Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Our memories are what make us who we are. The majority of mine from when I grew up are consumed with Madox, although I’ve been able to avoid them since I moved away. Most of the time, anyway.
That giddiness, that fear I felt only moments ago when the plane took off is familiar to me. It’s the same thing I feel when I think of Madox. Every time. I’ve never stopped loving him, but sometimes fate simply doesn’t let love be enough.
I’m not going to spend the entire flight thinking about him. I’m starting over, not looking back. My resolve is firm as I turn the pages of the magazine.
I just hope I don’t see him again. After all, New York is filled with so many people. And there’s only one of him. Even if he rules the city.
CHAPTER 2
Sophie
Seven years ago
It’s different when there’s no one else with us. Last week I didn’t want anyone else around, but now? The thought of being alone with him makes my skin heat with a fire I’ve never felt before.
“Hey.” Madox nudges my elbow with his as he leans in closer and asks me, “You want to get out of here?”
The thumpity-thump inside my chest can’t be ignored. It’s so loud I’m sure everyone in here can hear it.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask him, knowing that even before he gives me an answer, “yes” is already waiting to slip past my lips.
“Name it,” he tells me like that it’s that easy. “We can go wherever you want.”
Alone. Is there a place called Alone? Somewhere we can be by ourselves.
I want to see what this fire turns into when he touches me.
Today
I’m here.
I text Trish the second I finally make it to Thompson Street. My phone instantly buzzes with a response and then another as I gaze out the front window of my brand-spanking-new apartment and then look back to the expansive dining room. I feel sick and anxious. None of this is me. It feels too expensive, too chic.
Too much like how it felt when I realized what the other side of this world is like when I first met Maddox … and there I go thinking of him again.
Too much like a woman trying to fit into a world that doesn’t belong to her. From the thick silk curtains lining the floor-to-ceiling windows that could have come straight from that Elle Décor magazine, to the accent pillows that would be stained with makeup if I dared lay my head on them.
There’s too much white. Too many hard lines.
Too much money being spent on me that I didn’t earn… Yet.
My finger hovers over the send button. I’m struggling to compose a message to Adrienne, the woman who hired me and told me this place was covered by my employer. No matter how many times I read the text I wrote, rewrite it and read it again, I sound like an ungrateful bitch.
Dammit! I roll my eyes as I delete it, warring with how I want to handle this situation. I should roll with the punches, get my footing, prove my worth and then take charge.
It really is too much though. I can’t believe a company would give all this to me when I haven’t even worked a single day yet.
My cardboard moving boxes, filled with IKEA merchandise, don’t belong here.
I take another slow walk around the first floor and a faster one upstairs. The apartment’s ready to live in. Even the fridge already contains milk and eggs. When I first got to the address, I thought I must have been mistaken. Although the key fit, it was obviously someone else’s house. But the parchment on the dining room table read: Welcome Sophie, make yourself at home. We start on Monday.
Signed by the one and only Adrienne Hart.
The tips of my fingers are numb as I shove my phone into a wristlet. The sky is gray and rain is most certainly looming, so I dig through three boxes marked “closet” until I find one with a hoodie in it and head straight for the door.
I didn’t earn this. It makes me feel like I’ve missed something or the expectations they have for me are higher than I anticipated. Maybe this is what having Imposter syndrome feels like.
Trish has already called three times, so I call her as I head downtown, searching for a place to eat or grab a drink. I look like shit; feel like it too. But this is New York. You can look like whatever you want here, and as long as you can pay the bill, no one gives a shit.
As the phone rings, I start thinking more about drinks and less about food.
Because that’s what I really need, a giant chill pill at the bottom of a martini glass.