I sank further into the loveseat, wishing the swans on the fabric would come alive and fly me away from there. I missed the sanctuary of the Weaver quarters. After the awful injection, Jethro had left me to reacquaint myself with the space. I’d showered and tried not to cry over my gullible heart or naïve hopes smashing to dust in the face of Jethro's new behaviour.
I’d dressed in a blood-red A-line skirt that I’d made while here previously and shrugged into a slouchy jumper with a rose hand-stitched on the front. I hadn’t bothered with makeup or my hair. The damp strands hung down my back adding to the chill in my soul that I doubted would ever thaw.
Sitting beside Jethro in his immaculate attire, I truly did feel sick. Dying cell by cell until I would be nothing but a corpse.
“Sounds like an awful predicament to love a man your family doesn’t approve of, Ms. Weaver,” George prompted.
This is it then.
The interview had officially begun.
Placing my hands in my lap, I struggled to think up an approved reply. When Cut came to collect me for the reporters, he’d given me strict instructions:
“Act heartbroken but happy. Paint your family as the bad guys and us as the victims. Make the Hawks shine, Ms. Weaver, or else.”
I’m so sorry, Vaughn.
After everything he’d done to save me, I was about to undo it all with a few awful sentences.
Jethro suddenly wrapped an arm around my shoulders, crushing me into his body. His lips landed on my ear in a whisper-kiss. “Play the damn role. It’s not hard.”
Pulling away, his eyes burned into mine. You wanted to come back. You invited me to take you. Now you have to play along if you want to survive.
Looking away, I answered George’s question. “It is hard. I love my father and brother so much, but when I met Jethro…I just knew. He was it for me, and no matter what they say or do, I can’t change something that’s written by fate.”
My voice hovered in the room, quiet, unsure, but resonating in just the right frequency to melt George and Sylvie. Their postures changed, their interest flared, and Jethro relaxed a smidgen. “Good girl,” he murmured into my hair.
I shivered as his breath warmed my nape. I wanted my words to be real. I wanted it so much.
Then make it real.
Just because Jethro was damaged again, didn’t mean I couldn’t win him back.
Where was my strength? My conviction? I’d come back not to wallow in misery but to end this.
Power shot into my blood; I sat straighter. Pinching my cheeks, I willed colour to paint my skin and dispel any sign of weakness. “True love is a curse, don’t you think?” I smiled for the first time, shoving aside my worries and throwing myself into this new challenge.
You want me to play my part, Jethro Hawk?
Fine.
I would play it so well, I would have the press eating out of my hand—not the Hawks’.
“I agree. Falling in love can be the most dangerous thing anyone can do.” Sylvie smiled.
Stealing Jethro’s hand, I looped my fingers with his and brought his large palm to my lips. I kissed him. I breathed in his scent of leather and money. I grew strong again.
He didn’t move. Didn’t inhale or twitch.
It doesn’t matter.
I’ll get him back.
“So your brother felt so strongly that the Hawk family wasn’t good enough for you, he spread vile rumours of debts and deaths…all to break you up?” George asked, his eyes gleaming.
Jethro faded into the background.
Please forgive me, Vaughn.
“Yes. V and I were very close growing up. I would tell him everything. But then I met Jethro, and I didn’t want to share my secret. I kept our affair hidden. I suppose that was a betrayal in my brother’s eyes. He felt like he lost me. And took it out on my love.”
Jethro smiled like the doting partner. “I will admit, it’s been hard.”
“I can imagine.” George grinned. Conferring to his notes, he perched higher. “How about, before we discuss other topics, we clear the confusion about those rumours. Would you mind?”
Jethro answered before I could. “By all means. We have nothing to hide.” His lips stretched over his teeth in a cool smile. “It would be beneficial to clear the air on the disgusting rumours Vaughn Weaver spread.”
My shoulders rolled at my twin’s name. I should’ve listened to him—not about running away, but arming myself with weapons and fighting the Hawks with violence rather than my idiotic idea of getting pregnant.
That’s over anyway.
