July 2, 1999
Dear Maddie,
Today, we pressed Mrs. Hunnam’s wilted daisies into your old books together. You said you wanted to give them a proper burial because you felt bad for them. Your empathy made my throat clog up. That’s why I turned around and walked out of the room. Not because of the pollen. Of course not. God, I’m a florist!
Fun fact: Daisies symbolize purity, fresh starts.
I hope you are still compassionate, kindhearted, and that you remember every day is a new beginning.
Love,
Forever,
Mom. x
I kicked my shoes against the wall. Daisy rushed from her bed on the windowsill by the flowers, wiggling her tail as she began licking between my toes in greeting. Truth be told, it wasn’t her most ladylike habit, but it was among the least destructive ones.
“To what do I owe the displeasure, Mr. Black?” I peeled my yellow jacket off.
“We have an issue.” Chase gave Daisy a pat before sauntering deeper into my studio. It seemed unfair, almost twisted, that I had wasted so many tears and sleepless nights coming to terms with the fact he would never stand casually in my kitchen again, only to . . . well, have him standing in my kitchen again, looking casual AF. Like nothing had changed. But that wasn’t true. I’d changed.
Chase opened the fridge, plucking out a can of Diet Coke—my Diet Coke—and cracked it open before leaning against the counter and taking a sip.
I stared him down, wondering if he was the one suffering from a sudden stroke. He looked around my crumpled, tiny space, no doubt taking inventory of the changes I’d made since he’d last been here. New wallpaper from Anthropologie, fresh bedsheets, and (least noticeable, but nonetheless existent) the new dent in my heart, the shape of his iron fist. He flicked the lights on—I had one set for the entire apartment—and whistled low.
Under the unforgiving LED lights, I noticed that he looked disheveled and unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt a little wrinkled. His $200 haircut was in desperate need of a trim. Very unlike the handsome, immaculate rake he prided himself on being. Like the world had finally decided to press its crushing weight on his glorious shoulders.
“My family seems to have taken a liking to you,” he admitted coolly, like the prospect was about as unlikely as a straight unicorn.
I marched toward him, snatching the Diet Coke from his grasp. I took a sip on principle and put it on the counter between us. “And?”
“My mother can’t stop talking about the banana bread you promised to bake for her, my sister’s lifelong dream is to become your BFF since you knit her that hat, and my father swears you are every man’s dream woman.”
“I happen to think very highly of your family too,” I said. It was the truth. The Blacks were nothing like the spawn they’d mistakenly spewed into the world. They were sweet and compassionate and welcoming. Always smiling and, above all, frequently offering me a glass of wine.
“But not me,” he supplied with a hedonistic smirk that suggested he took pleasure in being disliked. Like he’d achieved his goal. Unlocked a level in a video game.
“Not you.” I gave him a curt nod. “Which is why flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Not trying to get anywhere with you,” he assured me, his chest expanding under his shirt. A phantom of his scent—woodsy, aftershave, and male—drifted into my nostrils, making me quiver. “Not in the way that you think.”
“Get on with it, Chase.” I sighed, looking down and wiggling my toes. I wanted him out of here so I could dive under the duvet and binge-watch Supernatural. The only thing that could save tonight was a healthy dose of Jensen Ackles combined with unholy amounts of chocolate and impulsive internet shopping. Also, wine. I would kill for a bottle. With the victim preferably being the man in front of me.
“There’s a problem,” he said.
There always was with him. I stared at him blankly so he would continue. Then he did the weirdest thing. He . . . sort . . . of . . . flinched? The Chase Black.
“I may have forgotten to mention we broke up,” he said cautiously, averting his gaze to Daisy, who was currently humping the couch’s leg with an enthusiastic dog smile.
“You what?” My head snapped up, my teeth clashing together. “It’s been six months.” And three days. And twenty-one hours. Not that I was counting. “What were you thinking?”
He rubbed his knuckles against his stubble, eyes still trained on my hussy pup. “Frankly, I thought you’d realize you overreacted and come back.”
If I were a cartoon character, my jaw would drop to the floor, and my tongue would roll out like a red carpet, bumping into the door, through which I would later hurl Chase, leaving a hole the shape of his body.
I pressed my fingers to my eye sockets, drawing a ragged breath. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”
“My sense of humor is better than that.”
“Well, I hope your sense of direction is just as good, so you can go back to your family and tell them we’re definitely done.” I stomped to the door, throwing it open and motioning for him to leave with a head jerk.
