Page 259 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

ADDIE

T here are seven Christmas trees in Elliot’s Upper East Side condo. Ridiculous, right? Elliot loved the holidays with the glee of a child, and every year, his favorite day was the day the decorators arrived to transform the six thousand square foot interior into a winter paradise.

Two years after his death, I still can’t make myself call and cancel the service.

Each year on the Monday after Thanksgiving, the crew has shown up like clockwork with their truck of Christmas magic and transformed my home into a winter wonderland.

When Elliot was alive, we would leave as soon as they arrived and spend all day wondering what shape the Russian designer’s creativity would take.

The first year we lived together, we returned home to find that Yulia had suspended giant golden cages from the ceiling, each glittering with lights, glass balls, and silver tinsel.

Elliot, who was the love of my life and my dominant, was immensely amused by the concept.

“What do you think, Addie?” he’d teased me.

“Shall I strip you naked and put you in one of the cages? Shall I throw a party and invite our friends to see the most beautiful decoration of them all? Do you want to be displayed, love?”

Those memories still have the ability to overwhelm me.

I swallow the lump in my throat and make myself take a deep breath.

Elliot is gone, and that’s just the way things are.

He sheltered and protected me, and his love wrapped me in a warm cocoon.

Except the metaphor is backward. I used to be a butterfly when Elliot was alive—laughing, pretty, and happy.

When Elliot died, when his son Reed sued me, alleging that I was a gold-digger who dug her greedy claws into his beloved father’s heart, when the people I considered friends edged away from me, I became someone else.

Someone stronger, someone colder. A piece of the fabled Snow Queen’s mirror lodged itself in me, and I wrapped myself in barbed wire to protect my heart.

This year, my condo looks like a snow globe. Yulia has outdone herself. There’s tinsel everywhere—the Russian designer loves the stuff and uses it every year. Crystal icicles drop from the ceilings. White trees draped in silver garlands soar to meet them. I don’t recognize my home.

I don’t recognize myself either. When I look in the mirror, a stranger with tired eyes gazes back at me. I’m thirty-one. I feel eighty.

The intercom buzzes. I cross Elliot’s office and pick it up. “Good evening, Ms. Byard,” Lewis at the front desk says. “You have a visitor.”

“I’m not expecting anyone.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Xavier Leforte.”

I should have known. I was supposed to meet Xavier for lunch last week, but I didn’t feel up to it and canceled. I’ve ignored his messages since then. My friend might pretend to be a cool, controlled, ruthless billionaire, but secretly, he’s a world-class worrier.

“Thank you, Lewis. Please send him up.”

Xavier has a bottle in his hands. “I brought you an early Christmas present,” he announces, holding it up.

“I’m not in the mood for champagne,” I reply, stepping aside so he can come in.

“Good thing it’s not champagne then,” he says cheerfully, entering the condo and looking around the winter wonderland with a raised eyebrow. “It’s a bottle of port.” His eyes flicker to me. “It's serious and moody and, quite frankly, depressing.”

“Much like myself?”

A smile whispers at the edge of his mouth. “I wasn't going to say it, Addie. That wouldn't be polite.”

“Politeness above all things,” I say dryly. “Do you want something to drink? I was just going to make myself a cup of tea.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Come on then.”

I lead the way into the kitchen, Xavier at my heels. “Where's Martha?” he asks.

“I gave her the month off.”

His gray eyes rake over me. “So it's just you here, then.”

I avoid replying, instead filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove.

While it’s heating, I toss a handful of leaves into a teapot and arrange some cookies on a plate.

The kettle starts to whistle as I reach into a cabinet for a serving tray.

I pour the boiling water over the oolong and transfer cups and saucers onto the tray.

The ritual feels surreal. When was the last time I had people over?

When was the last time I shared my food and drink with anyone? I can’t remember.

“Let’s take this to the study.” The condo has five bedrooms, two home offices, and our playroom—the room I haven’t been able to enter—and the space is wasted on me. The only place I spend time in is the study. “There’s a fire going there.”

“Sure.”

We settle in front of the fireplace. I pour tea into two cups and hand one to Xavier. “You've been avoiding me, Addie.”

“Don't take it personally. I've been avoiding everyone.”

“Why?”

Why? “Isn't it obvious?” I burst out. “Reed called me a gold digger. Every gossip magazine in New York plastered my picture on their covers. I had to read months of nasty, mean-spirited speculation about my relationship with Elliott. The age gap, the fact that I used to work for him—it was all tabloid fodder, Xavier.” My face feels hot, and the scalding tea doesn’t help.

“And you know what the worst thing was? People I considered friends disappeared. People that Elliott and I had over for dinner in this very condo. Susanna Remoaldi talked to Page Six. Dan Harmon, who managed Elliot’s assets for years, wouldn't return my calls. When Reed contested Elliot’s will, everyone lined up behind him, and I was hung out to dry. ”

“This is not new,” Xavier says calmly. “You learned who your true friends were when Elliott died. Why are you avoiding me now ?”

“I told you, it’s not personal,” I repeat.

It doesn’t distract my friend, unfortunately.

He just waits for me to answer his question.

“Look at these.” I gesture to the thick pile of invitations on the table in front of me.

I want to sweep them dramatically into the fireplace, but alas, it’s electric.

“Invitations to parties. Art galleries. Elaine Harmon wants me to spend Christmas with them in the Hamptons. The judge ruled in my favor three weeks ago. Now that I’ve inherited half of Elliot’s estate, everyone wants to be my friend again.

