Page 43

Prologue

MERIT

Do you ever wish you could turn back time?

I do.

The question is… would I turn back time to before I even met Holt? What if I slipped out of the store for an errand before he came in to pick up those purple shoes? Then my heart wouldn’t be breaking now.

Or… would I want to keep the love we shared—keep those months we had together safe and sound in a glass box, where I could watch them play on repeat over and over any time I wanted—and only turn back the last fifteen minutes? Because fifteen minutes ago, he loved me. Fifteen minutes ago, I wasn’t a vindictive she-devil framing him for a horrific crime.

Well, to be honest, I’m still not a vindictive she-devil framing him for a horrific crime.

But he thinks I am.

Why? How?

I have no idea.

All I know is that after just one day with the attorneys and Marcum and Ella, I’m the bad guy.

I guess that means his mind is made up. Turning back the clock a measly fifteen minutes wouldn’t make any sort of difference. The same accusations, the same anger, the same hate would have hit me no matter when I came home.

It’s all my fault, really. I knew from the get go that I shouldn’t date—and I said as much to him. And I definitely knew I shouldn’t date someone so damn rich.

My worst fear has just been confirmed… Holt is so much worse than Edward ever was.

My tears stop falling somewhere on the walk down the marble hallway from the Big House to the Children’s Wing. For the first one-hundred steps, I keep hoping that he will run up behind me, fall to his knees, and beg for forgiveness. Plead temporary insanity. Beg me to never leave him. Tell me that he loves me. That he will love me forever. That I’m his one and only. That he can’t live without me.

Because you know what? I would forgive him.

I would forgive him in less time than it takes my heart to pump one single beat.

But I hit step one-hundred, and nothing happens. I actually stop walking for a second, hold my breath, and listen.

There are no hurried footsteps. No shouts telling me to wait, to stop. No…nothing.

Well, I’m sure there’s something. There’s probably a gaggle of frenzied and wild conversations among the pretentious-as-fuck lawyers, my now ex-asshole-boyfriend, and his douchebag family members. They’re probably smoking congratulatory cigars and patting themselves on the back for finding the real criminal with such little effort.

I’m just glad I can’t hear them from here. Because if I could? Let’s just say I might do something that would turn me into a real criminal and not just the one they think I am.

My foot edges forward, ready to take step one-hundred-and-one. This step will change everything, the entire course of my life. After this step, there’s no possibility of forgiveness. There’s no redemption, no second chance. No second act.

I force myself to take a deep breath, and then I put one foot in front of the other, slowly picking up speed until I sprint the rest of the way to the Children’s Wing. Racing to the closet, I grab every suitcase and duffel bag I own and fling them across the bed. I grab handfuls of clothes and toiletries, haphazardly tossing everything in. I drop all my jewelry in a Ziploc bag, taking extra care to wrap my diamond and ruby bracelet in layers and layers of paper towels to protect it. Wanting to keep that safe, I put it in my purse. When I realize I don’t have any moving boxes for all of my old movies, I decide to steal Holt’s laundry baskets. He already thinks I framed him for a sexual crime and attempted to steal millions of dollars, he can just add the three stupid, plastic clothes baskets to my tab.

I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Sweat pours from my brow and trails between my breasts, soaking my bra. My heartbeat is erratic. So erratic I’m worried I may pass out. Trotting to the fridge, I grab a bottle of regular Coke and down it in just a few swallows, trying to stave off the inevitable fall of adrenaline. Of course, that just gives me gas bubbles in my stomach and makes me belch for the next five minutes straight.

I’m in such a hurry, I debate leaving my meager kitchen utensils and cooking supplies instead of packing them.

But I quickly change my mind.

Fuck that.

Holt just accused me of playing him as a long-con with Heidi. The last thing I’m gonna do is reward him with a free pizza cutter. I’m quickly running out of packing room, so I toss what I can on top of my clothes in the suitcases and bags. I’ll be lucky if said pizza cutter doesn’t slice my panties to bits.

Hauling what I can in my arms, I open the door so I can put the first load of stuff in my car. Of course, I’m not really surprised when I see two beefy security guards standing in front of my SUV. I’ve done nothing but smile and be nice to these guys since they started, and here they are trying to intimidate me.

I reckon Holt doesn’t have the balls to do it himself.

“Ma’am,” says the guy with brown hair, “we’ve been asked to document what you’re taking with you. We need to confirm that nothing of value to Mr. Hill is leaving the premises.”

Well, I’m leaving the premises.

And Holt used to think I was valuable. Does that count?

I shuffle my bags and hit the key fob to lift the tailgate of my SUV. “And how do you plan to do that? Do you know what belongs to Mr. Hill and what doesn’t?”

“We’ve been asked to video record everything. Mr. Hill and his counsel will review it. If anything was taken without his permission, we…” he nods to the red-haired guy next to him, “would be tasked with retrieving it from you at a later date.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. This weirdo even lowered his voice when delivering that threat. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I know that these private security guards have no jurisdiction to bust into my store and confiscate something they think may be stolen.

I could say no. I could completely ignore them. But what’s the point? At this juncture of my day, Holt would probably call the cops if I refused, and I really don’t feel like dealing with a mob of police swarming around me.

Been there, done that. Never want it again.

