“I didn’t mean Ella. I meant physically,” Jacob clarifies.
“Oh. Yeah. I’m fine.” My ribs are still tender, and my shoulder aches as I fell sideways off the bike. My ankle’s sprained, but it’s nothing I haven’t suffered through before. I don’t have a concussion although I did have a headache for most of the first day, which could have been attributed to a hangover, so I really am all good now.
“If you need anything, you can always call Pam,” he reminds me, and I sense how much Jacob relies on Pam without noticing her endless dedication involves more than just working for him.
When Jacob leaves later that evening, the click of the front door is like a prison cell locking into place. It echoes around Ella and me as we stand in the front entryway staring at the wood barrier. Pam will drive Jacob to the airport where he’ll jet off for New York and then six weeks of book signings, speaking engagements, and some kind of writer convention.
“Well—” I begin.
“I’m going to my room. You can call me if something comes up.” Jacob made Ella give her phone number to me, so she literally means I can call her.
“Look out for her but stay away from her.” Despite his apology, Jacob’s parting words are clear. Don’t shag the little sister.
I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening. She didn’t visit me again after I found her in my room early Friday morning—on my bed. In her eyes, I saw how contrite she was for her recent behavior. Even though she’d given me a glimpse of her past, it wasn’t much, but it was a start. I wish I understood Jacob’s concern while Ella was throwing up. She was attacked, that much I get, but there seems to be more she isn’t telling me.
When she disappears into her room, I feel almost silly remaining in the house.
What am I doing here? I question for the hundredth time. She doesn’t eat with me. She won’t talk to me. It’s like I’m a silent babysitter.
You’re her bodyguard, something whispers to me, and I realize I’m not off in my conclusion.
They haven’t caught the person who did this to me. The underlying threat in that statement sends a chill down my spine. It’s the unknown potential—potential that the person at large might have unfinished business with Isabella Vee, supermodel.
For the first time ever, I google someone. Instantly, photos fill my laptop screen. My breath catches with each one. Glamorous image after glamorous image filters endlessly down the page as I scroll. She wasn’t kidding about her hair. It’s arranged in all manner. Up. Down. Blown out. Made to look like Medusa. Made to look like a queen. She’s striking, just fucking breathtaking with every look, pose, and pout. The clothing on her slim body matches each character in what must be considered fashionable attire. I don’t understand the appeal, but name after name of people I don’t recognize as designers in the fashion world grace her body. She’s been the spokesmodel for hair products, clothing lines, and a company titled Moretti.
Eventually, an article appears, and I read the news that she’s been released from her position. The company cites a new marketing vision for a younger audience and her release from the position of lead spokesperson for them. The date coincides with the general timing of her injury.
“Younger,” I mutter. “She’s not even thirty.”
It’s a nice way of discriminating against her age, as well as covering the truth, I sarcastically think. She couldn’t be their face with her current face.
In my search, I find nothing about her attack.
“Must have some clout to keep that out of the press,” I say to no one.
On further inspection, I learn there is financial wealth behind her name. Born Isabella Francesca Howard, she was adopted by her stepfather, and her name changed to Vincentia. Nicholas Vincentia is a banker and investor in the arts, aka film productions. Ella’s mother was once a model and much younger than her stepfather. Her career was cut short as she embraced motherhood, according to the article.
“What a joke,” I mutter out loud. Her mother probably got knocked up, and the industry didn’t want a pregnant woman modeling.
I continue scrolling to learn Ella took the name Isabella Vee, giving the allure of her Italian name but shortening her last name for recognition. In the article, she teases that Vee is easier to remember than Vincentia. It’s so Hollywood, and I sit back on the stool at the kitchen island.
This was her life.
Parties. Glamour. Society.
My head turns for the dark window, staring out at what I can’t see but know is outside the glass. A lake. Deep woods. And nothing for her.
Where are her friends? Where is the rest of her family?
Jacob already hinted that their parents were not ideal, and it appears as adult children, they separated from those who raised them.
With all the fights I’ve had over the years with my father, I still love him. As for my mom, it goes without saying. A wave of reality hits me when I think of Mum and chemotherapy. I don’t want to imagine losing my mother. Then I wonder about the woman upstairs, once beautiful, once working under the management of her mother. How could Ella walk away from her mom? Perhaps, Ella’s mom walked away first.
Saddened by the thought, I close the laptop. I’ve already learned more than I need to know.
I’m here for a job.
Cook. Protect.
I plan to do both.
+ + +
“Gavin?”
“Ethan, what’s wrong?” I hear the rustling of bed sheets through the line despite the time. California is hours behind Michigan.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just wanted to say hi.” For some reason, learning what I did about Ella makes me miss my brother. We don’t text as often as we used to, and we hardly chat on the phone. Silently, it’s dismissed as a guy thing. Secretly, I miss my brother. Tonight, I just want to hear his voice.
“Is everything okay with Mum?” If Gavin really wants to know, he should call home. It weighs on Mum that she doesn’t hear from my brother more than once a month, if that. She doesn’t want to blame my father, but the rift between them is worse than the one between old Jack Scott and me. Gavin’s vision for fame far outweighed cherry-picking, and Dad hated that decision.
“She’s hanging in there.” It isn’t even the full truth, but I don’t know how to explain Mum’s condition. She’s still alive, and that’s what I pray for most.
“I got a new job,” I blurt out.
I can almost hear the censor in my big brother’s voice before he speaks. “Another one?”
“Yeah,” I chuckle, swiping fingers into my hair. “I kind of lost the last one.”
The silence confirms his disappointment, and then I grow a bit perturbed. How dare he judge me? He ran off first.
“What are you doing now?” he questions, his tone flat like he doesn’t actually care.
“Working another job.” I sigh with the truth. “Saving up for something.”
Gavin chuckles, lacking faith in my direction. Not all of us are as driven in a straight line like he was. He went to school on a baseball scholarship and made it big for a bit. Now, he travels the world taking pictures.
“Still want a restaurant?” Gavin questions, surprising me that he even remembers my dream.