Twisted Lies

He also lived at the Mirage, so it made sense. In fact, his apartment was only a floor above mine.

Still, I shook my head.

The thought of sitting in a confined space with Christian, even for a few minutes, filled me with a strange sense of panic.

“I’m okay. I’m sure you have better things to do than chauffeur me around, and walking clears my head.” The words spilled out in a rush. I didn’t ramble often, but when I did, nothing short of a nuclear blast could stop me. “It’s good exercise, and I need to test out my new snow boots anyway. This is the first time I’ve worn them all season.” Stop talking. “So, as much as I appreciate your offer, I have to politely decline.”

I finished my near incoherent mini speech on a note of breathlessness.

I was getting better at saying no, but I still over-explained myself every time.

“Does that make sense?” I added when Christian remained silent.

An icy gust of wind chose that moment to whip past. It tossed the hood of my coat off my head and burrowed past my layers into my bones, sparking a burst of involuntary shivers.

I’d been sweating bullets in the studio, but now, I was so cold even the memory of warmth was frosted with blue.

“It does.” Christian finally spoke, his tone and expression unreadable.

“Good.” The word shook through my chattering teeth. “Then I’ll let you—”

The soft click of a door unlocking interrupted me.

“Get in the car, Stella.”

I got in the car.

I told myself it was because the temperature had somehow dropped twenty degrees in the space of five minutes, but I knew that was a lie.

It was the sound of my name, in that voice, delivered with such calm authority my body obeyed before I could protest.

For a man I barely knew, he had more power over me than almost anyone else.

Christian pulled away from the curb and turned a dial on the dashboard. A second later, heat blasted from the vents and warmed my frigid skin.

The car smelled like rich leather and expensive spices, and it was eerily clean. No wrappers, no half-empty coffee cups, not even a speck of lint.

I sank deeper into my seat and glanced at the man next to me.

“You always get your way, don’t you?” I asked lightly, trying to dissolve the inexplicable tension blanketing the air.

He slid a brief glance in my direction before refocusing on the road. “Not always.”

Instead of dissolving, the tension thickened and slipped into my veins. Hot and restless, like an ember waiting for a breath of oxygen to fan it to life.

Mission failed.

I turned my head and stared out the windshield, too thrown off by the day’s events to attempt more conversation.

The nerves scaling their way up my chest and into my throat didn’t help.

I was supposed to be the cool, calm one, the one who saw the silver lining in every cloud and remained levelheaded no matter the situation. That was the image I’d projected most of my life because that was what was expected of me as an Alonso.

An Alonso didn’t suffer from anxiety attacks or spend their nights worrying about every little thing that could go wrong the next day.

An Alonso didn’t seek therapy or air their dirty laundry to a stranger.

An Alonso was supposed to be perfect.

I twisted my necklace around my finger until it cut off the circulation.

My parents would probably love Christian. On paper, he was as perfect as they came.

Rich. Good-looking. Well-mannered.

I resented it almost as much as I resented the way he dominated the space around us, his presence pouring into every nook and crevice until it was the only thing I could concentrate on.

I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, but my lungs were filled with the scent of his cologne and my skin thrummed with awareness at the way his muscles flexed with each turn of the wheel.

I shouldn’t have gotten in the car.

Besides the warmth, the only upside was that I would get home to my shower and bed sooner. I couldn’t wait—

“The plants are doing well.”

The statement was thrown out so casually and unexpectedly it took me several seconds to realize that 1) someone had broken the silence, and 2) that someone was, in fact, Christian and not a figment of my imagination.

“Excuse me?”

“The plants in my apartment.” He stopped at a red light. “They’re doing well.”

What did that…oh .

Comprehension dawned, followed by a tiny flicker of pride.

“I’m glad.” I gave him a tentative smile now that the conversation was in safe, neutral territory. “They just need a little love and attention to thrive.”

“And water.”

