It’s not the ideal outfit to wear home, but then I'm not worried about comments from the doorman.
I just—
I don't want to tell my sister.
She has questions. Especially since I left my fiancé.
No one understood it. He was a sweet guy. Loving, supportive, generous.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mom hiding a bruise.
Huddled in the corner.
Begging my biological father to stop.
Not in front of Vanessa.
Not don't hurt me.
Not pack your shit, we're leaving.
Only not in front of Vanessa.
She knew he would hurt her. She accepted that.
She only wanted to protect me.
And she did.
Eventually.
Eventually, she left, met Daddy, married him, made us a real family.
But no matter how hard I try to see them—happy, smiling, madly in love—when I envision marriage, I don't.
I see the rage in my biological father's eyes.
The fear in my mother's.
The empty silence and dread that filled our apartment.
I ended things with my fiancé.
I didn't trust him. I don't trust love.
People who love you are the ones who hurt you. They take that love and wrap it around you like a leash.
Or a noose.
So, no, I'm not going to keep replaying last night. I'm not going to ask for seconds. I'm not going to fuck Simon again and again and put myself in a situation where I can't help but fall for him.
It's biology.
Oxytocin.
Released when you orgasm, when you cuddle, when you stare into your partner's eyes.
I don't care what Lee thinks. I don't care how much she wants to push me into Simon's arms.
She doesn't get it.
She's ruthless. It's one of my favorite things about her. I never worry someone is going to take advantage of her.
But she'll never understand how that feels.
The fear of harm coming to the person you love most.
The fear of harm coming from the person you love most.
I'm glad she's never been through that. I'm glad Daddy is a good man, a man she can trust, a man who taught her to trust.
It's just—
It means I can't explain this to her.
I slip into my gown, collect my things, double-check the room.
It's still beautiful, barely touched luxury.
It still screams of Simon Pierce.
Gold drapes. Cream walls. Wide windows.
Tall buildings stretching into the bright blue sky.
The perfect mix of old and new money.
And I'm late for brunch with Lee.
I text my sister an apology and call a rideshare, but, for some reason, it doesn't feel right leaving the room like this.
So I leave my thong and a note.
Thanks for the hospitality.
— V
It's not a lot, but it's something. My claim on the room, the night, the memory of Simon Pierce.
So much for discretion.
My kid sister (stepsister, technically) is in my living room, flush with a post-workout glow, sipping decaf in yoga pants and a crop top.
"Holy shit, Vanessa." She sets her glass on the coffee table. "This is why you're late."
I shrug like I have no idea what she's talking about.
"Sell that story to someone who buys it."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to say anything." She stands. Runs her fingers through her long, blond hair. Checks a French manicured nail. "You're wearing a gown at nine a.m."
"This is the new look."
"Please, I know the new looks. None are that."
"Hey."
"You look gorgeous, babe. It's not that."
I raise a brow.
"Don't even, Vanessa. I was here, last night, helping you into that dress, oohing and ahhing."
That is true.
"And I stand by it. You look like a Greek goddess. You're welcome, by the way."
"You have such a charitable mind."
"I know. We're in sync that way. Your charity work. My charity of—"
"Bossiness?"
"Support for my sister."
"Where's Harrison?"
"Nice try."
Damn. She's laser focused. If the subject of her husband—and their enthusiastic attempts to make a baby—don't distract her, nothing will.
"My husband is sleeping. I wore him out. Now, you ruined my line," she says.
"What line?"
"I was going to say now, who helped you out of that dress."
"Not bad."
"I know. But since you fucked it up—"
"Gee, I'm awful."
She nods I know. "Who wore you out?"
"No one."
"Uh-huh."
"Aren't we going out?"
"No. Change. I'll make breakfast."
"You'll make breakfast?"
"I'm not bad," she says.
I raise a brow.
She laughs. "Okay. Maybe I'm not good, but I know how to toast bread. Now, go. Change."
It is a reprieve from questions.
Even if she absolutely will burn that toast.
I move into my bedroom. Listen to Lee sing as she cracks eggs and fixes tea. She really is the picture of newlywed bliss. It's strange, especially on her. She's not usually the happy-go-lucky type. More I will destroy you if you stand in my way, hell yes, let me savor my victory type.
I'm happy for her. Really, Harrison is her perfect complement. Book smart, practical, kind.
A man who cherishes her.
A man who will never, ever hurt her.
But even though I know him, know her, know they're okay—
I worry.
Sometimes, the monster is hiding in plain sight.
Sometimes, the man who looks like Prince Charming is actually the Big, Bad Wolf.