75

Allison
I pace back and forth in Gregory’s hotel suite, staring at my phone as it explodes with calls and texts.
Mostly they’re from Papa. The messages were confused and plaintive at first. He begged me to come back. Said he’d make sure everything was okay, that he’d take care of me no matter what. That Paul would make a fine husband. That what happened to Freya was a tragedy, but not Paul’s fault.
Then his messages got ugly. I could practically read the fear. He called me everything-spoiled, ugly, a bitch, a whore-said he regretted treating me so well, only for me to betray him. He demanded my return. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t.
Then my cousins began calling. An uncle, some friends of Papa’s that I’ve known for a while, even my godfather. Some tried to be kind. Some, not so much. All of them want me to go back to the Debarcio mansion and go through with my marriage to Paul.
I refused to answer. Only kept pacing, back and forth, staring at the phone on the coffee table as the screen blinked to life over and over displaying messages of doom. Proving that my life is totally over.
No matter what happens now, nothing will ever be the same.
I left it all behind when I ran away from that wedding.
Only now I wish I could change out of this dress. I have no clothes, no money, nothing to my name except the phone, and I have no clue what I’m going to do.
“You’re getting blood all over the floor.” Gregory’s watching me from the side of the room, leaning against the window sill and drinking something brown with ice.
“I’m what?” I blink at him, trying to make sense of what he said. My head feels fuzzy like I’ve been drinking all morning. The stress is cracking me to pieces. “Blood? What are you talking about?”
He gestures at my feet. I look down and realize he’s right. I hop over to a chair and look at the gash on the bottom of my foot, and the thing starts to ache the second I realize it’s there like my brain’s been holding back the pain until this moment.
“Oh, shit,” I say, looking around for something to use as bandage. “That’s way worse than I realized.”
“Don’t move.” He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a first aid kit. “Stay still, this is going to hurt a little bit.”
“Can’t hurt worse than what I just did,” I say, sounding a little frantic. “I can’t believe we just did that. I mean, seriously, I just ran away from my wedding. I just ran away from freaking Paul Debarcio.”
“Yes, you did. Now imagine how I feel.” Though he doesn’t seem all that upset. Instead, he’s focusing on my foot. He pours some antiseptic on the cut, which stings, and gently cleans it with a large piece of gauze.
“I don’t get why you’re being so nice to me,” I say, watching him. Some of my panic eases when his fingers touch my skin. “People saw you save me. Paul knows by now.”
“That’s fine. I don’t really care what Paul thinks, that brainless little shit.”
I laugh sharply. I’ve never heard someone talk about Paul like that before.
“You’re lucky, I don’t think this is going to need stitches.” Gregory puts another clean piece of gauze over my cut then tapes it into place, being surprisingly tender.
“Did you mean it, what you said back there?” I ask, rubbing the bandage with my fingertips.
“About a proposal?” He glances up into my eyes, leaning back on his heels. “Yes, I did.”
I’m suddenly very aware of how close he is to me, how he’s practically in between my legs, and how my wedding dress is now very short, thanks to him manhandling me back at the mansion.
“No,” I say, putting my foot back down on the floor to test it. Still painful, but not that bad. “About my legs.”
His eyes light up. Only briefly, but I spot the excitement. “I absolutely meant that.”
I limp away from him, glancing down at my phone again. I wish I could focus on this handsome, rich, powerful man flirting with me, but instead all I can see are the messages flashing on the screen. Each one spelling out my nightmare. Each one proof that I’ve gone too far, and I can’t ever go back.
“What do I do now?” I ask, more to myself than to him.
“You have some options, but I doubt you’ll like them.”
“Options? I just threw away my life. Running from that wedding was the worst thing I could do.”
“Why’d you run then?”
I stop and look at him. My body feels empty like I’ve been drained of all strength and emotion. “Because this is better than letting my sister’s murderer kill me too.”
He doesn’t seem surprised by that. Instead, he cleans up the first aid kit and returns to his drink by the window. “Do you want to hear your options now?”
“Sure, go ahead, give me the rundown. Might as well.” I laugh, hysterical. “You know, it just occurred to me that I ran from a wedding to a psychopathic killer, only to be saved by another dangerous criminal. Don’t I just have the worst luck?”
“You shouldn’t run in such seedy circles.” He sips his drink, staring at me, eyes roaming to my legs, to my chest, to my lips. “Your first option is you can disappear.”
“Already did that,” I say, waving him off. “Wasn’t very fun.”
“I mean, you can run from Portland. Leave the West Coast. Head out to Chicago, Philadelphia, Miami. Even better, get a flight to Europe, go to Poland, go to the Netherlands. Somewhere they’d never think to look. Start a new life.”
I stop pacing and stare at him. “Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to do that?”
“You can get a ticket online.”
“I have no money.” I hold up my fingers, checking off the reasons why that plan won’t ever work. “I have no passport, so forget international travel. I have no clothes, no identification, no credit card, no driver’s license, no car, nothing at all. How am I supposed to go anywhere?”
He raises his glass. “I didn’t say it was an easy option, but if you’re intent on living a relatively normal life, this is your best bet. The first few years alone in a new place might be difficult, but-”
“I am not going to run from my sister’s killer.” Anger flares in me, hotter than I’ve ever felt before. My hands turn to fists, and I square my shoulders toward him, jaw tightening, biting down like I want to crack my teeth. “I am not letting Paul take my sister’s life, then ruin my own.”
Gregory doesn’t seem fazed. Again, he only drinks. “Your next option is you give up and marry Paul.”
“Fuck you,” I say, shaking my head. The anger narrows its focus. “Don’t even say that. You bastard.”
Shrug. Drink. “Next option. Find someone willing to help. Turn to your father, an uncle, a family friend.”
I point at my phone. “Those people are all begging me to marry Paul. You think any of them will go against him? That man owns Portland. Hell, he owns the whole West Coast.”
“For now,” Gregory murmurs, studying me. “You have one last option then.”
I take a step toward him. My anger’s dying down to embers, though it still glows. “Let me guess. Your proposal.”
“Exactly. My proposal. You’re clever and beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t let that shit-heel Paul ruin you.”
I grunt, not sure how to take that compliment, too angry to process it. “I’m having a hard time feeling good about whatever you’re going to say.”
“I saved your life, remember? At considerable cost to myself.”
“True, but you’re also using this situation to your advantage. You know damn well I’m in a bad spot, and it’s going to be very difficult for me to say no to you.”
That ghostly smile again. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Lying bastard. You’re manipulating me.”
“I’m helping you.”
“All to get what you want in the end.”
“I’m also having fun. Does that matter?”
I make a face. “What do you want, exactly? What do you want from me, Gregory? What could possibly be worth all this trouble?” I move toward him, trembling with rage. “What the hell do you want from me?”
He puts his glass down and closes the distance. We’re only feet away.
“I want to marry you,” he says, staring into my eyes with that cool expression like he’s reading the future in my face, and he likes what he sees. “And together, we can make Paul pay.”