I blinked at his obvious, deadpan statement. “And water.”

The words hung between us for a moment before a laugh broke free from my throat and Christian’s mouth curved into the tiniest of smiles.

The air finally lightened, and the knot in my chest loosened a smidge.

When the light turned green, the powerful rumble of the engine nearly drowned out his next words. “You have a magic touch.”

My cheeks warmed, but I responded with a small shrug. “I like plants.”

“Perfect person for the job, then.”

His plants had been on life support when I took over their care in exchange for keeping my current rent.

After my friend and ex-roommate Jules moved out last month to live with her boyfriend, my options were either get another roommate or move out of the Mirage, since I couldn’t afford to cover both portions of our rent. I’d grown attached to the Mirage, but I would rather downgrade my home than live with a stranger. My anxiety couldn’t handle that.

Christian had already lowered the monthly rent for us when we first toured the apartment and mentioned the regular price was out of our budget, so I’d been shocked when he’d proposed our current arrangement after I brought up the possibility of moving out.

It was a little suspicious, but he was friends with my other friend, Bridget’s husband which made accepting his offer easier. I’d been taking care of his plants for five weeks and nothing terrible had happened. I never even saw him when I went upstairs. I just let myself in, watered the plants, and left.

“How did you know I could do it?” He could’ve proposed any number of tasks—run his errands, do his laundry, clean his house (though he already had a full-time housekeeper). The plant thing was oddly specific.

“I didn’t.” Disinterest and a thread of something imperceptible twined through his voice. “It was a lucky coincidence.”

“You don’t seem like someone who believes in coincidence.”

Christian’s lack of sentimentality bled through in everything he did and wore—the sharp lines of his suit, the calm precision of his words, the cool detachment of his gaze.

They were the traits of someone who worshipped logic, power, and cold, hard pragmatism. Not something as nebulous as coincidence.

For some reason, Christian found that funny. “I believe in it more than you think.”

Intrigue kindled at his self-deprecating tone.

Despite having access to his apartment, I knew maddeningly little about him. His penthouse was a study in flawless design and luxury, but it contained little to no personal effects.

“Care to share?” I tried.

Christian pulled into the Mirage’s private garage and parked in his reserved spot near the back entrance.

No answer.

Then again, I hadn’t expected one.

Christian Harper was a man cloaked in rumors and shadows. Even Bridget didn’t know much about him, only his reputation.

We didn’t speak again as we passed through the entrance and into the lobby.

At six foot three, Christian had a good five inches on me, but I was still tall enough to match his long strides.

Our steps fell into perfect sync against the marble floors.

I’d always been a bit self-conscious about my height, but Christian’s powerful presence wrapped around like me a security blanket, drawing attention away from my Amazonian frame.

“No more walking in a blizzard, Ms. Alonso.” We stopped by the bank of elevators and faced each other. His shadow of a smile returned, all lazy charm and confidence. “I can’t have one of my tenants dying of hypothermia. It would be bad for business.”

Another unexpected laugh rustled my throat. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to replace me in no time.”

I wasn’t sure whether I owed my slight breathlessness to the cold lingering in my lungs or the full impact of standing so close to him.

I wasn’t interested in Christian romantically. I wasn’t interested in anyone romantically; between the magazine and my blog, I didn’t have time to even think about dating.

But that didn’t mean I was immune to his presence.

Something flared bright in those whiskey eyes before it cooled. “Likely not.”

The mild breathlessness transformed into something heavier that strangled my voice.

Every sentence out of his mouth was a code I couldn’t crack, imbued with a hidden meaning only he was privy to while I was left to scramble in the dark.

I’d talked to Christian three times in my life: once when I signed my lease, once in passing at Bridget’s wedding, and once when we discussed my sans-Jules rent situation.

All three times, I’d left more unsettled than before.

What were we talking about again?

It’d been less than a minute since Christian’s response, but that minute had stretched so slow it might as well have been an eternity.

