Page 28

The clouds are heavy and gray, the humid air clinging to my skin long after I escaped the elements. I stare out the window of the town car as my driver heads toward ABTC. The city never stops—rain or shine, thunderstorm or hail—us New Yorkers forge on.

Much like the woman I can’t get out of my mind.

Battle weary and full of invisible scars, her thorns and attitude are defense mechanisms hiding a damaged heart. Last night, as I held her in my arms, I got a glimpse of the tenderness and vulnerability behind her walls. Followed by an answering surge of protectiveness pulsating inside me.

I think back to the way she reacted when I kissed her the last time I was here—the lust and passion quickly spiraling into devastating terror, the way she flinched when I closed in on her last night, wanting to give her my body heat because she was shivering like a leaf, to the stack of books I saw in her opened box this morning when I was tidying her apartment.

Healing from Darkness.

When Words Aren’t Enough.

Why Won’t They Believe Me?

Each volume was a gut punch to my soul. The fury, sadness, and outrage were a wildfire charring my insides—a beast wanting to level everything in its path.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the truth. The God awful truth that I suspected since the kiss, but didn’t realize the extent until I browsed the books on her shelves. And now, I don’t know what to do next.

Taylor has been raped. There’s no doubt about it. The details, I don’t know, but she has endured a horror no woman should ever experience. I clench my hands tightly as murderous rage fills me.

I want to flay the skin of whoever did this to her. Dismember him body part by body part. And that still wouldn’t be enough.

Expelling a heavy breath, my mind grabs onto something I didn’t want to think about for the longest time, because the alternative would be unbearable.

Her reactions to Ian—the fear in her eyes when she first saw him at ABTC. Even though she doesn’t seem to know my uncle, why would she have such a strong visceral reaction toward him?

The car lurches to a stop and I hear the driver mutter a curse and an apology as he blares the horn at whoever cut in front of us.

Acid boils in my gut and I want to crank open the windows and throw up.

It can’t be Uncle Ian. There’s no way he has anything to do with this. I’ve looked into him, haven’t I? He wasn’t in the States back then. He was in Europe, choreographing ballet.

It was a cursory review, Charles. You only did a cursory review. Photos can be faked. They don’t document every second of his days.

My hands shake as I remember growing up in the cold, empty mansion, knowing I was raised to be the heir of the Bank of Columbia fortune because my parents couldn’t be depended on. My absentee parents I saw once a month if I was lucky.

The fights. The black eyes on Mom’s face. The public spats when our rare public outings devolved into an argument over another woman or man and I’d hide behind the nanny in embarrassment, wishing I were anywhere but there.

The joy I felt when Uncle Ian would show up after I called him. He’d take one quick glance at me and would know what happened. He’d whisk me away to the Met Opera or Central Park, where he’d buy me all the ice cream I wasn’t supposed to eat. He’d take Liam, Firefly, and me to Coney Island for rides and roller coasters and tell us we were loved.

It can’t be him. Can it?

But the terror in her eyes. The way blood drains from her face whenever his name is brought up. I sense uncertainty in her voice as well, because if she knew for a fact it was him, she wouldn’t stay at ABTC. I’d bet my life on it.

“Sir, we’re here.”

My troublesome thoughts stay with me as I exit the car and climb the steps of the building. A small group of paparazzi are gathered outside. I couldn’t focus on work today—meetings with investors, the PR team, my new finance team, which now includes an interim CFO, the permanent CFO position we’re still recruiting for—I couldn’t recall a single thing that was discussed. My assistant probably wants to kill me right now.

I only had a single thought today. I need to help Taylor, however I can.

“Mr. Vaughn! Can we get a comment about your opinion on the Patterson trial?” Reporters holler at me, but I ignore them. Sixty counts of sexual assault. Ten counts of rape. Patterson can rot in hell for all I care.

“Charles! Does your silence mean you’re on his side? What about the victims?”

I freeze, the last man’s words echoing in my head. I think of Taylor—the terror in her eyes, the books on her shelves.

Fury singes through me.

Whipping my head around, I grab the phone from the reporter who tossed out that question. “You want a statement? Fine, you got one. Patterson, if you’re seeing this, you are the fucking scum of the earth and I sincerely hope you get what’s coming to you.”