“Fine,” I huff. He pulls out his cell phone and turns it on to record our interaction, but he makes no move to get out of my way. I sweep my hand in the air, pointing at my open tailgate. “You mind? I’d like to get the hell out of here.”

Nodding, he finally steps to the side. I wrangle everything back into my arms. Something in my pink duffel bag keeps stabbing me in the shin. Could be a fork. Or a knife. Or tweezers. Or a clothes hanger. The possibilities are endless.

Red-haired guy clears his throat, drawing my attention. He at least has the decency to look empathetic. “Ma’am, I’m happy to help. Are there other bags I can grab for you?”

“Everything piled on the floor between the kitchen and living room comes with me.”

Nodding, he heads inside. The dick with the camera lifts a brow at the luggage I just loaded. “I’ll need to catalog what’s in those.”

Growling, I unzip everything and start rummaging through it all by hand, messing it up even further and praying I don’t accidentally shiv myself with the metal kabob skewers that are playing hide-and-seek somewhere in these bags. “Here. You happy? If the famous Holt Hill needs to catalog my T-shirts and half-used shampoo bottles, be my guest.”

I stand back, giving him free rein. Red-haired guy makes three trips in and out, carefully packing my items in the trunk and back seat. Of course, brown-haired guy comes right behind him and tosses everything around, trying to make sure the video has an eye on every single thing I’m taking with me. Closing the back seat door, he walks around to the tailgate, glancing in one last time. “This everything? Nothing in here belongs to Mr. Hill?”

I toss my head back and look up at the sky, slowly counting to five and begging Heaven and all the angels above for strength. Sighing deeply, I reach in the trunk area and start turning the clothes baskets upside down, dumping Blu-rays, DVDs, and all sorts of miscellaneous crap on top of my luggage. One by one, I heave the laundry baskets over my head and into the yard.

“There,” turning back to my car, I point to the massive heap of my life, “all good now. I’m not taking anything that belongs to him. Not one damn thing.” Slamming the door—well, as much as I can, I mean, it’s an automatic shut—I fling my hand in their direction as I walk to the driver side. “Gentlemen, I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but I think I’ve done enough lying for one day.”

I’m opening my door when he throws one last jab my way. “And your purse? I need to check that as well.”

“Seriously?” I thrust my face in his camera, probably giving nothing but a view of my snotty nose and red eyes. “Holt, you want back that pack of gum you bought me a few weeks ago? Tough shit, I already chewed it.”

Brown-haired guy just purses his lips. Needless to say, he’s not amused. “Ma’am, please…”

I shove my purse in his arms and slide behind the wheel. Peering straight ahead, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing how much this bothers me, I start the engine and grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. I wonder if I can peel my tires when I’m pulling out. How fast do you have to go for that to happen? I mean, the driveway’s pretty long; I might be able to achieve it.

“What do we have here?”

His voice catches me off guard, and when I turn, I nearly fall out of the car when I see him holding my great-grandmother’s bracelet.

And here I was thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

“That’s mine,” I say, eagerly reaching for it. “Don’t touch it.”

He quickly pulls it from my grasp and dangles it in the air, like a master teasing a pet with a toy.

“Yours?” he questions, pinning me with a stare. “You think this is yours?”

“I know it’s mine, you inconsiderate asshole. It belonged to my great-grandmother.” I wiggle my fingers at him. “Now, give it back. I’m leaving.”

He just smirks, like he caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. “If it’s yours, then you won’t have any problem with me confirming that with Mr. Hill.”

I grind my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. “Check all you want. But call him.” I point a finger in his face, “Because if you walk back into that house with my bracelet, I’ll be the one calling the cops. And I’ll march my butt right over there,” I nod my head in the general direction of the street where we know paparazzi and reporters are camped out, “and tell them Holt’s security team is stealing from me.”

Mumbling something under his breath that doesn’t sound too friendly, he glances over at red-haired guy. “Call Mr. Hill and confirm.” He twists the bracelet back and forth. “Looks like diamonds and… I don’t know… some kind of red stone.”

And for the next three minutes, I have a staring contest with brown-haired guy and his cell phone camera. I should know because I count all one-hundred-and-eighty seconds in my head.

Eventually, red-haired guy comes back from wherever he wandered off to and simply says, “It’s hers.”

Scowling, he drops my bracelet back in the Ziploc bag, not even bothering to rewrap it in paper towels. As soon as my purse touches my fingers, I slam the door and pull out of the driveway as fast as I can.

No squealing tires, though.

And for some stupid reason, that makes me even sadder.

Fortunately, I’m able to hold my head high as I turn onto the street—just long enough for the photographers to get whatever picture they can. But as soon as I’m far enough away, as soon as the house I called home is little more than a tiny blip in my rearview mirror, I burst into tears.

I’m crying so hard I can barely see to drive. My sobs are so big and powerful, my lungs begin to ache. Sucking in deep, shaky breaths, I blink through my tears as I press the button on my SUV’s Bluetooth to call Kyra.

She answers on the first ring.

“Close the shop early. I need you.”

Her pause is quick. Only a millisecond. But in that millisecond, my best friend can hear my heart breaking. She can feel my pain, my sorrow. The end of my life as I know it.

And her words are like a salve to my throbbing head and pulverized heart. “Meet me at my apartment. I’m on my way.”