“Christian.”

A deep, slightly accented voice slashed the thread holding our suspended moment aloft.

Time snapped back to its usual cadence, and my breath expelled in one sharp rush before I turned my head.

Tall. Dark hair. Olive skin.

The newcomer wasn’t as classically good-looking as Christian, but he filled out the lines of his Delamonte suit with so much raw masculinity it was difficult to look away.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Delamonte Suit flicked a glance in my direction.

I’d never been super attracted to older men, and he had to be in his mid to late thirties, but wow .

“Not at all. You’re right on time.” A hint of irritation hardened Christian’s otherwise smooth reply. He stepped in front of me, blocking me from Delamonte Suit’s view and vice versa.

The other man raised an eyebrow before his mask of indifference fell away to reveal a smirk.

He stepped around Christian, so deliberately it was almost like he was taunting him, and held out his hand. “Dante Russo.”

“Stella Alonso.”

I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead.

Coming from anyone else, it would’ve been cheesy, but a tingle of pleasure erupted instead.

Maybe it was the accent. I had a weakness for all things Italian.

“Dante.” Beneath the calm surface of Christian’s voice lay a razored edge that was sharp enough to cut through bone. “We’re late for our meeting.”

Dante appeared unfazed. His hand lingered on mine for an extra second before he released it.

“It was lovely to meet you, Stella. I’m sure I’ll see you around again.” His rich drawl contained a hint of laughter.

I suspected his amusement was directed not at me but toward the man watching us with ice in his eyes.

“Thank you. It was nice meeting you too.” I almost smiled at Dante, but something told me that wouldn’t be a smart move right now. “Have a good night.”

I glanced at Christian. “Good night, Mr. Harper. Thank you for the ride.”

I injected a playful lilt into my voice, hoping the callback to our absurd formality earlier would crack his granite expression.

But it didn’t so much as flicker as he inclined his head. “Good night, Ms. Alonso.”

Okay, then.

I left Christian and Dante in the lobby, the subjects of more than a few admiring stares from passersby, and took the elevator up to my apartment.

I didn’t know what had caused Christian’s sudden mood shift, but I had enough worries of my own without adding his to the mix.

I rifled through the bag, trying to locate my keys among the jumble of makeup, receipts, and hair ties.

I really needed a better way of organizing my bag.

After several minutes of searching, my hand closed around the metal key.

I’d just inserted it into the lock when a familiar chill swept over my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

My head jerked up.

There was no other sign of life in the hall, but the quiet hum of the heating system suddenly took on an ominous tone.

Memories of typed notes and candid photos turned my breaths shallow before I blinked them away.

Stop being paranoid.

I wasn’t living in an old, unsecured house near campus anymore. I was at the Mirage, one of the most well-guarded residential buildings in D.C., and I hadn’t heard from him in two years.

The chances of him showing up here, of all places, were slim to none.

Nevertheless, urgency broke the spell freezing my limbs in place. I quickly unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. The lights blazed on as I slid the deadbolt in place.

It was only after I checked every room in my apartment and confirmed there was no intruder lurking in my closet or underneath my bed that I was able to relax.

Everything was fine. He wasn’t back, and I was safe.

But despite my self-reassurance, a small part of me couldn’t shake the sense that my gut had been right and that someone had been watching me in the hall.

CHRISTIAN

The library door shut with a quiet click behind me.

I crossed the room, my steps slow and deliberate, until I reached the sitting area where Dante had made himself comfortable with a glass of scotch.

A muscle pulsed in my jaw.

If we didn’t have such a long history together, and if I didn’t owe him for the favor he did me, his head would already be shattered on the bar cart near him.

Not only for helping himself to my liquor, but for his less than amusing show in the lobby.

I didn’t like people touching what was mine.

“Lighten that scowl, Harper.” Dante took a lazy sip of his drink. “Otherwise, it’ll freeze that way, and women won’t like your face as much anymore.”