The reporters gasp as I shove the phone back to the idiot’s face. I growl, “Happy now?”

Ignoring the rest of them, I hurry up the steps and enter the lobby. Fuck, I should’ve controlled myself better—the press is going to have a field day with this.

But I don’t have it in me to care. My mind only swirls around a certain ballerina and the terror in her eyes when she met Ian for the first time.

Pulling out my phone, I dial a number—one I swear I wouldn’t use, but dammit, I’m becoming another cliché.

“Charles. Well, this is unusual,” Elias Kent’s low voice drawls on the line. I hear the familiar clicking of the ornate lighter he carries with him everywhere, even though he doesn’t smoke.

I exhale a frustrated breath. “I need your services.”

The clicking sounds stop, followed by a few seconds of silence. I stand in the middle of the main hall, impatient for his response.

He laughs.

The fucking bastard is laughing so hard, if anyone were to tell me this sound came from the infamous mobster, the king of the underground, I would’ve told them they were nuts.

“First Steven, then Ryland, then Maxwell, and now you.” His laughter fades into low chuckles. “You billionaires sure have a lot of problems.”

“Shut up. You’re probably richer than all of us combined—we just don’t know because you hide everything in the shadows.”

The clicking resumes. “So, let me guess. This has to do with a woman? A certain ballerina?”

I frown. Am I that obvious to everyone? “You don’t need to know the why. I just need you to find out if Ian ever left Europe a few years ago.”

“Why can’t you ask him yourself?”

“It’s complicated. And,” I swallow as dread slithers around my rib cage, “I don’t know if I can trust his answer. Will you do this for me? This should be a cakewalk for you.”

“You know my price, right?”

“A favor for a favor, yes.” I feel like I’m signing my life away. A blank check written to Elias Kent can be dangerous—we never know when or what he’ll want us to do when he cashes it.

But he’s useful, smart, brains behind the villainy. Nothing gets past him, and he has helped my friends in the past, getting them out of sticky situations and, in Maxwell’s case, even in life and death situations.

They trust him, and that’s good enough for me.

“Send me the dates you’re interested in, and I’ll be in touch. I am curious why you’re asking.”

“And I won’t tell you.” I know Taylor wouldn’t want me to tell people what I suspected happened to her. “Call me when you have something.”

My thumb hovers over the end call button, but I quickly add, “Thank you, Elias. Favor or not, thank you.”

A heavy silence fills the line.

He clears his throat and murmurs, “I’ll be in touch.”

Ending the call, I jog up the main staircase and head straight to the VIP lounge, where I’m met with quiet conversations from the back room again.

Quickly, I make my way toward the hidden room, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it on a velvet chair along the way. The tie follows, then the cuff links. I roll up my sleeves and knock on the door.

Two pairs of eyes greet me—Ainsley and a brunette I vaguely remember from Steven’s wedding.

“Charles?” Ainsley sits straighter and looks at her friend. “Do you have a meeting with Sir Ian? Or Taylor? Taylor’s out sick and isn’t here today.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not here for them. I’m actually here for you guys.”

The girls frown, looking confused.

I explain, “Taylor told me you had a showcase coming up and are behind on finishing the set designs. Thought I’d lend a hand.” Smiling, I motion to the half-completed boards lining up the walls and the floor.

Ainsley beams at me. She gestures to her friend. “This is Maddy. She’s another trainee in the program.” I vaguely remember them talking about her absence the last time I was here. “And we definitely need your help. The showcase is next weekend and we’re way behind.”

“Why isn’t anyone helping you?” I squat down and pick up a paintbrush and start working on a landscape painting—the drawing is already rendered and the colors half done, so it’s easy for me to follow the pattern.

If Maxwell, the artist in our group, saw me now, crouching over a board, painting trees and grasses for teenagers, he’d never let me live it down.

Maddy sighs, chiming in as she works on her set piece. “It’s a trainee showcase—the least of the priorities for the company. It doesn’t generate ticket sales and usually the folks who attend are our families or important people who want photo ops. So, they don’t give resources to it.”