” I sigh. “Is it any wonder I want to hide? What would you do in my place?”

Xavier rises to his feet. “Come with me,” he orders. He steers me by my shoulders into the foyer and places me in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror there. “Look at yourself,” he says. “Do you know what I see?”

“Someone who looks. . . How did you put it? Serious, moody, and, quite frankly, depressing.”

“No. I see somebody who is too young, too full of life to give up. This bitterness sits on you like an ill-fitting cloak, Addie. Cast it off. You learned that some people only valued you for your money. So what? Fuck them.” His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and he plays his trump card.

“Elliot would not have wanted to see you like this.”

My throat prickles. “Don't you dare, Xavier. That's not playing fair.”

“I never promised to play by the rules.” He lets go of my shoulders. “You are my friend, Addie. You are important to me, and I won’t let you fall into this spiral of despair, this malaise. Come to the club. Live again.”

“Club M?” Elliot and I would make the four-hour drive to Xavier’s private sex club at least once a month.

The club is located in a real-life castle.

The first time we visited, I thought Elliot was taking me to Summit, the luxury resort that takes up most of the castle and surrounding grounds.

I had no idea that there was a sex club in the basement.

“That part of my life is behind me now.”

“Some men I know want to scene with you. I told them I’d pass on the message.”

Men. In the plural. I stamp out my spike of interest before it has a chance to grow and shake my head. “Are you pimping me out, Xavier?”

He just looks at me.

That was unworthy of me. From the moment I met him eight years ago, Xavier has been my friend.

And he sees everything. Xavier Leforte has one superpower—he can look into your heart and know what you truly need.

The success stories are legendary. Xavier introduced Fiona to Adrien and Brody.

He played a role in bringing Avery, Kai, and Maddox together.

He benevolently meddled in Dixie’s relationship.

He made sure Kiera was protected. Xavier always takes care of his friends.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s been two years. I know I should. . .” My voice trails away. “I’m not ready.” I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

He looks at me for a long moment. “It’s your choice,” he says.

“I’m not going to push you. But Addie, listen to your heart.

Listen to what it’s telling you.” He steps away from me.

The tension in the air lessens. “There’s a place and time for tea, or so people tell me,” he quips.

“But now isn’t it. Want to drink the port instead? ”

Once Xavier leaves, I wander around the too-large condo, my thoughts port-clouded and melancholy. I don’t have a destination—at least, I don’t think I do. Then I find myself outside the playroom door.

I turn the handle and go in.

When was I last here? It’s been years. Elliot and I played here the day he learned he had pancreatic cancer. And a few times after when his health allowed it. Those are good memories, even though they’re bracketed by sadness.

But it’s the memory of the last time I was in this room that is seared into my heart.

It was close to the end. One cold, blustery fall day, Elliott had been painfully, wretchedly ill.

He didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed.

Not even enough energy to sit up. I wanted to sit at his side, but he didn’t want me there. He wanted to be alone.

As much as it had hurt, I understood. Elliott was my Dom. That was part of his identity, and me seeing him like this—frail, ill, more vulnerable than he'd ever been in his life—wasn’t something he could bear.

After leaving the bedroom that day, I wandered through the condo, and my footsteps led me to this room.

I slipped in, sat on the floor by the spanking bench, and sobbed.

I didn’t need a therapist to untangle why I came to this room to weep.

In our playroom, Elliott was in charge, and I was always protected.

When he fell ill, and our roles changed so dramatically, this was the room where I retreated to feel safe again.

I step around the spanking bench now, running my fingers over the leather. They come away dusty, which is to be expected. The housekeeping staff doesn't clean this room.

It's been over two years since a man spoke to me in a particular voice.

Delicious and dark and stern. Men, Xavier had said.

Two? Maybe more? My pulse quickens. I've had a threesome before, one Elliott arranged.

It took place at Club M. I was blindfolded.

Two sets of hands ran over my body. Two voices barked orders at me.

It had been one of the hottest nights of my life.

I told Xavier that I wasn't ready. And I'm not. My heart is still broken, bruised, and raw. But sex? I miss sex. I miss being dominated. It makes me feel disloyal to admit it, but Elliott would understand. Elliott would approve.

Xavier wouldn’t have approached me unless these guys, whoever they were, met with his approval. There’s a good chance he knows them. I’m one-hundred percent sure he’s vetted them. I will be safe.

Anticipation skitters down my spine.

Damn you, Xavier Leforte. Damn you for being right. Again.

It's late, but I text Xavier before I can talk myself out of this. How many guys?

Two, he replies almost instantly. Theo Keppel and Shane Gaffney.

I sit on the spanking bench. My fingers tremble as I type out my next question. What's involved? What's the scene?

I didn't ask them for details, he writes. That would have been presumptuous. Only Xavier would use the word presumptuous in a text message. Shall I arrange a meeting?

I take a deep breath and throw caution to the wind. Yes.

Then I read his messages again, and realization slaps me.

Theo Keppel. Shane Gaffney. The names are familiar.

When Reed sued me, Catherine Anber from the boutique law firm of Gaffney, Anber, & Keppel represented me.

A quick Internet search confirms my suspicions.

Theo Keppel is a partner in the same firm as is Shane Gaffney.

Keppel is British and heads up the London office.

Gaffney is Irish and in charge of the Dublin office.

These men aren’t strangers. They’re my lawyers.