My cold smile told him how little I cared. “Perhaps if you took your own advice, you wouldn’t be sleeping in a different room than your fiancée.”

Satisfaction filled my chest at his narrowed eyes. If Stella was my weakness, Vivian was his.

I wasn’t interested in the ins and outs of their relationship, but it amused me to see him snarl every time I brought up the fiancée he claimed to hate.

I thought I had problems. Dante had two billion dollars worth of them.

“Point taken,” he said in a clipped voice. All humor vanished, bringing back the unsmiling asshole I was used to dealing with. “But I didn’t come here to discuss Vivian or Stella, so let’s get to the real issue at hand. When the fuck can I get rid of the painting? The thing’s an eyesore.”

I forced thoughts of dark curls and green eyes aside at the mention of the other enigmatic woman in my life.

Magda , the painting that had been the bane of my existence for decades. Not because of what it was but because of what it represented.

“No one told you to hang it in your gallery.” I walked to the bar and poured myself a drink. Dante, that bastard, hadn’t recapped the bottle of my finest scotch. “You can shove it in the back of your closet for all I care.”

“I pay all that money for Magda only to shove it in the back of my closet? That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.” Sarcasm weighed heavy on his voice.

“You have a problem; I provided a solution.” I gave a careless shrug. “Not my fault you don’t want to take it. And for the record…” I settled on the seat opposite his. “I paid for the painting.”

Secretly, anyway. As far as the public knew, Dante Russo was the proud owner of one of the ugliest pieces of artwork in existence. Then again, people also thought said hideous piece was a priceless painting worth killing and stealing over thanks to a simple set of forged documents.

I hadn’t wanted people going after it, but I’d needed an excuse for why I’d spent so many resources guarding it.

It didn’t contain earth-shattering business secrets like everyone thought. But it had contained something personal that I’d never share.

He examined me over the top of his glass. “Why do you still care so much about it? You got what you needed from it, and you found your traitor. Just burn the damn thing. After I sell it back to you,” he added. “For appearances’ sake.”

“I have my reasons.”

One, to be exact, but he wouldn’t believe me if I told him.

I couldn’t bear to destroy the painting. It was too embedded in the jagged pieces of my past.

I wasn’t a sentimental person, but there were two areas of my life where my usual pragmatism didn’t apply: Stella and Magda.

Unfortunately for Axel, the ex-employee who’d stolen Magda and pawned it off to Sentinel, my biggest fucking competitor, he hadn’t fallen into the exceptions category.

He’d thought the painting contained highly classified, and therefore highly lucrative, business secrets because that was what I told the few people I’d entrusted to guard it.

Little had they known the painting’s value stemmed from something far more personal and far less useful to them.

I’d dispatched of Axel, waited an appropriate length of time for Sentinel to relax, then fucked with their cyber system enough that it’d wiped millions off their value. Not enough to destroy them, since something of that magnitude could be traced back to me, but enough to send a message.

The idiots running Sentinel were so dense they tried to steal the painting back after they sold it because they thought they could use it as retaliation against me.

They hadn’t found any business secrets in Magda , but they knew it was important to me. They were on the right track; I’d give them that. But they should’ve hired someone other than a second-rate Ohio gang member to do the job.

Sentinel’s attempt to cover up their tracks was so shoddy it was almost insulting.

Now the painting was in Dante’s care, which served a double purpose: I didn’t have to look at it, and no one, not even Sentinel, would dare try and steal from him.

The last person who’d tried ended up in a three-month coma with two missing fingers, a mangled face, and crushed ribs.

Dante made an impatient noise, but he was smart enough not to press further.

“Fine, but I’m not keeping it forever. It’s ruining my reputation as a collector,” he grumbled.

“Everyone thinks it’s a rare piece of eighteenth-century art. You’re fine,” I said dryly.

In reality, the painting had existed for less than two decades.

