“Meredith,” she says, looking directly at the camera, “If you’re watching this, please know that I love you and I believe you’re still out there. I’ll be waiting until you get home, and I will use every single dime I have to make sure that whoever did this to you is punished for the rest of his or her life. I love you.”
The news anchor nods and places her hand on her chest. “That was so heartfelt, Miss Weston. Speaking of things that are missing, since you’re here, do you think you’ll ever pen a sequel to your bestselling novel, Turbulence? I really enjoyed that book, and I’m sure your legion of fans would really appreciate an update.”
Michael looks up at the TV, holding his next piece in air.
Gillian glares at the reporter and storms off set.
“I thought that was a very good question,” Michael says to himself. “What do you think?”
I look over at him, but I don’t answer. The sound of my father crying makes me focus on the screen again. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life, and the mere sound of it cuts me deeply. I try to hold back tears as he struggles to speak, but it’s no use.
“She and I were…” He wipes away tears as the reporter hands him a Kleenex. “We were getting on good terms, and…” His voice trails off as he breaks down. “She’s my only daughter. She’s all I have left. The police aren’t working hard enough to find her. I’ve spent millions on putting up billboards all over the goddamn country and what the hell have they done? They’re not fucking—”
The rest of his words are bleeped out, and a crew of producers walk over to console him as he burst into tears all over again.
I’m tempted to lunge across the couch and strangle Michael—to try to physically fight him, but before I can make the attempt, he appears onscreen.
What the fuck…
“I love my wife,” he says, looking tired, yet stunning in his suit—his tattoos all covered up for the cameras.
From here, it looks like he’s actually been crying, too. His eyes are even redder than Gillian’s and there are bags under his eyes.
“She truly is the love of my life,” he says. “I can also promise that whoever did this will pay one hell of a price whenever we find out who you are.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to your wife is she’s watching this?” The news anchor asks.
“Yes.” He looks directly at me onscreen as a few fake tears roll down his face. “If you’re watching this, please know that I truly do, fucking love you. I think we both knew that the first night we met.”
The camera cuts away to the police chief, and I look over at the real version of Michael, noticing the smirk on his lips.
“I think I gave a great performance for that interview,” he says. “I doubt anyone would suspect anything after watching that. Don’t you agree?”
With what little grip on reality I have left, I lean forward and swipe all his glass chess pieces off the board, shattering them to pieces. “That’s what the fuck I think.”
He clenches his jaw, glares at me as he picks up the undamaged queen piece.
“Is that all it takes for you to let me out of here?” I ask. “Fuck up your precious chess pieces?”
He turns off the television, and then he stands to his feet. I follow suit.
“I think we’ve seen each other enough for today,” he says, his voice terse. “I’ll leave you here and come back in a few days. Hopefully, you’ll behave better and be more fucking grateful.”
“Grateful for what?” I hiss. “You taking me away from everyone I know? Trapping me here without any goddamn explanation?”
“Yes. Exactly that.” He looks at his watch, then he looks at the glass on the floor. “You’ll need to clean all this shit up before I get back. Three days should be more than enough time.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You will.” He steps a little closer to me, his shoes stepping over the glass. “And you’ll never fuck up any of my things again.”
I take a step back and shove a crystal lamp onto the floor, instantly shattering its neck. “Now what?”
He looks down at the lamp, then his gaze returns to me. He looks me up and down, his heated gaze a mix between rage and want.
For several seconds, neither of us makes a move. Neither says a word.
“I really shouldn’t have fucked you.” He narrows his eyes at me. “That’s the only reason why you’re here right now.”
“I’m here because you’re a fucking monster.”
“Call me that one more time, and I’ll show you just how big of a ‘fucking monster’ I can be…”
The pained look in his eyes tells me not to risk trying it.
Swallowing, I back down and let out a breath. “If you’re doing this for ransom—Like, if that was your plan all along, I can happily put you in touch with the Thatchwood Estate. I rejected my inheritance years ago, but my father said it would always be there if I changed my mind.” I hesitate. “It’s worth eight million.”
“No,” he said. “It’s worth eighteen million.”
“So, you made me fall in love with you so you could get it? That’s what this is about?”
“I didn’t make you do anything, and for what it’s worth, I’ve earned your inheritance several times over in the past few years, so trust me, eighteen million isn’t much of an incentive for shit.”
“A few days ago, you asked me what I would want if I could have anything in the world.” I change the subject, hoping to gain ground again.
“You chose not to answer. I took your non-response to mean nothing.”
“I didn’t answer because I wasn’t exactly sure,” I said. “I can tell you what I want.”
“I no longer give a fuck about what you want.” He looked down at his chess set. “I want to replace that chess set, so I’m going to do that.”
“I think you do want to know.” I looked right into his eyes. “I’d like to ask you a question, and I’d like you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Meredith—”
“How’d you know my name on the first night we met?” I cut him off before he could shut me down.
“What?” He looks caught off guard. “What did you just say?”
“I’ve replayed all of our memories and encounters over and over again, and I can’t remember a single moment when I told you my name that first night. How did you already know it?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes tell me all I need to know.
There’s something he isn’t telling me. I suddenly feel like I’m on the set of a dark film, the only actress who doesn’t have access to the script. I also know that there’s something darker, deeper to this, and I’m not sure if I should push him for more.
Then again, I can’t help it.
“Did you know who I was before we met?” I stare at him. “Yes or no?”
“It’s best if I don't answer that question.”
“Had you seen me before we met? Like around town?”