“There’s more.” Chase remained propped against my counter, his hands tucked into his pockets nonchalantly. He had a few signature positions that were inked into the backs of my eyelids and saved for rainy Magic Wand days.
Chase casually leaning a hip against an inanimate object.
Chase holding the top of the doorframe, his biceps and triceps bulging out of his short-sleeved T-shirt.
Chase with one hand tucked into his front pocket, his sex eyes undressing me slowly.
Essentially, I had an entire catalog of my ex inspiring self-induced orgasms with his looks alone. Which, admittedly, was a level of pathetic that needed a new name.
“I was going to tell them we were done a couple weeks ago, but my father beat me to it in the bad news department.”
“Oh shoot. Has the superyacht broken down?” I put a hand over my chest, feigning concern. Ronan Black, the owner of Black & Co., Manhattan’s busiest department store, led a charmed life full of vacations, private jets, and grandiose family gatherings. Still, speaking ill of the people who’d welcomed me into their house left a sour taste in my mouth.
“He has stage-four cancer. Prostate. It spread to his bones. Kidneys. Blood. He wasn’t screened. My mother had been begging him for years, but he didn’t want the discomfort, I guess. Needless to say, it is incurable. He’s got three months to live.” He paused. “Generously speaking.”
He delivered the news flatly, keeping his face blank. His eyes were still on Daisy, who neglected the couch, spreading her legs at his feet, begging for a belly rub. He leaned down and scratched her stomach absentmindedly, waiting for me to absorb the news. His words soaked into me like poison, spreading slowly and lethally. They hit me somewhere deep, in that tight ball of angst I kept lodged in my belly. My mom ball. I knew Chase and his father were close. I also knew Chase was a proud man and would never break down, especially in front of someone who hated him. My knees buckled, the air slamming against the back of my throat, refusing to make its way into my lungs.
I resisted the urge to erase the space between us and hold him. He’d translate my warmth into pity, and I didn’t pity him. I was crushed for him, having experienced losing my mother to breast cancer when I was sixteen after her on-again, off-again battle with the disease. I knew all too well that it was always too soon to say goodbye to a parent. And that watching someone you loved lose the battle against their own body was as painful as ripping open your own flesh.
“I’m so sorry, Chase.” The words finally stumbled out of my mouth, clunky and weightless. I remembered how much Dad had hated being told that. So what if they’re sorry? It’s not going to make Iris feel better. I thought about Mom’s letters. I typically started every morning with one of her letters and a strong cup of coffee, but this morning I had read two of them. I’d had a gut feeling today was going to be a challenging one. I hadn’t been wrong.
I hope you are still compassionate and kindhearted.
I wondered what she’d think of my nickname. Martyr Maddie. Always down for saving the day.
Chase’s hooded eyes dragged from Daisy to meet mine. They were frighteningly empty. “Thank you.”
“If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“There is.” He straightened up swiftly, patting himself clean of Daisy’s hair.
I tilted my head in question.
“In the days after my father broke the news to us, my family was a mess. Katie didn’t show up for work. My mother didn’t leave her bed, and Dad ran back and forth, trying to comfort everyone instead of taking care of himself. It was, for lack of better words, a fucking shit show. And the show’s still going.”
I knew Lori Black had battled with depression before, not through Chase but through an in-depth interview she’d given Vogue a few years back. She’d spoken candidly about her dark periods while promoting the nonprofit organization where she volunteered. Katie, Chase’s sister, was a marketing executive at Black & Co. and a shopaholic. That was less endearing and quirky than it sounded. Katie suffered from bad anxiety attacks. Her episodes included going on intense, out-of-control shopping sprees to bury whatever it was that made her nervous. Knee-jerk spending made her breathe slightly better, but she always hated herself afterward. It was like binge eating emotionally, only with designer clothes. That was how she’d gotten diagnosed, in fact. Six years ago, she’d gone into a spending frenzy after her boyfriend had broken up with her. She’d spent $250,000 in a little less than forty-eight hours, maxed out three credit cards, and been found by Chase buried under a literal mountain of shoeboxes and clothes in her walk-in closet, crying into a bottle of champagne.
Chase must’ve read my mind, because he pressed home, his eyes holding mine intensely. “Considering my mother’s track record, it wouldn’t be far fetched to assume she’s on a straight path to Depressionville. When I went to check on Katie, her door was blocked with Amazon packages. I needed a sacrificial lamb.”
“Chase.” My voice croaked. I had a feeling I was the poor animal about to get tossed into the smoker. His face was blank, his tone measured.
