In Cordelia's marriage, she is the other woman. First, it was to the memory of her sister, Angelica, the woman who should have been his bride. And now, she is still only second best, cast aside for any pretty face that reminds him of his lost love. After five years of marriage, and one night of passion that turned into heartbreak, she gains the strength to start over on her own. But there are things about her marriage that she never knew. Strange things are happening all around her and it turns out that she has bigger skeletons in her closet than the ones she put there herself. What really happened to Angelica? And what will she do, once she learns the truth? ________ The first time our eyes met my heart stopped. “Hello,” I smiled in his direction, “My name is Cordelia Grayson.” His returning smile was hesitant, uncertain, and small. “Atlas Steele.” He was beautiful with his golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I could tell he was a little too old for me, but I have always been attracted to older boys. His age didn't discourage me, if anything I think it made him even more dashing. And from that moment on my heart was his. Utterly and completely. Unfortunately it was not my heart that he wanted to hold. When he raised his gaze to mine a second time, his eyes skipped over my face to focus on someone standing behind me. I turned to look. It was my sister. He asked me if I knew her. I could tell he was more interested in her than he was in me, and even though it hurt to do it, I nodded in confirmation. “That's my sister, Angelica.” “Angelica,” he said her name slowly, savoring each syllable.
View More[Sydney}When I saw Atlas’ brother carrying Cordelia into the hallway like a fallen princess, I couldn’t help but react. And then I had to cover up my shock with another excuse. I may have overdone it because now I am stuck in the sick room lying down on a cot with a heart monitor on my chest. They think I had a real panic attack.In truth, I almost did. For the amount of money I paid for those delivery men, you’d think they’d get the timing right! Because they jumped the gun, trying to snatch her too early, there wasn’t enough distraction for them to successfully carry out the plan.Bad things always happen when you don’t stick to the plan.Pushing the buttons on my phone hard enough to bruise my fingers, I text them back
[Cordelia]I bite down on the attacker’s hand but their fingers are protected by thick, leather gloves. There is nobody else around as they drag me towards the parking lot. Everyone is still inside making last-minute deals. Arching my back, I try to slam my head into his face, but he is too quick, too professional. He dodges every blow. I shift the weight in my body downward like I was taught to do in self-defense classes. It slows him for a moment, but not nearly long enough for anyone to see me being dragged towards a large, unmarked, white, van. “No!” I try to shout but my cries are muffled.As the van door opens behind us and another man, this one wearing a mask hiding all of his features, grabs my feet, I realize this might be my last memory. Because wherever these men are taking me, I do not think they are going to let me leave alive. I stop fighting. There is no point. These men are going to kidnap me and there is nothing I can do to stop them. The sound of air moving quic
[Cordelia]The rest of my morning went by in a flurry of signed purchase orders and special requests. There wasn’t enough time for me to think about Atlas or anything else. By the end of the afternoon, I had secured over one million dollars in orders and there are still another three hours of the market to go. Buyers and other investors are still swarming around booths, looking for collections to add to their stores, all of them buzzing about the next big event–the Best of Market Fashion Show. “Hey, Cordy!” Clark’s micro drone hovers next to his left ear like an electronic assistant, recording our conversation like an interview. “Did you hear the news?”Tilly and I look at each other. “The list for the Best of Market Show was just released,” he pulls out a copy of the list and begins reading off the names. A few popular designers are listed, no surprise there, including Mathilda Madison.”...And,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “Cordelia Louise D
[Sydney]“There was no reason to say those things, Sydney. I thought you were better than that,” Atlas snapped. “Not to mention none of it was true.”“But, Sir, I was just…” I try to explain myself but he puts a hand in front of my face, interrupting me and leaving no room for argument.“I know that sometimes you make mistakes,” he shakes his head, his eyes disappointed as he scolds me, “but that was just cruel. You know we are not in a relationship anymore, Sydney.”“I never said we were,” I try to give him my most vulnerable pout.He looks away, missing it entirely as his eyes trail the path of his ex-wife’s retreat. “You
[Cordelia]Clark knocked on the door of our studio the next morning, a tray of coffee in his right hand, a bag of donuts in his left, and a huge, goofy smileacross his face. “Good Morning, Cordy,” he chirps. “Ready to start your day?” Apparently, he is one of those annoying morning people. “Why are you here?” I groan, ignoring his laughter as he follows me inside. Tilly, another annoying morning person, gladly takes a coffee from him and puts him right to work helping us load our two fashion collections into the bac
[Atlas]Sydney is in a very good mood for having to stay late on a Friday night. She never complains when I ask her to come early and stay late, making her a great assistant and employee.Which makes what I have to say to her so much more difficult. I no longer feel comfortable pretending to be okay with our relationship. She is too young, too inexperienced, and in a position that is of significantly lower status than my own. I know that plenty of bosses have relationships with their assistants, but I never saw myself as one of those men. And yet here I am, reliving my college days, dating co-eds and hanging out at beach bonfires with kids who call each other “bro”. I am so wrapped up in my thoughts that it is only on the third time that states her question that I actually hear her request. “Atlas, do you want me to book you a room at the convention?” “Didn’t we discuss this before?” We have been planning my attendance at the upcoming LA Fashion Expo for the last week. “I though
[Cordelia] Tilly’s face is flushed with fear. She is worried about me. Her anger and frustration come from a place of love and concern. Shivering, I take a look over my shoulder at Jude’s place. “Can we go get lunch out today? I'd feel safer if we went somewhere else.” We take her car, and as soon as the apartment disappears in the rearview mirror, I begin to tell her everything. Tilly listens quietly, occasionally nodding to let me know she is still listening. Eventually, she surmises that she doubts he is up to anything “nefarious” although she understands why I might be concerned. “Babies, Tilly! He had babies floating in jars. How do you explain…?” I wave my hands up and down in frustration. “He’s an experimental scientist, right, working on cutting-edge medicine. I bet there is a reasonable explanation for all of it,” seeing my fear and uncertainty she then adds, ”I’m just saying that we should give Dr. Smexy a chance to clear his name before you condemn him.” Crossing m
[Cordelia] Pulling open the wall carefully, I peek inside. Sensing my motion, overhead lights flicker to life, revealing a staircase leading down. Maybe his bathroom is downstairs? Making my way down carefully, I do not pay attention to the sound of the door sliding closed behind me, nor the tell-tell sound of the lock latching nor did I notice the jars lining the walls on shelves until the tangy smell of antiseptic mixed with formaldehyde hits my nose. Thankfully I also see a large, covered garbage can. Spilling the contents of my stomach into the receptacle, I feel better, but also worse at the same time. Where the heck am I? This is not the bathroom. I am standing next to a cold, metal table. It is covered with the paper that doctors use in examination rooms but lacks any of the basic comforts one usually finds when in such places. Leather straps are hanging from the sides of the bed, to hold a patient in place, and troughs lining each end for drainage. It looks like
[Cordelia] I’ve been stuck on the phone with my mother for the last hour listening to her unending rant about her “situation. She is speaking so rapidly and with so much force I haven’t had a chance to say more than two words. I am exhausted from the day before, sore from the accident and my experiences in jail, and listening to her jabber is taking the last bit of energy I have remaining. “...And now our lawyer is saying there is no way out of this without at least one of us going to prison!” She starts to moan and weep. I pull the phone away from my ear. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, but it looks like you might have to spend some time in jail.” I startle at her implication. She doesn’t know what I know, so I try to feel gracious as she explains how she’ll let me take the fall for everything in order to save the company. She then spends the next ten minutes wailing about our family’s misfortune–one daughter missing and the other daughter in prison. I am glad she cannot see me roll my e
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