I didn’t know how long the contraceptive would work, but I remembered a staff member having the injection and saying it lasted anywhere from three to six months.
I won’t be alive in six months.
Sylvie pulled an Elle magazine from her satchel beside her. Passing it to me, she asked, “Have you seen this particular article?”
I leaned forward, taking the glossy weight and forcing myself to remain detached as I stared at the cover. The model pouted for the camera, eerily close to my dusky colouring and black eyes. However, where I had long hair, hers was cut short—a sleek bob revealing the full impact of the heavy stones around her neck. The intricate design of the choker was missing the barely noticeable W’s hidden in the rows of diamonds, and the filigree work around the stones was ordinary compared to the workmanship in mine. Plus, my diamonds were bigger.
I smiled smugly, stroking my collar as if it no longer heralded my death sentence but linked me to a man who belonged to me.
“No, I haven’t seen it.”
“Would you mind if you read some of it aloud, Ms. Weaver? Elaborate on a few key points?” George pointed at a Post-it note sticking from the pages. “I’ve bookmarked it for you.”
Flipping the magazine open, I gasped as the same model from the front smouldered in a centrefold. She wore a dress very similar to the feathered couture I paraded at the Milan show.
The title blazed in diamonds:
‘The Truth Behind the Weavers as told by Daphne Simons, Employee at Weaver Enterprises.’
“Do you know that employee?” Sylvie asked.
I looked up, shaking my head. “No. We hire too many people to know them all.”
The room turned silent as I skimmed the ridiculous article.
Nila Weaver, the daughter of the conglomerate company Weaver Enterprises has recently been spotted back in London after a stint outside the limelight. Gossip has spread over the past few weeks that her family are victims of an age-old dispute that defies all logic and rationality. A world where promises are kept and oaths are never broken. Her brother, Vaughn Weaver, recently broke his silence when his efforts to have his sister returned went unheeded.
Turning the tables on the leaked photographs depicting Ms. Weaver with a young man unknown at the time, and the rumour that she’d had a mental breakdown and run off with her mystery lover, the world was shocked to discover the man in the photographs wasn’t her lover, but her kidnapper.
How could they print such heresy?
Upon Nila Weaver’s return to London High Society, she’s been repeatedly asked to tell her story, but has remained silent on the matter. However, here at Elle, we have an exclusive interview with one of her employees.
Elle: Thank you for meeting with us, Daphne. Care to tell us what you know?
Daphne: Well, all I know is she returned to work last month. She’s always been rather quiet. Too work focused and always stumbling into things. But now, she’s even worse.
Elle: You mentioned she seems different? Can you elaborate?
Daphne: It’s common knowledge about the collar. She never takes it off. She’s constantly touching it. The staff room is a buzz with conspiracies that she suffers that problem when a captive falls for her kidnapper…you know what I mean?
Elle: You’re saying she’s in love with the man who collared her?
Daphne: Yep. For sure. My theory is the debt stuff is just a cover up. I reckon she’s into that freaky business…you know like S&M? Not to mention the diamond collar is an obvious ode to belonging to a master when in those types of relationships. She’s changed.
Elle: How do you mean?
Daphne: Well… she used to be sweet, shy. It’s a family company, so we see the Weavers interact a lot. But now she’s shut down around her brother. Her love for the industry has gone.
Elle: And you believe this is due to a Sadomasochistic relationship?
Daphne: I believe she’s changed too much to fit in anymore. Mark my words. She won’t be in London long.
And there you have it; our very own textile heiress has returned bearing a collar, bruises, and a history of intolerable cruelty. I suppose we won’t get answers or know the full story until justice has been served.
“So, tell us,” George said. “Is any of that true? Are you in an S&M relationship?”
Jethro sat taller, chuckling under his breath. “You honestly expect us to answer questions about our sex life?”
Sylvie laughed. “Sorry if it sounds like we’re prying, but our readers love to know that stuff.”
Stroking my collar, I smiled coyly. “All your readers need to know is Jethro completes me both in and out of the bedroom.”