Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Beautiful, right?”
I’m dimly aware of the music stopping, the DJ announcing a short break, the low hum of voices a few feet away on the other side of the curtain.
“We’ve been together a while. Figured you deserved a great gift.”
“It’s just like Harper’s,” I push out.
“Actually, it’s bigger than hers.”
“I can’t…” ever wear it.
I place it back on the shelf and turn to him. I know what I need to do…
“Donovan, it was never about a gift. Material things don’t matter to me. I was never with you for your money, but since this past summer, we’ve been off—”
His head snaps up. “I’ll tell you what’s jacked up. It’s not that I bought you a gift similar to Harper’s. No, it’s the fact that you were arrested for stealing a car in Manhattan—and other things!”
Grimacing, I draw back at his raised tone.
How does he…
What is going on?
“Who told you that? I was seventeen when that happened and never charged. Are you crazy?” The theft claim was dropped almost immediately, and the details should be private.
He paces around the small space, eyes shining with wildness. “My family told me today. A two-hour phone call with them and our lawyer breaking down your past. They had you investigated. I know all about you, Ana.” A bitter laugh comes from him. “They aren’t going to pay for Harvard if we’re together. They were very clear about that today—”
“Donovan—”
“No, let me finish. This is why I wanted you to come early, so we could talk. They told me many things. How you traipsed across the world, living with different men—”
I gasp. “Not true. My parents lived with all sorts of people, and I went where they did. Sometimes they left me—”
“—and then you stole your married lover’s car. He was thirty years old, Ana. He says you seduced him, some sort of Lolita. I don’t even know you!”
Oh my God. I stagger back as my past rushes at me like a tidal wave, sucking and dragging me under. I can’t breathe.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My chest rises. “I wasn’t the adult in that situation. He never told my parents he was married. She didn’t live with him.”
“His wife divorced him—over you.”
A whimper of shock comes from me. “I-I didn’t know that.”
“Explain why the girl I love isn’t who I thought she was!”
“Stop yelling,” I say, raising my hands and trying to infuse calm in my tone. “You don’t know the details—”
“Just thinking about you with some old guy makes me sick.”
I frown and glance away from him, emotion tugging at me as those needles prick at my throat.
I was a kid, a stupid, stupid kid. Bryson never wore a ring, and my parents felt good about his apartment situation. It was roomy, next to Central Park, and his younger sister and her friend also lived there, all of them musicians. A few weeks after I moved in, they left, leaving me alone with him. He owned a home in Connecticut too, and looking back, I suppose his wife lived there. I stayed with him in his loft, yes, and I slept with him (after I fell for him). I also cleaned and cooked our meals. I basked in his adoring attention, his embraces, his kisses, his music. I thought it was love.
While he was out one day, I borrowed his Porsche to drive out of the city. I pulled into his parking spot when I returned and a woman glowered there, waiting, her face angry. When she confronted me about what I was doing with his car, I haltingly admitted I was his girlfriend, not knowing who she was. She said she was his wife, and with her toddler crying on her hip, she called the cops. It wasn’t until Bryson showed up and explained that I was his unofficial ‘ward’ that they let me go.
The age of consent for consensual sex in New York is seventeen, and, boy, did Bryson hammer that in as he shoved my duffle into the back of his car. I’m sorry. How could I resist you? You’ll find someone else. Please don’t come back to my place again. He drove me to a hotel, paid for a week’s stay, and walked out of my life.
My parents rushed back to New York. My normally laidback dad was furious that he was married and about how he handled it, but I begged him to let it go. Mom suggested we try Italy, so we packed up and left.
My chest clenches at the painful memory.
“I didn’t know he was married. I was young—”
“Ana, just stop.” A torn expression flits over his face as he lowers his voice. He tries to take my hands, and I jerk them away. “Look, maybe he took advantage of you, okay, okay, but can’t you see that I can’t keep finding out these secrets? My family members are important people—”