitting; the Comptons do so much for the greater good.
Under the stained-glass window is a long, wide table littered with vases of peonies, stacks of books, and a tower of papers. Behind it, two blue-suited lawyers sit side by side, one man, one woman, both in their fifties. The man is salty haired and round as a blueberry, the woman has a curly blond shag, light eyes, and a cadaverously thin frame. They look up in unison and jump to their feet, and the man waves us into the room.
“Jackson. So good to see you. Felicitations on your joyous day. This must be your beautiful bride.”
Jack smiles. “It is. I’m pleased to introduce Claire Hunter. Claire, this is Henry Stephens and Margaret Haynes. They are our personal family attorneys.”
“Call me Maggie.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, much less formal than her partner. Her eyes are the queerest color, not blue, as I thought earlier, but a celadon green. “We’re so pleased to meet you at last, Claire. So pleased you’ve stolen our Jacky’s heart.”