Chapter 2 - THE MAN BEHIND THE SECOND SCREEN
At 6:13 the following morning, my phone rang for the thirty-seventh time.
I knew because I'd counted.
The first twelve calls came from numbers I didn't recognize. The next nine came from reporters. The rest were split between coworkers, strangers, and Tyler.
My mother was sitting at our kitchen table when I finally emerged from my bedroom.
She had her reading glasses halfway down her nose and a bowl of oatmeal in front of her.
"Emily."
I stopped.
There was a particular way my mother said my name when she was disappointed.
It was the same voice she'd used when I was nine and tried to convince her that our neighbor's dog had eaten my homework.
"Before you start," I said, "I can explain."
She turned her phone around.
On the screen, Vincent DeLuca was kissing me.
Below it, a headline announced that a New York crime boss had found his Cinderella.
Mom raised one eyebrow.
"That's good, sweetheart. Because I've been waiting for an explanation since five-thirty."
I sat opposite her.
"Tyler humiliated me at work."
Her expression changed immediately.
"What did he do?"
I told her.
Every word.
The engagement announcement. The laughter. The way Vanessa had smiled while Tyler made me feel smaller than the napkin folded beside his champagne glass.
My mother listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she reached across the table and covered my hand.
"That boy was cruel when you dated him," she said. "I'm sorry he's still cruel now."
I looked down.
"Vincent kissed me."
"I noticed."
"Without asking."
"That part I noticed too."
I swallowed.
"He said he wanted to stop everyone laughing."
My mother was quiet for a moment.
"Did it help?"
"I don't know."
"Did you want him to kiss you?"
I stared at my oatmeal.
"I don't know that either."
She squeezed my hand.
"Then you have some thinking to do."
Before I could answer, my phone vibrated again.
This time it was my manager.
I answered.
"Emily, don't come in today."
My stomach dropped.
"Am I fired?"
"No. But there are reporters outside the restaurant. Somebody leaked your schedule."
"Who?"
"We're trying to find out."
I closed my eyes.
"I need my shifts, Richard."
"I know. We'll pay you for today."
He hesitated.
"There's something else. Tyler called."
My grip tightened.
"What did he want?"
"He demanded your employment information."
"Did you give it to him?"
"Of course not."
I exhaled.
Then Richard said something that made my blood run cold.
"He told me you'd regret embarrassing him."
Across Manhattan, in a penthouse overlooking the East River, a man named Sebastian Rourke watched the restaurant video for the eleventh time.
Sebastian was forty-four, handsome in a polished, expensive way, and chairman of Rourke Capital Partners.
He had spent twelve years trying to acquire the waterfront properties controlled by Vincent DeLuca.
Twelve years of rejected offers.
Failed partnerships.
And private humiliations.
Now, for the first time, he believed he had found a way to make Vincent vulnerable.
His assistant entered carrying coffee.
"Mr. Rourke, the background report is ready."
Sebastian accepted the folder.
Emily Carter.
Twenty-eight.
Waitress.
Former nursing student.
Mother with chronic medical expenses.
Financial difficulties.
Sebastian smiled.
"Perfect."
His assistant looked uncomfortable.
"Sir, she's a civilian."
"Everyone's a civilian until they become useful."
He turned another page.
There was a photograph of Tyler standing outside Bellini's.
Sebastian studied it.
"Find out what that idiot wants."
At ten-thirty, someone knocked on our apartment door.
I looked through the peephole.
A delivery man stood outside holding an enormous bouquet of white roses.
My mother appeared behind me.
"Well?"
I opened the door cautiously.
The delivery man handed me the flowers and a small envelope.
Inside was a card.
Emily,
I should have asked before kissing you. I'm sorry I didn't.
You don't owe me dinner, a conversation, or anything else.
If you'd like to talk, I'll be at Bellini's Thursday at seven.
—Vincent
I read it twice.
Mom leaned over my shoulder.
"That's an interesting apology."
I looked at the roses.
"He didn't even ask whether I liked flowers."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's inconvenient."
I laughed.
Then my phone lit up.
A message from an unknown number.
YOU THINK HE LOVES YOU? ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WOMAN WHO TRUSTED VINCENT DELUCA.
Attached was a photograph.
Vincent stood beside a beautiful dark-haired woman.
His arm was around her shoulders.
She was smiling.
Below the photograph were three words.
SHE ENDED UP DEAD.
May you like
My laughter disappeared.
And suddenly, the roses on our kitchen table looked less like romance than a warning.
