Empire of Lies
option two.”I set down my glass. “Where is she now?”
“She died a tragic death, and she’ll never be found.” He mocks me, rolling his eyes. “Safe and currently deeply in love with a man who isn’t me.”
“She never thanked you for saving her life?”
“No,” he says, swallowing. “She said that by taking her away from her old life, by ripping her away from everything she loved, that I’d still killed her. She didn’t want to see or hear from me again.
“And you were fine with that?”
“Does it look like I was fine with that?” He shoots me a glare as he tosses back the rest of his drink. “It is what it is. I learned a valuable lesson, so you won’t have to. Don’t fall for the targets. It’ll never work out.”
Silence stretches between us for several minutes, and I can’t help but think of the time when Meredith suddenly left my club, when an Adele song triggered the memory of her mother’s death. Then I remember all of the other nights when she’d burst into tears while lying in my arms, whispering, “You’re all I have now in this city, Michael…I know I barely know you, but you’re really all I have…”
Shaking away those thoughts, I can’t help but ask the obvious. “Who ordered the hit on her mother?”
“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let you in on enough logistics.”
“Who the fuck was it, Trevor?”
“Depends.” He hesitates. “Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it?”
“No.”
“Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it for at least two weeks?”
“I can consider it.”
“I guess that’s as fair as I’ll get with you on that,” he says, hesitating again. “It was her father’s sister, Meredith’s aunt. She only spoke to the underlings, though. She had no idea about me being involved at all.”
I let out a breath. “What a fucked-up family.”
“Tell me about it.” He shrugs.
“Do you still have the video of her asking for the hit?”
“Only if you promise not to get mad at me for keeping it.”
“I won’t.” I lean back. “I think it’s one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”
He nods, sighing. “Where’d you leave Meredith?”
“Mexico.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not at all.”
He smiles. “Do you have a backup plan to get her where she needs to be for the rest of her life?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He nods, orders another round of beer. His cell phone rings, and he tells me that he needs to step outside.
To prevent myself from thinking about everything he’s just said about Meredith’s mother, I look up at the television and try to immerse myself in the real-world. The images onscreen are of people rushing on the streets, of protestors committing utter anarchy.
As the ticker flashes on screen, I squint and read the words.
Drug Cartels Wreak Havoc on Mexican Resorts; Sixty Injured. Seventy Dead.
I immediately stand up and walk closer to the screen, noticing that the resorts in question are twenty miles away from the one where I left Meredith. But if the reporters’ words hold any weight, her resort could be a target, too.
Pulling out my phone, I call my contact at the airport.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson?” a deep voice answers on the first ring. “How may I help you today?”
“I need you to tell me which flight my wife took to Switzerland,” I say. “Flight number and date, please.”
“I would be more than happy to do that, but…” His voice trails off and he lets out a sigh. “Your wife never made it here, sir.”
“Come again?”
“She never came. I called the driver and the resort you mentioned that she would be checking into when she arrived,” he said. “I don’t think she ever got across the lazy river, sir.”
“Are you sure?” My blood runs cold. “Can you double check?”
“I’ve triple checked. I’m five hundred percent sure, sir.”
I end the call and immediately charter a flight.
Fuck.
Meredith Now
NYPD Crime Watch Tip Submission Form
I would like to report a malicious murder for hire plot that involves my soon to be ex-husband, Michael Anderson (owner of the Fahrenheit 900 Club) and Leonardo Thatchwood, billionaire CEO, i.e., my father.
My father hired the former to murder me, but Mr. Anderson took it upon himself to hold me captive, in an isolated house, for what he claimed was my “best interest.” He lied to the media and reporters, along with Mr. Thatchwood, and I would like the truth to come to the light A-fucking-SAP.
Although I am clearly still alive and in another country, I seem to have misplaced my passport, so I’m unable to return to the United States of America at this time.
I truly believe that both of these men belong in prison, and I am willing to testify at both of their trials.
I have a prepaid phone and a number where I can be reached once you receive this tip.
Sincerely,
Meredith A. Thatchwood
555-786-5019
I stare at my words on the submission form, waiting for the alcohol that’s currently coursing through my veins to give me the courage to hit send. This is the seventh day in a row that I’ve come into the resort’s computer lab and typed these same words.
My incessant stalling is due to the fact that my mind and my heart are playing on opposite sides of the field: Emotions on offense, thoughts on defense. And every night, when the tears soak my pillow, I suffer through a never-ending tug of war between the two. There’s never a clear-cut winner; no referee to be found.
To make matters worse, I still wake up from time to time, in the middle of the night, and rub my clit to the thoughts of Michael’s face, unable to ever think of another man who can dominate me in the bedroom like he does. Whenever I’m on the edge of an orgasm, I can’t help but think about the way his mouth always knew the right way to pleasure me for hours. The way he filled me with his