My frustration needed an outlet, and today, John Madigan was the lucky target. I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving. I pulled up a list of his devices. Phones, computers, even his smart fridge and Bluetooth-enabled alarm clock, plus all their associated accounts. It took me less than five minutes to find what I was looking for—a video he’d stupidly taken of himself forcing a blowjob on his assistant, and a series of disgusting messages he sent one of his golf buddies after the fact. I forwarded those to the prosecution using the golf buddy’s email. If they were halfway decent at their job, they could convince the judge it was admissible evidence. The messages also went to key media outlets, because why not? Then, just because Madigan’s face annoyed me, I swapped his most valuable stocks for junk ones and donated a significant
chunk of his cash to anti-sexual violence organizations. Tension released from my muscles with each tap of a button. Cyber sabotage was better than a deep tissue massage. I pocketed my phone right as Dante reentered the library. “I have to go back to New York.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, his face stamped with irritation. “There’s a…personal matter I need to deal with.” “Sorry to hear that,” I said mildly. “I’ll walk you out.” I waited until he was halfway out the door before I added, “The personal matter wouldn’t happen to be Vivian’s ex-boyfriend showing up at your house, would it?” Surprise coasted through his eyes, followed by fury. “What the fuck did you do, Harper?” “I merely facilitated a reunion between your fiancée and an old friend.” One little text from “Vivian,” and the ex came running. Pathetic, yet useful.
“Since you enjoyed fucking with me so much, I figured I’d return the favor. Oh, and Dante?” I paused with my hand on the knob. Dante’s anger was a pulsing force in the hall, but he’d get over it. He should’ve known better than to put on that little show in the lobby. “Touch Stella again, and you’ll no longer have a fiancée.” I slammed the door in his face. Dante was my first client and an old friend. I didn’t provoke him often. But like I said, I didn’t like people touching what was mine. I straightened my shirtsleeves and returned to the library, where my gaze traveled the length of the room until it rested on the giant framed puzzle hanging over the fireplace mantel. Ten thousand tiny pieces formed a breathtaking rainbow gradient whose lines created a three-dimensional spherical effect. It had taken me four months to complete it, but it’d been worth it. Crosswords, jigsaws, ciphers, they all fed my insatiable need for a challenge.
Stimulation. Something to brighten up the ennui of a world that was always five steps behind.
The harder the puzzle, the more I craved and dreaded its solution. There was only one puzzle I hadn’t solved. Yet. I ran my thumb over the small turquoise ring nestled in my pocket. Once I did, I could put my disturbing obsession with Stella Alonso behind me once and for all.
3
STELLA
Stella’s Journal
February 25
It’s been three days since I learned Greenfield is raising its prices, and I still haven’t come up with a good solution. I’ve been searching for another job, but my biggest hope right now is the Delamonte dinner coming up. Brady is convinced it’s an audition for their brand ambassador position and that the deal will be in the mid-six figures…IF I get it. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a deal as badly as I do this one. Not only would it solve my Greenfield problem—at least for the next calendar year—but Delamonte is a brand I’ve wanted to work with forever. They’re the first designer brand I ever bought for myself. Okay, it was a perfume that I bought in high school, but still. I loved that perfume, and I would honestly give up every other partnership I have to work with them. I just wish I knew what they were looking for so I can plan accordingly. I don’t even know how many other bloggers will be at the dinner or who they invited. I guess I’ll find out when I get there. In the meantime…wish me luck. I’ll need it.
Daily Gratitude: Croissants
DC-NYC trains
Brady (don’t tell him I said this though, or he’ll never stop bragging)
*
My trip to New York was a series of disasters. I took a train up that Saturday, and when I arrived at the townhouse where the Delamonte dinner was being held, I knew Brady was right. It was an audition. Besides Delamonte staff, the only people in attendance were bloggers. But even though there were six of us at the dinner, Luisa spent the entire cocktail hour gushing over Raya and Adam, the latest darlings of the influencer world and the only couple present. I could barely get a word in edgewise between her excitement over Raya hitting the one point four million follower mark last week and the pair’s upcoming trip to Paris. The one time I tried to interject by asking a question about the brand’s new line, Luisa answered with a three-word response before turning back to Raya. If my parents were here, they would disown me out of sheer disappointment for not living up to the Alonso name and capturing everyone’s attention at the event. That was disaster number one. Disaster number two entered after everyone had been seated and appetizers were served. “Sorry I’m late.” The lazy drawl sent shock fluttering to life in my chest. “Traffic.” No. There’s no way. I had a better chance of getting hit by a meteorite than I did running into Christian Harper twice in the same week outside the Mirage. In New York, no less. But when I looked up, there he was. Chiseled cheekbones and whiskey eyes, sin and danger all wrapped up in a flawless suit. My food turned to ash on my tongue. Of all the people I didn’t want to witness me crash and burn, he ranked at the top of the list. Not because I thought he’d judge me, but because I was afraid he wouldn’t. A near-stranger who treated me better than those who were supposed to love me unconditionally. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Luisa stood and greeted him with an effusive hug, but I couldn’t hear much of her introduction over the roar of blood in my ears. “…CEO of Harper Security…old friend…”
Christian’s expression remained polite, almost disinterested, while Luisa talked, but there was nothing disinterested about the way his eyes held mine. Dark and knowing, like they could strip away every mask I showed the world and find the broken pieces of the girl hiding underneath.
Like they thought the brokenness was beautiful anyway. Unease burned through me, and I severed the connection with a blink. He couldn’t have been thinking any of those things. He didn’t even know me. Luisa finished what had to be the longest introduction in the history of introductions, but it was only after Christian started walking toward me that I realized there was only one empty seat at the table. It was next to mine. Luisa had mentioned it was reserved for another guest. I hadn’t known it would be him. “Stella.” The deep, smooth timbre of his voice sent a warm shiver down my spine. “This is a pleasant surprise.” I tightened and released the hold on my fork in tandem with my exhales. “Christian.” I couldn’t very well call him Mr. Harper when he used my first name. It was my first time saying his given name, and the syllables lingered longer on my tongue than expected. Not unpleasant, but far too intimate for my liking. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat while he stared down at me, his face relaxed but his eyes like hot molten amber as they moved from the top of my head to the dip of my dress. The scrutiny lasted less than five seconds, yet a trail of fire erupted in its wake. Cool, calm, collected. “I didn’t realize you were…” I searched for the right term. “Affiliated with Delamonte.”
That wasn’t the right term, but I didn’t know how else to word it. Everyone at the table was a fashion blogger or a member of the Delamonte team. Christian was noticeably neither of those things. “I’m not,” he said wryly. “Secret fashion blogger, then?” I widened my eyes and made my voice intentionally breathless with surprise. “Don’t tell me. Your blog is called…Suits and Whiskey. No? Guns and Roses. Wait, that’s a band.” I tapped my finger against the table. “Ties and—” “If you’re done…” I didn’t think it was possible, but Christian’s voice turned even drier.
“Switch seats with me.”