“That’s just the way things are. But it’s also an opportunity for new scholarships from the wealthy patrons who show up—we need sponsors each year for scholarships. We have pledge forms there,” Ainsley adds, her voice forlorn, reminding me what Taylor said about the wealthy before and how no one truly cared about those on the other end of the wage gap.

“That’s rough,” I murmur, my face heating as shame creeps inside me. I grew up in a gilded cage, surrounded by privilege. I never had to worry about the necessities. I should do more, much more.

I sneak a glance at the girls, both can’t be older than sixteen, and take in the determined glint in their eyes, their paint-splattered hands, the faded clothes they’re wearing. There’s a thread of world-weary grit laced with innocence. Was Taylor like this at their age before her trauma?

Out of the corner of my eye, a beautiful backdrop catches my attention. Carefully, I set down my paintbrush and walk toward it. It’s a floral scene—pastel flowers dusted with glitter in front of what appears to be a confectionery castle. But what catches my eye are the clusters of roses spaced throughout the backdrop.

Dark red petals, sharp thorns dusted with gold glitter.

Interesting that the glitter is on the thorns and not the petals.

“Taylor made that. Burgundy roses are her favorite flowers,” Ainsley says. “This is a scene to be used in the waltz of the flowers.”

My finger grazes the glittered thorns, so lifelike and realistic, I can almost feel its sharp edge cutting into my skin.

Something about the thorns beckons me to stare at them. They are so beautiful—the sharpness a perfect balance for the soft petals. Beauty with edge and character.

They elevate the flowers.

I think about the roses I left for her this morning, the ones with the thorns cut off, the way most florists prepare them. I wanted to give her a spot of brightness when she woke up. Perhaps as she was reading her books and trying to heal her broken soul, she’d know she wasn’t alone.

Then I remember the way she scowled at the roses at Grace and Steven’s wedding, followed by a haunting sadness when she touched the stems of the flowers, which, I’d bet had their thorns all shorn off because they were professional arrangements by florists.

Was she feeling this way, then? Sad? Unseen? Thinking the world only appreciated beauty when it was perfect, not when it was marred with something rough and gritty…something like thorns?

Roses are more beautiful with thorns.

“Really, now,” I murmur as I examine the flowers in a different light, my heart clenching.

“I know she probably seems like a tough cookie on the outside, but Tay is really sweet. She’s the only one who really cares about us. Everyone treats us like annoying wannabes, outcasts wearing hand-me-downs and here because management wants to look good for politics and do performative community outreach,” Ainsley says.

“She teaches us on the side when she doesn’t have to. She even sponsored a scholarship last year, and she told us she would’ve done more if her money wasn’t locked down by trust fund rules. We owe so much to her,” Maddy adds. “Hopefully, someday, we can pay her back.”

“Not with money though, since she’s an Anderson and everything,” Ainsley says. “But maybe we can fulfill a dream or something.”

“What do you think she’d want?” I ask, a sizzling energy pulsing inside me. What would make my minx happy?

Your minx? What are you talking about?

I shove the thought to the side.

The girls talk among themselves, arguing about what they think would make Taylor happy. She doesn’t seem to need much and isn’t one for fancy clothes or materialistic items.

“Oh! Tickets to see Swan Lake at the Bolshoi Theatre!” Ainsley’s eyes glitter with excitement.

“Yes, you’re right! Isn’t that her dream? To go to Moscow and see the performance in the homeland of Tchaikovsky?” Maddy nods, then frowns. “There’s no way we can afford that. Those tickets cost an arm and a leg, not to mention the flights and hotel costs.”

The girls deflate.

“Never say never. I have a feeling you guys will go far.” I make a note to gift anonymous scholarships earmarked with their names when I get back to the office.

Maddy smiles sadly. “I hope so. Then everything will be worth it.” She swallows and whispers, “Everything we put up with.” For a minute, the same haunted look I see in Taylor’s eyes shows up in hers.

My brows pinch, a curl of unease unraveling in my gut, and she quickly adds, “You know—the usual bullying and stuff. It’ll be nice to do something for Taylor later. She’s really special.”

“I’m realizing that,” I murmur. Taking one last glance at the roses, I say, “Roses are much more beautiful with thorns.”

Why didn’t I see that before?