“Mason!” he calls after me. His voice turns to white noise as the blood rushing in my ears gets louder and louder, drowning out all the bullshit.

The second I open his office door, he goes silent. He’ll never let anyone hear us fighting. Never. Secrets are always kept behind closed doors. It’s a family rule.

The door shuts with a loud thunk and as I walk down the empty hall, the thin carpeting muffles the sound of my black leather oxfords smacking against the ground at an incessant pace.

Miss Geist looks up from her spot at her desk. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she tilts her head and gives me that familiar smile she always has for me. It’s one that says: Oh, what have you done now?

Through the years, even after my mother’s death, Miss Theresa Geist has given me that look. She’s the only one who showed me any genuine regret and kindness when I had to deal with my mother’s passing. She’s a good person. I have no idea what she’s doing here working for a man like my father.

She clutches the small pendant on her thin silver necklace and her forbearing smile changes to something more reserved when I look back at her. It’s instantaneous and makes me halt in my steps. I know I must look pissed; I’m beyond furious. It’s been two days since my father told me what he’d done all those months ago and my anger hasn’t waned one bit. Deep down I think I knew what he’d done back then, even if he never admitted it until now. I wish he hadn’t. The whole situation makes me sick.

“He’s being a dick,” I mutter, waiting for the old lady to be a little more at ease. She doesn’t know a thing that goes on outside of the office and I don’t owe her an explanation, but I can’t help myself.

“Now, now,” she says with a bit of playfulness although I can tell she’s still shaken. She’s not used to seeing me like this. Not in the last decade, at least.

I give her a gentle smile and wink, putting on the act I use so well. Maybe I have a soft spot for her.

“Have a good night, Mr. Thatcher,” she tells me as she shuffles the papers on her desk, seeming somewhat less disturbed.

It’s enough that it settles me and I push open the double doors leading to the entrance with both hands and keep moving. The sound of my shoes pacing on the granite and the open air of the lobby filled with chatter soothe me.

But only for a moment.

It’s not until I leave the building that my true feelings surface. The mask fades, and fear sets in. I didn’t know what my father was capable of.

I had an inkling, but I thought I’d always imagined it. I’d thought my memories weren’t quite right. It’s not that I expected more from him; I just hate that I was right.

What’s done is done and I can’t stop what’s been set in motion.

Julia

Bloodred lips. The silver tube in my hand is labeled Black Honey, my favorite color. I’ve worn it since my freshman year of college and although I’ve experimented with other colors at times, it’s always been a staple in my beauty bag. Pressing my lips together, I smack them once as I examine myself in the mirror.

My complexion is flawless thanks to the full-coverage foundation I’m wearing. My lashes are thick and long, and I’ve got just a hint of blush. It’s a timeless look, classic and clean. And it hides everything. My reddened skin and the dark circles under my eyes are nowhere to be found.

I don’t look like the person I’ve become. This woman in the reflection, she’s who I used to be. A very large part of me wants this woman back. I want to smile like I used to and hear the sound of a genuine laugh from my own lips.

My heart pangs and stops that thought in its place.

He’ll never laugh again. It’s as if any small moment of time that passes where he’s forgotten for even a second is a disgrace. My eyes fall and I slip the cap back on the tube of lipstick, tossing it into the pouch on my vanity.

No matter what I do, every little thing reminds me of him.

Trivial things, like the color of the granite he insisted we purchase when we remodeled this place together. The knobs on the bathroom drawers he hated and never failed to complain about. The change he left in the cup holder in the Bentley. The pile of dimes and pennies that clink together when I drive over speed bumps or a pothole. The same small coins I refuse to touch. He put them there, and I can’t bring myself to move them.

Freaking pieces of metal render me useless.

It may seem pathetic, but not to me. From my perspective, I’m being as strong as I can. I face the New York City judgment every day, putting on a brave face and going about my life, my new normal.

All the while I shove everything I’m feeling deep down inside. That’s healthy, right?

I won’t let them see me crumble. There are those who want to. I could practically hear them licking their lips months ago when my world fell apart.

Julia Summers, born into wealth and raised on the Upper East Side. She always did everything by the book and married young to her high school sweetheart, Jace Anderson. With a loving family, a handsome and doting husband and the social life every young woman in Manhattan dreams of, Jules had a picture-perfect life. Until her husband suddenly passed away at the age of twenty-eight, leaving the twenty-seven-year-old woman widowed and alone for the first time in her life.

Twenty-eight now and numerous months since the tragic accident.

They’re waiting to see what I’ll do next. Pens to the papers and cameras ready. There’s nothing better for the gossipmongers. It’s to be expected. Being in Page Six is how I’ve made my life.

They’d love to see me fall and I have, but not in front of their eyes. I’ll keep my hair pinned up and my concealer on thick.

I know what they say, though. This town whispers, especially in the circles I run in. They don’t need to see the truth to figure it out themselves. There are rumors of leaning too heavily on alcohol for comfort. I don’t command enough loyalty for discretion; every member of my household staff has sold out to the tabloids looking for a hint of what goes on behind these walls. Living on the Upper East Side, every single person who struts in front of my home is looking for a crack in my veneer.

What’s ironic is that there’s no glamour here, nothing noteworthy. Just a woman who cries herself to sleep at least once a week still. A woman who’s struggling to move on because I’ve never been with anyone else. I suppose it’s what I get, though. I loved posing for the cameras and practically lived for regular mentions in the gossip columns. This is what I deserve. They wanted in my life and I let them. I can’t expect them to be shut out now.

Days have turned to weeks and weeks to months. Now that my husband’s been gone for nearly eight months, I have plenty of cracks in this so-called perfect life. I’m still shattered but I’m working on gluing little pieces back into place.

I glance at myself as I tug down my dress just slightly and smooth out the black lace. It’s time to face the music.

I clear my throat as I turn off the light and grab my phone, checking the text again.

Are you sure you don’t need me to pick you up?

Kat’s a sweetheart. She’s always looking out for me. Of all my friends, she’s the one who still texts me religiously, which is insane because she’s constantly working and I have no idea how she finds the time.