Page 55 of Never Broken

We need to talk

Deleted.

I need to talk to you

Deleted.

Find me at the party. It’s important

Deleted. I turned my phone over and pushed it away. I needed to think more about what to say, but I also knew there was a good chance he’d hidden his phone and wouldn’t see it, in time or at all, and we were both fucked either way.

And now, shit. According to the clock, it was time to pick out something to wear.

But strangely, it made me feel better. Hey, I grew up in Scottsdale, okay?

It felt like a form of meditation as I started cataloging all 700 or so clothing pieces in my closet, focusing on how well they checked off my boy’s two hopeful requests—short and showing my back. But even then, I couldn’t shake the dread curling in my stomach. I had to tell him. But what would he do if and when I did? Whatcouldhe do, other than run away screaming from the girl who seemed destined to get him thrown in a mine no matter how smart and careful he was?

I had no answers, of course. But at least I’d find out in a minute how I did with the dress. Oops, less than a minute because I was at the top of the marble staircase now, and he was at the bottom. My heart was thudding almost audibly, not just from the excitement of seeing him, but from sheer terror. How was I supposed to act normal? What evenwasnormal, now?

Surprisingly—and by “surprisingly,” I mean “not surprisingly at all”—he was indeed devastatingly handsome in the black uniform, a step up from the cast-off and borrowed T-shirts and shorts he normally wore, not that he had any choice in it. He’d also done something to his hair—I wasn’t sure what—and the thick, sun-bleached strands, often flipped chaotically over to one side to hang in his face, looked more … polished, somehow. I’d have to be careful not to stare at him. Okay, fine, I’d already failed at that. I’d have to be sure not to stare at him for more than fifty percent of the night. I didn’t like my chances much there, either.

For his part, he didn’t seem to be looking directly at me, but I knew that didn’t mean anything. Under that forelock of hair, beneath those long lashes, behind that submissive bow of his head, he was drinking me up from top to bottom.

He was that good.

The question was, though, could he read in my face that something was wrong? Probably. And if he could, how could I tell him the truth? Conversely, how could Inot?Head swimming, I continued down the stairs, each tap of my black open-toed heels on the parquet bringing me closer to him, closer to the moment where I’d have to decide if I could keep up the act or crumble.

And as much as I wanted to make eye contact—to somehow coax out that bright, curious gaze and beautiful smile, just for a second, just for me—I knew that even trying risked getting him in trouble, and I would never ask it of him.

Instead, I was supposed to just walk by him as if he were a living coat rack, as if he weren’t even there, as if all the bones in my body, and plenty of other parts, too, weren’t so acutely aware of him that they could all jump out of my skin at any time.

The maid was standing there, holding a tray of champagne flutes, and as much as I hated interacting with her—and as much as I knew alcohol wouldn’t help anything—I was dying to grab one of the glasses and down it while slinking out to the terrace and awaiting my fate. Realistically, though, the easiest option would be to ignore both of them, much as it made my heart ache. And either way, I couldn’t stand on the stairs any longer. So I had to start moving my legs, little of which were concealed by the sleeveless black butt-grazing cocktail dress I’d chosen.

And wouldn’t he choose that moment to raise his head under the guise of shaking some hair from his eyes. But what happened next was a total surprise.

The coats still draped over his arm, he grabbed one of the flutes from the maid’s tray, and I could only watch in slow motion as yes, that stupid fucking idiot was on his way toward me, so what choice did I have but to cut the distance and walk towardhim? And reach out to let him place the glass gently in my trembling hand as if we were the only two people in the room. And if his finger happened to brush mine, well. A hazard of the job.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping I could somehow imbue the two words Icouldsay with everything Iwantedto say.

“You’re welcome, miss,” he replied, his golden eyes averted respectfully, while the part of me screamingplease look at meand the part of me screamingdon’t risk itpunched each other out in a full-on battle royale.

Had he seen the message? It didn’t matter. Now or never. I had to tell him. It would shatter us both to pieces, but I had to. I cleared my throat. “I?—“

“Just look at this, Loulou.”

But it was the glass that almost shattered—in my hand—as Daddy appeared to obliviously kill the moment. To my surprise, though, he was smiling, and for the first time since I’d left the basement, I actually breathed.

Daddy doesn’t know. The gardener didn’t tell him—well, show him.

Yet.

That meant there was still a little time. Time to figuresomethingout. Luckily, I now knew someone very well—well, better than I had that morning, anyway—who was good at figuring things out. If only he knew that there wasanythingtofigure out.

“What did I tell you? Does he clean up or what?” Daddy jerked the slave boy toward him by the arm with enthusiasm and turned his chin, admiring him as if he were an expensiveoil painting he’d just hung over the mantelpiece. Meanwhile, the maid’s customary pout didn’t change, but I could swear that smug little minx was silently sniggering at us.

Sometimes I wondered about Daddy.

Then again, maybe he was just in a good mood. A deal with Max Langer was apparently a big deal, enough to get him to shave and put on one of his expensive tailored suits for the first time in a year, befitting the multimillionaire CEO he at one point had been and hoped to be again. And as much as I resented him for tearing us away fromthatmoment, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t refreshing to see him like this.

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