Page 97 of Black Ties and White Lies

“Tell me,” I plead, my voice trembling. I’m willing to do whatever it takes at this point if it means he’ll let go. Or better, that he’ll let us go back inside where we won’t be alone.

Where is Beck?

“How did the two of you even start a relationship?”

“I was—oram—his assistant. After working long hours and nights together, it just hap—”

“Lies!” he shouts, shaking my body against his. “You know that’s a lie, don’t you?”

A tear runs down my cheek as I look at the man I loved for years. For all the ways he betrayed me, we still had some great times together. The late night study sessions at the library where he’d feed me snacks because my hands were dirty from shading my drawings. The nights we danced the night away with our group of friends, the two of us racing to see who could hail a cab home quicker. Even after finding out how deep his betrayals cut, he still took center stage in some of my favorite memories.

There’s not a hint of those happy times in his eyes right now. They’re black, a deep void as his lips press into a thin line as he stares coldly back at me. The Carter I thought I knew is all but gone.

“I don’t understand,” I answer, trying to keep my voice as level as possible despite the fear taking over my body. My legs shake, and one more tug of my arm by him will send my pulse spiraling. “I’m not lying, Carter.” Iamlying, but there’s no way he could know that. Plus, it’s only a half lie. The truth is, I did develop feelings for Beckham in the late nights we spent together, the constant work meetings and time spent in his penthouse. All of that led to me falling for him. It really isn’t a lie at all.

“Do you remember when we first met?”

I nod my head, trying to keep up with the conversation we’re having. He’s going from one topic to the next, making it extremely difficult to follow his train of thought. “Of course I do,” I answer. “Why?”

He wipes at his face with the back of his forearm, letting out a low laugh. “Because my brother is the one that saw you first that night.”

My head rocks back and forth as I stare at him in confusion. “What?” I try to think back to that night, to that bar, but I don’t recall Beck even being there that night. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Beckham had offered for my friends and I to join him and his friends that night at the bar. I’d said what the hell. Him and I weren’t close, but we knew it’d make our parents happy to know we went out together.”

I wait silently, trying to fit the pieces of his story together. There’s no way Beckham was there that night. I would’ve remembered him there.Wouldn’t I?

“It was just you,” I finally manage to get out.

His fingers tighten around me angrily. “No, it wasn’t. I just made you think it was.”

My eyebrows pinch together as I stare into the dark abyss of his eyes. The smell of vodka permeating from his mouth makes me want to vomit, the multiple glasses of champagne and the small hors d’oeuvres I snacked on are not settling well in my stomach.

“I hadn’t even noticed you that night until I noticedhimwatching you. You were chugging beers with those dumb friends of yours. I’d been having an argument with my buddy about a class we were both taking when I noticed Beckham staring at something. I’d never seen something catch his eye. When I followed his gaze, he was staring at you.”

That isn’t possible. The first time we ever met, the first time he ever saw me, had to have been when Carter took me home to The Hamptons.

“Carter.” My voice trembles, his name coming out shaky and unsure.

He reaches up and pushes hair from my face. The feel of his fingertips against my skin has me feeling sick. I hate it. I want to get out of here, to get far away from this man who isn’t acting like the man I once loved.

“In that moment I knew he wanted you. And I hated my brother. I hated how successful he was. How proud my father was of him. I’d never be able to measure up to him. So I got to you first. It was obvious how interested he was in you. I wanted to takesomethingfrom him. I’d never have my own company—but I could have you.”

Words fail me. He seems drunk. He could be making all of this up, but it doesn’t seem that way. Not with the taunt in his tone, in the way he watches me with morbid satisfaction with telling me that information.

I try to process what he’s saying, what his words mean. Is he telling the truth? “You don’t know he wanted me,” I accuse, grasping for straws at this point. I don’t know why it even matters to begin with. Does he just want to be able to say he stole the woman his brother noticed first? It seems extremely petty and irrelevant because in the end, Beckham still got me.

“Oh, I did. I could tell. He wanted you bad. I wanted to hurt him more.”

“Why does any of that matter now?”

“It matters because you should know that Beckham lied to you.”

“How?”

"Did you see the woman I showed up with tonight? The hot blonde in the blue dress?”

I think I hear the sound of footsteps behind him, but no one appears before us. Disappointment settles deep in my bones. For a brief moment, I had hope that this confrontation was going to be over.

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