“I’m desperate for you now,” he groaned. “Go, before I make you touch yourself with me on the phone.”

With a reluctant sigh, I said goodbye and hung up, catching my face in the mirror as I did. The woman I saw was quite a contrast to the one who’d stood there only the day before. And there would only be one more day—maybe two—before Hudson would be home. I couldn’t wait to see the woman in the mirror then.

***

By late afternoon on Sunday, I was stir-crazy. Minutes passed like they were wading in molasses. Every time I looked at the clock, it seemed the time hadn’t changed at all. Normally in these situations, I could entertain myself with a movie or a book. But I was too anxious, too ready for Hudson to be home. His texts and calls had occupied the days before, but he’d texted while I was sleeping that he would be in meetings the entire day and unreachable.

I’d already put a run in on the treadmill, and though I considered doing some window shopping, it was Reynold on duty and he was not my favorite companion. At five, I was already completely ready for David’s going away party—two hours early—and couldn’t think of a single thing to distract me from my boredom.

I decided to f**k it.

Grabbing my laptop bag, I set the alarm to away and slipped down to the lobby. I knew a text went out to my bodyguards when I set the alarm to home, but I wasn’t sure if it did anything when I left. I stood outside The Bowery for several minutes, waiting to see if Reynold would show up or message me. He didn’t. I scanned my surroundings. Seeing no pesky blondes lurking in the area, I set off for the French bakery on the corner of the block.

Being out on my own felt absolutely amazeballs. It wasn’t that I minded having Jordan and Reynold in tow; it was simply such a pain to arrange outings that spontaneity had lost its place in my routine. The whole need to be protected was Hudson’s idea, anyway. Celia didn’t scare me.

Okay, she scared me, but there was no reason why she should. What the hell could she do to me anyway?

The bakery had very few customers when I arrived. Though I would have liked to sit at one of the outdoor tables, I took my iced tea and a pesto panini and settled in a seat near the side door. If I wasn’t going to have my bodyguard, then I should at least take some additional precautions. Sitting inside was my version of precaution.

After finishing my food, I set up my computer and opened up my email. There were a few items regarding the club, a random e-card from my brother, and an unread message from Stacy. Ignoring everything else, I opened Stacy’s email and scanned it.

I’m still not sure who wrote the emails. Maybe if you looked at one, it would help. Here’s one of the longer ones.

Below her short note was a forwarded message from the H.Pierce email she’d told me about. Other women might have decided that reading the message wasn’t necessary when Hudson was planning a tell-all.

I have never been other women. I read eagerly.

Before finishing the first paragraph, I was convinced the message wasn’t from Hudson. It was too poetic, too flowery. Hudson avoided analogies and figurative language. Even when he was romantic—something he swore he never was—his phrasing was direct and to-the-point.

This letter was composed of everything Hudson wasn’t. There were references to nature and popular music and relatives. The author spoke of his mother as the rock of the family and his father as a compassionate patriarch. Definitely not the Pierces I knew.

It was a section midway through the letter that confirmed without a doubt that the email was not written by Hudson. The paragraph read:

I’ve studied and learned about the world from books and tour packages arranged by and for the discontented rich, but I’d prefer to one day leave all my life and responsibility behind and travel the earth by whim. Right now, I can say that I love Paris and Vienna, but what do I truly know of these cities when I haven’t lived in them, participated in their culture? Words without experience are meaningless.

I read the last line again. “Words without experience are meaningless.” It was a quote from Lolita. There were other lines that seemed familiar, certainly more quips from other literary classics. Hudson Pierce did not read the classics. His library had no books before I’d moved in. Celia, on the other hand…

A flash of movement out the window drew my attention.

I peered out to find that a couple sitting on the other side of the glass was leaving. What kept my focus was the woman at the table behind them.

Goddamn, speak of the devil.

As my eye caught hers, Celia smiled—the same old bitchy smile she always delivered.

I chewed on my lip, deciding what to do. I could continue sitting in the bakery and text Reynold for a ride. Or I could leave and see if she’d follow.

Or I could talk to her.

There wasn’t anything I burned to say to the woman. I knew that any request I made to be left alone would only result in more harassment. And asking her reasons for her actions wouldn’t get me anywhere. Anything she said to me couldn’t be trusted, so what was the point in conversation?

The point was that I was curious. Curious what she’d try to convince me of, what her body language would say.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I threw my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my computer and walked out to the patio.

To her credit, Celia didn’t blink when I sat across from her.

“By all means, Laynie, sit,” she said, her tone pleasant and condescending and a little bit eager, as though she was looking forward to a confrontation. She probably was.

Without any preamble, I turned my laptop to face her and pointed to the email still on the screen. “This is you, isn’t it?”

She scanned a few lines, recognition flashing in her eyes. “I don’t know for the life of me what you’re talking about, Laynie.”

She liked to say my name a lot—it was a trick I’d learned in grad school. When said in the right tone, it made a person feel patronized. She certainly knew the tools of basic manipulation.

But so did I. “That email, Celia. You’re the one who sent it to Stacy. I recognize your choice of literary quotes.”

“Why, that’s crazy.” Her inflection was exaggerated. “This says it’s from Hudson. Did you hack into his email? I hear that’s typical of women with your condition. In fact, Laynie, should you really be sitting with me? I could still file that restraining order.”

I tilted my head, studying her. She wanted me to threaten a restraining order of my own. But we were playing this conversation on my terms. “What I don’t understand is how you got Hudson to go along.”