It was amazing how easy it was to forge “priceless” art and documentation attesting to its authenticity.

“I’ll go blind from looking at that monstrosity every day.” Dante rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip. “Speaking of monstrosities, Madigan was officially booted from Valhalla this morning.”

The atmosphere shifted with the weight of the new topic.

“Good riddance.”

I had no love lost for the oil tycoon currently being sued by half a dozen ex-employees for sexual harassment and assault.

Madigan had always been a slimeball. This was just the first time he’d been held accountable.

The Valhalla Club prided itself on its exclusive, invite-only memberships for the world’s wealthiest and most powerful. A good number of those members, including myself, engaged in less than legal activities.

But even the club had its limits, and it certainly didn’t want to get dragged into the media circus surrounding Madigan’s trial.

I was only surprised they hadn’t exiled him earlier.

Dante and I discussed the trial and business for a while until he excused himself to take a call.

As the CEO of the Russo Group, a luxury goods conglomerate that encompassed over three dozen fashion, beauty, and lifestyle brands, he spent half his waking hours on business calls.

In the absence of conversation, my mind drifted toward a certain brunette.

If my thoughts were chaos, she was my anchor.

They always went back to her.

The memory of her walking down the snow-covered street, her hair tossed wild by the wind and her eyes shining like jade, lingered in my brain. The warmth of her, like a ray of sunshine peeking out after a storm, lingered everywhere else.

I shouldn’t have lowered her rent when she came to see the building, and I damn well shouldn’t have let her keep the rent after Jules moved out. In exchange for taking care of my fucking plants, no less, because a selfless concession on my part would’ve been too suspicious.

I didn’t give a shit about those plants. They were only there because my interior designer insisted they “rounded out the apartment.” But I knew Stella loved plants, and it was better than asking her to file my papers.

Living in the same building as her was the worst kind of distraction, and I had no one except myself to blame.

Twin flames of resentment and frustration burned in my chest. I was weak for Stella Alonso, and I hated it.

I pulled out my phone and almost tapped into a certain social media app before I caught myself. I entered the code for my encrypted mobile network instead.

It wasn’t as powerful as the one that resided on my laptop, but it got the job done in a pinch.

My frustration needed an outlet, and today, John Madigan was the lucky target. I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving.

I pulled up a list of his devices. Phones, computers, even his smart fridge and Bluetooth-enabled alarm clock, plus all their associated accounts.

It took me less than five minutes to find what I was looking for—a video he’d stupidly taken of himself forcing a blowjob on his assistant, and a series of disgusting messages he sent one of his golf buddies after the fact.

I forwarded those to the prosecution using the golf buddy’s email. If they were halfway decent at their job, they could convince the judge it was admissible evidence.

The messages also went to key media outlets, because why not?

Then, just because Madigan’s face annoyed me, I swapped his most valuable stocks for junk ones and donated a significant chunk of his cash to anti-sexual violence organizations.

Tension released from my muscles with each tap of a button.

Cyber sabotage was better than a deep tissue massage.

I pocketed my phone right as Dante reentered the library.

“I have to go back to New York.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, his face stamped with irritation. “There’s a…personal matter I need to deal with.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said mildly. “I’ll walk you out.”

I waited until he was halfway out the door before I added, “The personal matter wouldn’t happen to be Vivian’s ex-boyfriend showing up at your house, would it?”

Surprise coasted through his eyes, followed by fury. “What the fuck did you do, Harper?”

“I merely facilitated a reunion between your fiancée and an old friend.” One little text from “Vivian,” and the ex came running. Pathetic, yet useful. “Since you enjoyed fucking with me so much, I figured I’d return the favor. Oh, and Dante?” I paused with my hand on the knob. Dante’s anger was a pulsing force in the hall, but he’d get over it. He should’ve known better than to put on that little show in the lobby. “Touch Stella again, and you’ll no longer have a fiancée.”