Page 96 of Love and Lies

“Give me your phone,” he said, holding out his hand. I let him save his number in it before he gave it back to me along with a couple of waffles wrapped up in a napkin. “So you don’t starve. Let me know when you know what’s going on.”

I nodded. “I’m sure it’s fine, Lincoln’s probably just being unnecessarily dramatic.”

“Yeah, probably.” Jess kissed me again, and I kissed him back, unsure how I was ever going to manage to leave. And yet, somehow, I broke away and made it to the door. It took all my willpower to turn the handle and open it, and even more to actually go through it and close it behind me.

I felt strangely fragile as I went down the stairs and stepped out onto the rain-washed sidewalk below. Partly because I didn’t know what was going on at home, but mostly because I had no idea what was going to happen now. Adam and Valerie had managed to take a stand when my parents and Trish Coldwell had demanded they break up. But the front had become so much more entrenched since their deaths. How far were Jess and I prepared to go to be happy? Could I hide this thing with him from my family, lie to them every day? And could I even be happy if I did that?

I was on my way to Seventh to hail a cab when a large vehicle with tinted windows came to a halt in the street right in front of me. I stopped suddenly, rolling my eyes at their ignorance, but I was used to that sort of thing in this city. I crossed to the other side, giving the car a wide berth—you never knew if the idiot at the wheel was going to change their mind and suddenly reverse in the other direction. And I really didn’t want to get run over today.

Behind me I heard the muffled sound of an expensive car door opening. I thought briefly about telling the guy that there was a difference between a thoroughfare and a parking lane, but in the end I just continued on my way.

That is, until a voice softly called my name.

“Helena.”

I turned around, and when I saw who it was, I stopped in my tracks. Trish Coldwell—sitting in the back seat of the enormous car, dressed in her usual neutral palette, glasses on the end of her nose, holding me steady in her ice-cold gaze.

“We need to talk,” she said. It wasn’t a question, naturally, but an order.

I squared my shoulders as confidently as possible. “Sorry, I’m expected at home,” I replied coolly, my pulse rising to about two hundred, and counting. What was she doing here? Did she know? I’d only just left Jess’s apartment—how was that possible?

“We can discuss the matter while I drive you home, so you won’t lose any time.” Jess’s mother’s gaze was inscrutable. “I can assure you, you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It concerns your family.”

My family? I’d been certain she was here about Jess and me, even if I wasn’t sure how she could have known about us. What could Trish Coldwell have to discuss with me that concerned my family? Lincoln’s message had been cryptic. Are you still at Malia’s? Come home as soon as you can.

The only way I was going to find out was by hearing what Trish had to say.

“Okay.” I braced myself and got into the limo, which wasn’t so easy in my voluminous dress. It probably would have been impossible in a taxi, but I felt no gratitude to Trish for chauffeuring me. More like worry. Or even panic.

The car set off, and Trish Coldwell gave the driver my address over the intercom. Then she switched it off.

“I trust we can spare ourselves the preamble,” she said, giving me an appraising look. I probably wasn’t making a great impression right now: yesterday’s dress, no makeup, waffles in hand. But I didn’t care, and Trish didn’t seem to, either. “You’re sleeping with my son, correct? Do you have feelings for him?”

I was speechless. It wasn’t what she’d said, it was the fact that she’d confronted me so directly. And—despite her accusatory tone—I had a sudden flashback to last night and this morning with Jess. I pushed it swiftly aside.

“That’s none of your business,” I said, as firmly as I could. “Jess and I are adults; we can do what we want.”

Trish laughed out loud, so short and harsh it was almost a bark. “Sweetheart, you’re a Weston. You of all people should know that coming of age in these circles brings duty more than freedom.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I said, returning her cold stare. Her eyes were the same color as Jess’s—only his were warm, whereas hers emitted nothing but ice. “And my duties are my own business.”

She nodded. “Fine. Then I’ll be frank with you. I want you to stay away from my son. Not like the last few weeks with all the back and forth, off and on again—but for good. Permanently.”

“Forget it.” I spurned her brazen demand without a second’s hesitation. I knew what the woman was capable of, of course, but that wasn’t going to stop me from standing up to her. Valerie hadn’t kowtowed to Trish Coldwell, and neither would I.

“Everyone has their price, Helena. And I’m sure I can afford yours.” She gestured to a folder on the seat next to her. “What do you know about the current state of your family’s business affairs?”

I stared at her in confusion, thinking back over all the indicators that things weren’t going well at the firm—the empty office, Lincoln’s hints, my father’s constant business trips, his tired, battle-worn demeanor. But if I was being honest, I didn’t know anything for certain. So I kept quiet.

“Nothing, then,” Trish established. “Well, I’ll tell you this: it’s bleak. There were some fatal investments in a project on the Upper West Side, followed by several risky ventures of your father’s that went south. The Winchester deal is the only thing that can save your parents now. But they’re out of the running, and have been for a while, since I have the better business case. The contracts are already on my desk, ready to be signed.”

I remained silent, not wanting to admit that she’d caught me out. I’d noticed there were some problems, yes, but my parents had done a good job of hiding from me that they were in this much trouble.

“So what do you want from me?” I asked. “You’ve got everything you wanted.”

“Not everything. There’s still you and Jessiah.” Before I could tell her again that I wasn’t going to let her intimidate me, Trish continued. “I’ll make you an offer: take my advice and stay away from him, and I’ll let your parents have the Winchester plot.”

I stared at her. “What?”