Page 2

CHAPTER 2

Birdie

There’s a story in everything. Why, for the past seven years, I’ve been a brunette instead of a blonde. Why I put on twenty pounds and glasses I don’t need. Why my author photo is a logo. Why I don’t show my face on social media. Why I refuse to go to signings or readings unless my publisher threatens to terminate my contract, and when I do go, it’s never to any event in Florida, and I don’t allow pictures.

Why I can’t let Tristan Morra be my bodyguard.

There’s a story behind all the big fat whys, but like all stories, it has multiple sides, most of them are fictitious. The truth… That’s a different story.

“Birdie, you can’t kick out every bodyguard you interview. There’s no one else left on the list,” Gia says as I watch Morra leave my property on my laptop monitor. Blake has installed a simple security system in the house after the incident. I didn’t want him to. If Gia hadn’t called him that morning, I wouldn’t have told him about the note. I don’t want to open any door that allows Blake to snake his way back into my life, not after I’ve finally found an opportunity to kick him out. I never want him to set foot in my house again.

“Birdie? Are you even listening?”

“Go home, Gia,” I sigh, closing the laptop and getting off my desk.

She sets the tray that holds Morra’s drinks on the coffee table between the two guest chairs. “And leave you all alone in this house after what happened? No way.”

What happened could be a darkly twisted answer to my silent prayers—a chance to escape the bruises and fear, to start anew far from Blake and the shadows of the past. The thought of freedom is intoxicating, even if it comes at a cost as pricey as blood. What if the only way to get my happy ending is to let my stalker get away with murder?

I pick a book from my own little piece of heaven—the custom-made bookshelves that entirely cover three walls of my office. “Nothing is going to happen. There’s a security alarm on both the front and back doors, and the house is peppered with cameras.”

“Courtesy of Blake.”

“Go home, Gia,” I say in warning this time.

She hovers around as I place the book on the side table next to the velvet, teal sofa bed and remove the decorative cushions so I can sit. The color is in stark contrast to the black and gray minimalist furniture and eggshell walls. While blue and its derivatives aren’t my favorite colors, that sofa bed is my favorite part of the room. It used to be my book nook and sometimes workspace. Now, it’s my bed, too. I can’t bring myself to enter my bedroom after what happened.

The second I sit, she plops down next to me. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but whatever it is, it can be fixed. He loves you to death, Birdie. You have no idea how worried he is about you. When you won’t return his calls, he calls me, at least three times a day, just to check on you. Didn’t he come home rushing after you found the note? Didn’t he install the security system himself on the very same day? Didn’t he literally beg you to come home just so that he could protect you?”

Oh, Prince Blake Charming. My knight in shining armor. I do a mental eyeroll while I stifle a snort. How can people choose to notice every detail about something when it suits them and become utterly blind when it doesn’t?

Blake did rush to the house the second Gia called him that morning, but it wasn’t because he loved me to death. It was about control.

It’s always been about control.

When he insisted on installing the security system himself, it wasn’t for my protection. I bet my own life he has, on his device, the same application he installed on my phone to access the house security cameras. To watch me .

When he begged me to come back, it wasn’t to protect me. Blake sees the stalker situation as an opportunity to slither his way back into my life. To show me I still need him. To convince me that even after all these years, I’m nothing without his protection.

It must be aching for him to have lost control over his possession. He must be going insane that I finally have the filmed evidence I need to file for divorce, or better yet, to put him in prison. He couldn’t say a word when I showed him the video of his downfall. He went on his knees and begged for forgiveness. “You can have anything you want, baby. Just don’t leave me.” He even faked some tears.

There’s nothing this excuse of a man can give me but his signature on the divorce papers and the termination contract of his managerial duties of my business.

His response when I made myself clear about my demands was no surprise. He yelled, and when it didn’t scare me or back me into a corner, he lifted his arm, fist ready to throw a punch. I stood there, waiting for the blow, praying for it to land on my face, while my phone camera was on, to capture that video, too. Only this time, he punched a wall. He wouldn’t let me catch that piece of evidence. Then he told me he’d leave for a few days to let me think. “Take all the time you need. Don’t rush into any decisions we may both regret. I beg you.”

He wasn’t begging. Just like all his pleas over the years, it was a threat laced with emotional blackmail.

Gia drones on about the fine qualities of my husband. Maybe she wishes he was her knight in shining armor. With the way she idolizes him, I’d say those two were hitting it behind my back. I know better, though. Sorry, Gia. The hero you worship, while he’ll never admit it in public, doesn’t go for confident, full-figured women with work efficient haircuts that make them look like they’re in charge like you do. He goes for women who look like the eight-year-younger version of me. He wouldn’t be with me now, after the drastic changes my looks had to undergo, if it wasn’t for my money.

“Would you please stop zoning out when I’m talking to you? I—”

“Gia, I’m going to read my book, take a little nap and then go out. Your services aren’t needed today. Go enjoy the day off.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have an appointment.”

She checks her phone erratically. “There’s nothing on the calendar.”

Because it’s something I’ve scheduled on my own and am not planning on telling anyone about it just yet. “It’s the gynecologist, Gia,” I lie. “You don’t need to keep track of my pelvic exams and pap smears, do you?”

“Sorry. What time is the appointment? I can give you a ride.”

“No thanks.”

“How are you gonna get there? Your car is old and hasn’t run in years. Blake drives you everywhere.”

Another form of control. Because he needs to know where I am at all times. He even had a tracker on my phone for fuck’s sake. I managed to remove it the night he left. All these years he’s posed as the dedicated husband who would take the burden of driving off his beloved wife’s shoulder, it’s been nothing but a facade. He just won’t let me go anywhere by myself. Another power he takes so that I’ll always rely on him, even for the simplest life tasks, while he monitors every move I make.

I glare at her. “Then, with your permission, I’ll Uber, unless Blake has given you a direct order not to leave my side and report to him every fucking move I make!”

“Of course not. What are you…” She rises to her feet. “Birdie, I know you’re under a lot of pressure, but your paranoia is getting out of hand, so is your lack of self-preservation. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a deranged, murderous man who is dangerously obsessed with you, stalking you, and you choose to throw out every potential bodyguard we can hire and ride with strangers to God knows where.”

“The gynecologist’s, Gia. I’m going to the gynecologist’s. Don’t forget when you tell him.”

She throws her hands in the air, shaking her head, as if she’s given up on reasoning with me, and stomps her way to the door. Before she leaves, she turns and says, “Butterfly Man’s actions are driving you to push away the only people who care about you. He wants you isolated, Birdie, and you’re letting him win. Don’t turn into your worst enemy.”