Chapter 6.
1115 Words
NADIA.
By eight o’clock, my dignity had already packed a bag and left without me.
I stood outside Jeremy Kellason’s private suite with the Langton packet clutched to my chest, my pulse beating in places it had no right to be, telling myself three things.
Get the phone.
Give him the report.
Leave.
Simple.
Very simple.
So naturally, the door opened when I knocked, and Camille stood in front of me.
Of all the people I expected on the other side of Jeremy Kellason's suite at eight at night, his executive assistant in stocking feet, holding a glass of his whiskey, was not one of them.
“Oh,” she said, like I was a package delivered early. “Nadia.”
My fingers tightened around the file. “I’m here to see Mr. Kellason.”
Her smile widened by half an inch. “Of course you are.”
Something ugly crawled up my throat.
"He says wait here." She stepped back to let me in like she owned the entire place. "He won't be long."
“Here?” I caught myself asking.
“Yes. Here. In the sitting room.” Her gaze dipped to the file in my arms. “He’s finishing up.”
'Finishing what?'
I almost asked, but my pride won't even let me.
God forbid I concerned myself with my boss's personal life.
So, I sat where she pointed while she padded back toward the bedroom — the bedroom — and the door clicked shut behind her.
I sat on the edge of a leather couch and counted the minutes.
Thirty of them passed.
I counted because the initial silence coming from the room gave my imagination a knife and left it unsupervised.
The walls were too thick to give me anything but the occasional low murmur of his voice and, on one or two occasions, something that might have been a sound I could categorize as a moan for all I care.
When the door finally opened, Camille came out, fixing her hair, smiling. A private, satisfied, 'just-for-her' smile.
"Goodnight, Nadia," she said sweetly, and let herself out.
I sat there hating the heat that crawled up my neck, because I had no right to it.
Then Jeremy came out of the bedroom, shirtless.
Of course.
Because why would God let me keep one working organ?
He wore only dark joggers hanging low on his hips, the waistband loose enough to hint at things I didn't have any business acknowledging. His hair was rough, pushed back like fingers had been in it.
I could swear I saw faint pink lines over one of his shoulders.
My eyes betrayed me before I could stop them.
His chest was broad and bare, muscle shifting under skin as he walked. His stomach tightened with every step, hard ridges cutting down into that dangerous V disappearing beneath the joggers. Veins ran over his forearms and hands.
He stopped in front of the table.
My phone was there. Hadn't even noticed.
So was a cream envelope I also had not noticed.
I stood quickly. “My phone.”
Jeremy picked it up.
For one second, relief hit so hard I almost swayed.
Then he held it just out of reach.
I lifted my hand. “Please.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“Please,” he repeated, like he enjoyed the taste of it.
My jaw tightened. “Sir.”
He smirked and placed the phone in my palm.
I closed my fingers around it like I had just retrieved my own heartbeat. But... Wait. Why did he hand it over to me so easily?
Something wasn't right.
“By the way,” he said, "Your father texted."
The room suddenly vanished.
I knew it was too easy... Him handing the phone over to me just like that...
Jesus...
My hand went cold around the phone as I tried not to let him see how the words affected me.
“My father is dead,” I said.
He held my gaze incredulously. “Then the dead man is terrible with boundaries. And he needs $5,000 by Friday. He texted you a routing number.”
My heart skipped a beat.
I couldn't breathe.
The old fear rose so fast it was almost physical - the police at the door, reporters outside our house, and my mother crying and hugging me tightly to herself.
Jeremy seemed to enjoy the show. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, excruciatingly slowly, as I sweated all over my palms.
"Does Liam know?" He took a sip of his drink and turned to me, his eyes taking me apart.
“Don’t...” I coughed out.
“That wasn’t an answer.” He said coldly.
"Jeremy..." I whispered, my eyes turning blurry already. "Please."
"Liam's family has been looking for Elias Wilson for six years," he said quietly. "Spent a fortune on it. And you had him saved in your phone under E.W. Repairs." He pause. "That's either very stupid or very sentimental. I haven't decided which is worse for you."
My father was dead. He had to stay dead. To the world. Especially to the Orlands family.
“You had no right to go through my phone,” I said, wiping the one tear that dropped.
“Rights?” Jeremy’s mouth barely moved. “Careful, Nadia. You don’t want to start a conversation where I have to remind you where I found you last night.”
Heat and terror collided in my chest.
“My father has nothing to do with you.” I tried to sound reasonable.
“Everything Liam wants has always been my business.” He bit out, closing the distance between us. "I'd love to tell Liam that his sweet bride has been wiring money to the fugitive his family would give anything to find."
"What do you want?" My voice was somebody else's as I asked the question that goes out and never comes back with a fair answer.
"Two things." He replied like I had finally handed him what he'd always wanted.
"Money?" I asked stupidly, and his eyes moved over me from head to foot, and back.
"Don't insult me, Nadia."
"Then... What?" I whispered, letting my eyes hold his as I searched for whatever shred of humanity was left in those cold eyes of his. But there was none there.
He smirked, reached for the cream envelope on the table, and held it out.
"Sign this."
I looked from his face to the envelope and back to his face.
"What's this?"
He let it sit for a moment before he replied.
"A contract. The only reason your father gets to see another day."
- Writer