“I had to think on my feet. So I made an announcement of my own.”
He grabbed the can between us, taking another sip, his eyes on me. Quiet. My heart spun like a hamster on a wheel. The tips of my fingers tingled. Panic clogged my throat.
“I told them we were engaged.”
I didn’t answer.
Not at first, anyway.
I picked up the can of Diet Coke and threw it against the wall, watching it splash into an avant-garde painting of brown fizz. Who did something like that? Told his family he was engaged to his ex-girlfriend, whom he’d cheated on? And now he was here, not even half-apologetic and still a full-blown jerk, delivering the news offhandedly.
“You son of a . . .”
“It gets worse.” He raised a palm, his eyes cutting to my window seat, which was crowded with potted flowers in various colors and Daisy’s bed. “As it turned out, the engagement announcement was just what the doctor ordered. Family is a divine principle for the Blacks. It gave Mom something to be excited about and took away Dad’s thoughts from the big C. And so it appears that you and I are having an engagement party in the Hamptons this weekend.”
“An engagement party?” I echoed, blinking. I felt seasick. Like the ground beneath me swayed in the same rhythm as my pulse. Chase nodded curtly.
“Naturally, we both must be in attendance.”
“The only thing natural,” I said slowly, my head a jumbled mess, “is the fact that you’re still delusional. The answer to your unspoken request is no.”
“No?” he repeated. Another word he wasn’t used to.
“No,” I confirmed. “I will not accompany you to our fake engagement party.”
“Why?” he asked. He looked genuinely baffled. I realized Chase, despite his thirty-two years of existence, had very little experience with rejection. He was handsome, smart, so filthy rich he couldn’t spend all his money even if he dedicated his entire life to the cause, and of enviable Manhattan pedigree. On paper, he was too good to be true. In reality, he was so bad it hurt to breathe next to him.
“Because I’m not going to celebrate our fauxmance and deceive dozens of people. And because doing you favors is very low on my to-do list, somewhere under plucking my eyelashes individually with a pair of tweezers and picking a fight with a drunken Santa on the subway.” I was still holding the door open, but I was shaking. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ronan Black. About how it must’ve hit Katie and Lori. About Mom’s letter telling me to stay compassionate. Surely she hadn’t meant this.
“I’ll fire you,” he said simply, not missing a beat.
“I’ll sue you,” I retorted with the same nonchalance, feeling much more hysterical about his threat than I let on. I loved my job. Plus, he knew damn well I lived paycheck to paycheck and wouldn’t survive even the briefest unemployment.
No wonder his last name was Black. His heart certainly was.
“Is money tight, Miss Goldbloom?” He arched an eyebrow, his voice deadly.
“You know the answer.” I bared my teeth. A Manhattan apartment, no matter how small, cost a fortune.
“Perfect. Do me this solid, and I’ll reimburse you for your time and effort.” He turned from bad cop to good cop in a second.
He shrugged, looking bored with my antics. “Blood? No. A few scratches, probably.”
“Are you offering to pay me for companionship?” I ignored the pulse flicking in my eyelid. “Because there’s a word for that. Prostitution.”
“I’m not paying you to sleep with me.”
“You don’t have to. I foolishly did that for free.”
“Didn’t hear any complaints at the time. Look, Mad—”
“Chase.” I mimicked his warning tone, hating that he used his nickname for me—not Maddie, not Mads, just Mad—and that it still made the pit of my belly swarm with butterflies.
“We both know you’ll do it,” he explained, with the thinly veiled exasperation of an adult explaining to a toddler why they should take their medicine. “Spare us this little tango. It’s late, I have a board meeting tomorrow, and I’m sure you’re dying to tell your friends all about your little date with Scooby-Dull.”
“We do?” I parroted, my eyes dangerously close to setting him on fire purely through the power of revulsion. I didn’t even touch his last dig. That was just Chase being Chase, beating his own Guinness World Record at being an asshole.
“Yes. Because you’re Martyr Maddie, and it’s the right thing to do. You’re selfless, considerate, and compassionate.” He listed those traits matter-of-factly, like they didn’t chart positively in his book. His eyes drifted from my face to the wall behind me, on which I’d pinned dozens of squares of delicate fabrics. Chiffon and silk and organza. Materials in white and crème from all over the world, along with penciled sketches of wedding gowns. I shook my head, knowing what he was thinking.
“Reel it in, Cowboy Crabs-anova. I’d never marry you.”
“That’s good news all around.”
“Is it? Because I think you just asked me to be your fiancée.”
