Page 10 of Her Submission (Monica & Henry #2)

When the Cold Chill Hits Your Neck

Henry couldn’t get out of the airfield for another three hours due to a poorly timed snowstorm. Once he was en route, however, he texted his wife in the early morning hours, encouraging her to get some sleep.

She told him the same thing and reminded him that they should be grateful that they could fly to France at a moment’s notice to find their daughter.

Monica couldn’t sleep, though. She was afraid to take medication in case something happened that needed her attention. She envied Eva and Nadia, both of whom passed out until the latter had to get up for work. Monica busied herself with pacing the halls of Warren Manor, looping from one wing to the other and even peeping in on Eva, still dressed in her day clothes, passed out on her living room couch.

Slowly, the house woke up. The chef was in the kitchen making breakfast and the first shift of maids began their chores. The driver did his morning check-in with Monica to see if she needed to go anywhere. She didn’t but asked him to stay nearby.

Still, no matter how many people emerged around her, going about their business with a reverently somber silence, Monica couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t sleep. All she could do was let herself into Abigail’s room, where Matilda futilely tidied up the toys and folded the laundry that came up from the basement.

I should do it. Yet Monica stood in the middle of her daughter’s room, taking in the lavender walls and the pile of stuffed animals that Abigail often rearranged before flinging herself onto them as if they were a giant body pillow. How many times had Monica asked her to keep things orderly? Asked her to pick a few to donate to kids in need? Asked her to do anything other than be a happy girl who didn’t yet know the strife of the world?

Matilda’s motions slowed when Monica began to silently weep. The nanny politely turned her back on her boss while putting away the last of Abigail’s laundry, but within a few minutes, the two of them were reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.

“I’ve been saying prayers for her,”

Matilda said with a sniff.

“I feel like this is my fault, Mrs. Warren. I should have known that something was wrong and called you…”

“It’s not your fault. I don’t think any of us thought Isabella would do something like this. All bluff and bluster…”

“Still, if there’s anything else I can do.”

There wasn’t. Matilda knew that. Monica had to remind herself that such a thing was all that mattered in these turbulent times.

She had never been so tired. So bone-deep exhausted. Even when she was younger pulling multiple all-nighters to establish her business. Not even when she lived under the abusive thumb of her ex-Dom and planned her escape for months, years, sometimes so tired that she couldn’t convince him to leave her alone when he came pawing at her half-dead body.

Without Henry around, it was easier than ever to succumb to those memories. As Monica’s aching body recalled that terrible time – ten years of her life – she found it even more difficult to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she was overwhelmed with images of the man who had attempted to own her life – and reminders that her daughter, her flesh and blood created from within her body, was missing.

The guilt she felt toward both was immeasurable.

She was groggily shaken awake by Eva later that morning. At first, she hoped that there was news about Abigail, but it hadn’t been enough time for Henry to arrive in Nice and begin his investigation. Instead, Eva announced.

“Jasmine is here to see you. She says it’s very urgent.”

When Monica was about to wave her away and go back to sleep, Eva continued.

“She says she’s here on behalf of Ethan and has information.”

Nothing bolted Monica up from her couch more than that.

She hurried to make herself presentable after bidding Eva to bring Jasmine up. Fresh tea was delivered by the time one of her dearest friends, Jasmine, entered the east wing apartment still dressed in her winter coat and hat.

“Tell me what you know,”

Monica said, hustling to the couch.

“Why isn’t Ethan here if he knows something?”

Jasmine removed her hat and the gloves separating her from the icy cold outside. She projected a countenance that she had heard Monica and knew that time was of the essence, but it would take a few seconds for her to settle in and collect her thoughts. Meanwhile, Monica was nothing but idle nerves as she shooed away the maid from the room. Eva lingered after closing the door.

“Eva.”

Her sister-in-law raised both brows as she leaned against the door and crossed her arms. She looked like the exact kind of female bouncer Monica preferred to have on hand for her businesses: large, in charge, but decadent enough to blend into the scenery. The actual Eva Warren didn’t have the strength to take down a drunken mess of a man who got too handsy for his good, but she had perfect aim with that foot of hers.

“I’m not going anywhere,”

Eva said.

“I can deploy my wife whenever I want to get this information. Why don’t we save some time and spare Jasmine the embarrassment of having her best friend harass her and just let me hear it now?”

If there was one thing Monica had not counted on as much as she should, it was Eva’s resilience and her vested interest in finding Abigail. I know she loves her, of course, but… Eva was Abigail’s aunt. A very involved aunt, but not her mother. Not even a mother of anyone else yet. How could Monica not anticipate that Eva would want to fight for the youngest Warren as well? Regardless of how personal it was with Isabella…

Jasmine accepted a hot cup of tea but did not put her usual cream and sugar in. She merely stared at the steam rising from the porcelain cup. Abigail loves these cups. She had to be supervised by them because she still hadn’t mastered being careful around such fragile items, but nothing delighted Abigail more during teatime than tracing her finger around the swirling vines wrapping around the ivory teacups.

“Ethan said that there are eyes and ears everywhere. Even ones you don’t know about.”

Jasmine cleared her throat.

