Rachel looks so suddenly panicked, I catch her hand again. It’s cold as marble.
“Sheesh, you’re freezing,” I chafe her hand. “You look a bit pale. Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. I just haven’t eaten all day.” She draws up her cheeks in a forced smile but there’s still worry in her eyes. “Come on,” she says. “Adam and the guests are waiting.”
I have to credit Adam; he has great taste in everything but engagement rings. And he knows how to throw a party. The building is gorgeous. The foyer is dripping with floral displays. I stop on the grand marble staircase and take in the sea of about a thousand roses. One display is smaller but more tasteful. I recognize the blowsy blooms as pink Edens, a climbing variety of garden rose.
Rachel pauses beside me. “Your father sent those.”
Shit. Dad. I never called back to try to catch him after his nap. “He’s not coming? He’s been resting a lot when I call but the nurse said he’s been feeling better lately.”
“Adam told him about the engagement party,” Rachel says. “Dr. Laurel was pleased.”
Of course he was. Dad always did like things neat and tidy. “I need to call him.” Tell him I’m breaking my engagement to his favorite surrogate son. Dad will be disappointed. A pang goes through me at the thought, but I shake my head.
What does it matter what my dad thinks? It’s my life. I get to choose who to marry and I deserve to be happy. Why does that feel like such a rebellious thought? It’s absurd that choosing my own happiness should have to feel like such an act of courage. But it only makes me more determined to stand firm in my new truth.
As Rachel leads me down a side hall so we can slip into the back of the ballroom, an image of me marrying Logan, dressed in a slave collar, jeweled piercings and nothing else flies through my head. I grin at the ridiculous thought, but then sigh. Dad would have a fit if I even mentioned the name ‘Logan’ and ‘marry’ in the same sentence. Better break it to him gently.
Then my eyes fly open wide at the thoughts so casually running through my head. Not that Logan wants to marry me. It’s too soon to be thinking about that. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. I need to sort out my life first and he’s never even said—
“Here we are,” Rachel says, breaking into my thoughts as she pauses before a back door to the ballroom. Beyond the white and gilt doors, the crowd murmuring is a dull roar.
“One sec.” I check my purse and pull out my phone. No missed calls. Nothing from dad. Or Logan. Am I happy or sad about the latter? “The nurse said she’d have Dad call when he woke up. She must have forgotten--”
“Shit, Daphne,” Rachel interrupts. “do you have the ring?”
Right. Almost forgot. I pull it out of my purse. “Right here.”
A bevy of servers, dressed in black tuxedos with gold cummerbunds, stream by. Rachel pulls me into an alcove.
“Are you going to wear it?” Rachel’s eyes are wide.
“No.” Rach looks so shocked, I take pity on her. “I have a plan.” I dig in my purse and pull out the long green opera gloves I ordered along with the dress. I tug them on and drop the ring back in my purse, then waggle my fingers at Rachel. “See? Doesn’t go with the outfit.” She looks doubtful, but I pull out of a pair of white gloves for her. “It’ll make sense when we match.”
I check my phone again as she pulls on her own pair of gloves but no texts or calls have come in in the last minute and I put it away.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I guess. You seem eager.”
“I am.” I can’t believe it, but I am. I’m ready to get this done with and prove to myself once and for all that I have changed. I place a hand on the fancy gilt door, ready to push it open. Nervousness flutters in my chest, but I expect it, embrace it.
For the first time in my life, I’m owning what I want. And I’m going to fight until I get it.
Twenty-Four
7 Years Ago
Logan
I flip through the secure notes from the investor meeting while standing in the lab. I had to do some finagling to even get my hands on these but there are still some people in the company who know how closely I work with Dr. Laurel and respect me.
Ha. That’s a joke if I ever heard one, but I’ll take what I can get while I can get it. I haven’t talked to the great Professor in weeks and I barely even caught a glimpse of him at the funeral. I was far more concerned with Daphne, whom the great Dr. Laurel barely took note of. His own daughter.
I used to think he was a great man doing great things.
Now I think he’s just…lost. And he never treated his daughter right. But if he’s not careful, his company is going to get stolen out from underneath him by his board, headed by that blond bastard, Adam Archer.
I flip to a third page and my eyes scan the first few lines. “What the fuck?”
I slap the papers down, disbelieving, before lifting them back up and continuing to read. “That son of a bitch.” I knew Adam was a slimy opportunist, but I didn’t realize he was this slimy.
Footsteps have me looking up, and there he is, the son of a bitch in question.
He’s got a shiny apple in hand and he takes a big, obnoxious bite. “Miss me?” he asks through his mouthful of apple.
I point at him. “I see you. I see what you’re trying to do to this company.”
“What?” He throws his hands in the air. “Make it profitable? Bring out the firing squad for such a horrible offense.”
Jackass. “I know what you did. I know you took credit for all my innovations in the lab. Anyone with eyes can check the lab logs and know it would’ve been impossible for you to have discovered what you said you did. You haven’t even been here.”
But he just laughs at me. “You think anyone gives a shit about lab logs? It’s all about the package.” He swipes up and down himself. “‘Golden-boy-genius saves company’ makes a far better story than ‘some street rat diddles himself in lab for years, not in time to save the boss’s wife but look, here’s some face cream out of it at least’—”
I grab him by his shirt and slam him up against the nearest wall.
He just smirks at me and speaks in a condescending tone. “Yes, violence is always the answer to you low-class types, isn’t it? Help me help you on your way out. Take a swing.”
I drop him and take several stumbling steps back. This is all a game to him. A game where he thinks he’s pulling the strings. He thinks he’s always in control.
“Too bad. That was your last chance. Shoulda taken it.”
I glare up at him, but not in time. I don’t see him coming until he’s almost on top of me, fists swinging.
“Fucker!” I shout, and try to get an arm up to block, but I’m too late. His blow lands square on my left cheek, and it knocks me to the floor. He’s wearing a class ring and it digs in and tears my flesh, so there’s blood running down my cheek when he’s done.
He dances back to his feet and smooths down his suit coat and pants. Then he just shakes his head at me on the floor in disgust. “You’re done here. Pack your shit and leave.”