“Fake fiancée. It is not your hand in marriage I am asking for.”
“What are you asking for?”
“The courtesy of not breaking my father’s heart.”
“Chase . . .”
“Because not coming? Mad, it will shatter him.” He dragged a shaky hand through his tresses.
“This’ll snowball.” I shook my head. My fingers were dancing, they quivered so badly.
“Not under my watch.” He held my gaze, not a muscle twitching on his face. “I don’t want you back, Madison,” he said, and for some reason, the words cut me open and bled me dry. I’d always suspected Chase had never truly wanted me, even when we were together. I was like a stress ball. Something he played with absentmindedly while his thoughts drifted elsewhere. I remembered feeling acutely unseen whenever he looked at me. The way he huffed when he took in my quirky dresses. The side-eyes he awarded me with, which made me feel just a tad less attractive than a circus monkey. “I don’t want my father leaving this world when it’s in chaos. Mom. Katie. Me. It’s too much. You can relate, can you not?”
Mom.
Hospital bed.
Scattered letters.
My hollow, aching heart that never quite recovered from losing her.
I felt my resolve chipping, one crack at a time, until finally, the layer of ice I’d coated myself with when I’d let Chase into my apartment fell with a soundless clank, like a warrior ridding themselves of their armor. He remembered our conversation all those months ago, when I’d told him my mother had died in the same month my father had filed for bankruptcy for their business, Iris’s Golden Blooms, and I’d failed a semester. She’d left the world worried and anxious for her loved ones.
The fact she hadn’t gone peacefully still gnawed at me every single night.
It didn’t matter that I’d ended up graduating from high school with honors and even gotten a partial scholarship for college, or that Dad had gotten back on his feet and our flower shop had thrived afterward. It always felt like Iris Goldbloom was stuck in the limbo of that hellish period in our lives, forever waiting to see if we’d pull through.
As much as I loathed Chase Black for what he’d done to me, I wasn’t going to force another calamity on his family in the form of a canceled engagement party. But I wasn’t going to play by his rules either.
“Where did your family think I was for the past six months? Wasn’t it weird to them that I haven’t been around?”
Chase shrugged, unfazed. “I’m running a company that’s richer than some countries. I told them we were seeing each other on evenings.”
“And they bought it?”
He flashed me a sinister grin. Of course they had. Chase had the uncanny ability to sell anxiety to a new bride.
I grumbled. “Fine. What happens when we finally break up?”
“Leave it to me.”
“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” It sounded like a horrible plan. Straight-to-cable rom-com material. But I knew Chase to be a serious guy. He nodded.
“My mother and sister would be disappointed but not crushed. Dad wants me happy. Moreover—I want him to be happy. At any cost.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic, and frankly, it was the one thing Chase had over me. My sympathy to his situation.
“I’ll go this weekend, but that’s where it ends.” I lifted my index finger in warning. “One weekend, Chase. Then you can tell them I’m busy. And whatever happens, this engagement mumbo jumbo will be kept top secret. I don’t want it to come biting me in the ass at work. Speaking of work—after we cancel our so-called engagement, I get to keep my job.”
“Scout’s honor.” But he only raised one finger. Specifically, the middle one.
“You’ve never been in the Scouts.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
“And you haven’t been bitten in the ass. It’s a figure of speech. No, wait.” A slow-spreading grin tugged across his face. “Yes, you have.”
Pointing at the door, I felt my neck and face burning with a blush as I recalled the time that I had in fact been bitten in the ass. “Out.”
Chase shoved his hand into his back pocket. Dread curled around my throat like a tight scarf as he pulled out a small Black & Co. Jewelry velvet box and threw it into my hands. “I’ll pick you up Friday at six. Hiking attire mandatory. Sensible clothes optional but fucking appreciated nonetheless.”
“I hate you,” I said quietly, the words scorching their way up my throat as my fingers shook around the plush box with the gold lettering. I did. I really, truly did. But I was doing it for Ronan, Lori, and Katie, not him. That made my decision more bearable somehow.
He smiled at me pityingly. “You’re a good kid, Mad.”
Kid. Forever condescending. Screw him.
Chase stalked to the door, stopping a few inches from me. He frowned at the discarded soda can at my feet.
“You may want to clean that up.” He motioned to the sprayed Coke on my wall. He lifted his arm and rubbed his thumb over my forehead, exactly on the spot Ethan had kissed, erasing his touch from my body. “Scruff is not a good look, especially on Chase Black’s fiancée.”
