FALLING FOR THE ENEMY'S SON

CHAPTER 5: Forbidden Flashbacks

The air that greeted Ava as she walked into the ballroom in the morning was a cold, early November wind that blew through the open windows. Work gangs were already scaffolding up around that mezzanine. Dust corkscrewed in the rainbows of the morning. Nothing of beauty, nothing of music attended, nothing with majesty and grace. Set duty and design in place; But all cavity plain, of broken fragments gray, a skeleton of some past greatness, dead and decaying.

And she gazed a long time at the distant wall where the mural had been revealed the day before. It was a sprawling, mid-century gold-and-black skyline, the skyline of hope and pride. Such a kind of piece that used to make people dream.

That is what he had been to her, once, also—a dream.

Jace Wellington.

It was just the sound of his name in her like some sort of whisper that she would rather not hear, yet she could not.

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Five Years Ago

The Monroe Fundraising Gala of Winter 2018

Ava had suggested the facility at the Astoria Grand as the venue for the event. Her father had consented--when he was still in the habit of smiling, and of shaking hands with every visitor, as a king at his court. The ballroom had glimmered then, golden in the low chandeliers and against champagne glasses, and the jazz had played off the marble.

Emerald green was her mother's favorite color, which Ava wore. She had her hair fastened with gold pins. She did so because he did.

Jace was an unwanted guest.

She recalled how her breath had faltered the minute she saw his broad shoulders lean against the bar in his crispy, black suit, his dark curls out of control, his dark eyes roving around the room as though he was in his place. She was angry at first. The Wellingtons were not at home in the Monroe territory.

But Jace had come to her with a half-smile and something in his eyes that disarmed her altogether. And in place of bidding him to leave, she had suffered him to take her hand. She had allowed him to escort her to the floor.

They danced under the chandelier in a slow movement that had too much to say that it could say nothing. She was eighteen, learning her strength. He had been twenty-one, and knew his was--and how hazardous it was.

Eyes that should be on the streets are in the lanes. I ought to be out in the street.

"I know," she replied. But neither of them were released.

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Present Day

Ava twitched, her mind making concrete memories. The aroma of newly brewed coffee on her small desk-side machine intermingled with the more pungent odor of aged paint and varnish on the wane, along with the idea of the times as her thoughts flew back and forth in time.

She looked away, away from the mural, and wandered to the mezzanine, along the very route where they danced themselves, long since swept out. She was unable to say what had recalled the memory so vividly. Perhaps it was the room. Or it might have been the silence.

Or maybe it was the envelope on her desk that she saw on returning to her office a few minutes later.

No name. Her initials only, decently written on the front.

There was the printed machine--an article,--a photograph of the same gala, a photograph, in a folded copy of a New York Lifestyle article. There they were, she in green, he in black, in an exchange of glances so close it tended toward recklessness.

She had not even been aware of the existence of the photo.

Attached to the bottom of the printout with a sticky note was writing, which she knew far too well in hand.

“Just thought you might want this one on your concept board.”

—JW

Ava held the paper she had just discovered and stared at it as the heat climbed her spine.

She did not like the fact that he had a memory. It was hated that piece of her that was glad that he did.

She threw the note into the trash and crashed it, taking only the picture with her. It was the ideal picture. She had her posture open, and her eyes were soft. A moment that is stolen.

At that time, negotiations were only in the initial stages of the embittered lawsuits that their parents were going through. At the time, Ava felt that she could decouple her heart from her last name. They did not have to determine their future with their families.

She was mistaken.

He vanished the next night, soon after. No calls. No explanation. Just gone. When her father had gone down, when the company had gone bankrupt, when the scandal had blown up, Jace Wellington had not said a word.

No message. No defense. Nothing.

Just similar to his father.

---

The remaining hours of the day did not manifest themselves. Ava went over lighting specifications, accepted two tile samples, and ordered a pack of sleek pieces of furniture that she sniffed and found soulless and uninspired. However, she was losing concentration. Her eyes were drawn back to the photograph under her sketchpad now.

She was wandering up that almost completed passage, which opened out of the south wing to the garden terrace, that night. She did not intend to stay later than usual, but the image of the silence of the building after work hours brought her some peace.

Instead, she found herself in the open air and stood under the barren body of a pergola, which would have fallen upon and been rebuilt by her staff next month. The moon was heavy in the sky. The city was less noisy at this place.

There was the crunching of footsteps over gravel.

From behind her, Jace said, "I assumed you would still be here."

She didn't look back. "Do you ambush people all the time?"

He took a step closer and declared, "I wasn't sneaking." "Just... taking it slow."

They remained silent. Suddenly, it seemed like they were closer than they had been for days.

After a pause, he said, "I didn't send the article to provoke you." While going through old press records, I came across it. I thought it might serve as inspiration for you.

“Inspiration?” she repeated, turning to face him at last. "Or sentimentality?"

His face remained the same. "Is there a difference?"

Ava crossed her arms. "Jace, you went out. Not a message. Not even a text message." Following everything—

"I had no other option."

"A choice is always available."

The cool wind stirred his collar as he gazed at her. "Not when your father says that if you don't leave the girl he believes is a liability, he will stop funding you."

Her heart thumped.

Quieter now, she said, "You could have told me." "You could have explained."

"I believed I was keeping you safe."

The words were heavy and hazy, hanging between them like fog.

Slowly, Ava shook her head. "You weren't. You were defending yourself.

He remained silent, and that silence, that guilty silence, spoke louder than any words he could have spoken.

She turned her back on him. "Whatever we had—that was a long time ago."

He remarked, "I haven't forgotten it."

She lied and said, "I have."

Then she turned to leave.