“It would look suspicious if he came by during business hours. Since I’m friends with most of you, he sent me the information. Alone.”

She put her cup back down without indulging.

“Monica, I am so sorry for what’s happened. When Nadia told me, then Ethan gave me details… I’m still in shock. That horrid witch kidnapped Abigail?”

“We believe so.”

Monica sat on the edge of her sofa.

“Tell me what Ethan knows.”

“It’s not a whole lot,”

she said.

“but he thought it pertinent.”

Eva unfolded her arms as if she were about to wring Jasmine’s neck for information.

“He has reason to believe that Isabella stopped in Nice but then kept going. With Abigail. They’re…”

Jasmine inhaled a deep breath.

“You have to understand, Monica, there are reasons Ethan is still in contact with him. He tries to stay one step ahead of anything he does, and…”

The world froze around Monica when she asked with a reverberating shudder, “Who?”

Jasmine’s breath was reinvigorated as she stared back at Monica, their mutual trauma from an event ten years ago embedded within their souls.

“Jackson.”

The whispering undercurrent in her blood; the seething agony haunting her dreams.

Jackson Lyle. The man who broke Monica and threatened to leave her in pieces on his waxed floor. Her ex-Dom. Her abuser. The ghost that always peered around the corner somewhere behind her.

“What has he done?”

Monica could hardly contain the rising anger born from her marrow. Of course it was him. Of course he did this. She didn’t know how, but she knew why – to destroy her yet again.

“I don’t think Jackson’s done anything,”

Jasmine said.

“but he definitely knows something. Ethan says that Jackson has been friends with Jean-Pierre Beaumont since they were kids. They even attended the same summer camps in Switzerland together. Apparently… well, Ethan thinks that part of the reason Jean-Pierre liked going to the Chateau was to report on what he saw to Jackson. Ethan just never said anything because he didn’t have proof.”

Monica was going to vomit.

“Ethan’s going to try to contact Jackson about this. I told him that was probably a terrible idea, but he’s been worried sick on your behalf. I’m worried sick. What if…”

“Hold up.”

When Monica found herself too shocked to speak, Eva stepped in.

“This bastard might know where Abby is? Is that what you’re saying? Because if the Beaumonts aren’t involved, I’ll eat my fucking shirt.”

“The Beaumonts are involved. Ethan couldn’t tell me how he knew. Just that the detail about Nice makes sense, and he thinks that’s where Isabella traveled first. Monica, please, you have to understand that I’m just relaying what my husband said. He still withheld some information from me. But I don’t think Henry is going to find them when he gets there!”

Monica pushed her tightened fists into the sofa cushions. I knew it. The flitter of hope she had over finding Abigail in France and bringing her back home was just that: a gutless illusion. What am I supposed to do? How did she get to the Beaumonts before Isabella disappeared with Abigail… forever?

That was the fear, wasn’t it? A fate worse than death for her daughter.

“Where are they?”

Monica asked.

Jasmine shook her head.

“I didn’t hear. Maybe Ethan doesn’t know.”

“But Jackson Lyle knows,”

Eva said from behind Jasmine.

“I’m calling Ethan.”

Monica rushed to her phone on the dining table. She was halfway there when Jasmine spoke up again.

“He said not to call him at work! He’s questioning if his line is secure right now. God, I can’t believe I said that. There’s so much going on in every sense of those words right now…”

Monica held her phone to her chest.

“He said he’ll call you when he gets home later.”

“I can’t wait until later.”

Monica used that energy to go to Jasmine’s side. Her guest – her friend – gawked at her as if she had never seen this side of the woman who once threatened to shoot a man. In front of her, no less.

“I have to find Abigail now. I need to at least know she’s safe. I’ve gotta…”

Monica reverted to the casual speak of her youth, back before she trained herself to talk with the vernacular of the elite, the posh, the wealthy. The way she desired to blend in and use rich people to her own ends came back now as a plan formulated in her mind.

“I gotta get Abby. I have to find her. Henry’s futilely flying to Nice, and once they know he’s there, they’re gonna tell that bitch to head somewhere else with Abby! My Abby!”

She rounded the couch, grabbing Eva by the arms. To her credit, Monica’s sister-in-law did not falter, not even when Monica looked up into her face with a mother’s fiery desperation.

“Help me. I can’t do it alone.”

As if she knew what Monica was thinking, Eva embraced her back.

“Absolutely.”

“Henry can’t know.”

Jasmine peered over the couch.

“Neither can Ethan. No man can know.”

“What?”

Jasmine asked.

The very real fear in her eyes alerted Monica that Jasmine was on the same wavelength.

There was more strength in that room than Monica had experienced in her life. More than the last time she ran away from that awful place, with Jasmine hot on her heels, fleeing to safety.

I swear to God… Monica knew this was for nothing. Yet as she clung to Eva for support, she knew what she must do. That bastard…

Ten years. It had been ten years. A thriving business. A marriage. A daughter. Monica’s life was supposed to be one of hilariously entitled comfort as she dealt with her trauma and did her best to prevent it from happening to her daughter. Yet here she was, facing her very real fears, the nightmares that slaughtered her sleep and breathed not a lick of life into her dreams.

Into the lion’s den she went.