Betrayed (Dark Desires 2)

Fat chance, I thought, thinking of Jackson’s sneer after he’d tricked me into embarrassing myself at Mitchell’s party, years before. But to Mom, I said: “I’m sure. Okay, Mom. See you soon.”

After we hung up, I dragged my suitcase out of the terminal and onto the street. It was bitterly cold. I hadn’t expected much of a change from Alfred, but this was astonishingly brutal. Wind whipped across my face, stinging my eyes and making them tear up. My lips were so chapped they ached, and my fingers gripped numbly at the handles of my suitcase.

When I looked up, I saw a black Town Car parked right in front of me. There was a man standing in front, holding a sign that read: “Belle Harrington.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course, Jackson would do something like this – it was ostentatious, loud, and completely unnecessary…. just like him.

“Miss Harrington?” The driver stepped forward when he saw me glance over the car. “Is that you?”

I nodded. As he tried to grab my suitcase from my hands, I held tightly onto it.

“Miss, let me take your bag,” the man said. “Please.”

I glared at him. “I can manage on my own,” I sniffed. “I didn’t hire you, after all.”

The man’s expression soured, then darkened. “I see,” he said stiffly. “Very well.”

As I dragged my suitcase towards the backseat of the car, I felt a hot anger wash over me. I hated Jackson, for making a scene like this! It was like he’d known everything about his plan was going to make me supremely uncomfortable…and yet, he’d done it anyway.

Climbing into the back of the warm car was a relief. My boots were caked with snow and ice and my toes were still numb, but at least the exposed parts of me were beginning to warm up. The heat was blasting full-force from hidden vents all around the back of the car, and I shivered inside of my down jacket.

The driver didn’t speak to me again. He guided the car expertly through New York City traffic. As we drove past Central Park, I couldn’t help but look out over the wintery expanse and sigh. Just when I thought I was done with the city, there was always something magical that pulled me in when I least expected it.

I’d expected the car to take me somewhere, anywhere, to change. Instead, the driver parked in front of St. Paul’s Chapel. I gasped as I realized that Mitchell’s funeral was inside. The chapel was grander than any church I’d ever seen before, and I felt awkward as I lugged my suitcase away from the sleek car and through the front doors.

Mom was waiting for me, in a severe black dress that made her look twenty years older. Her eyes were still rimmed with red, but she looked a hell of a lot more composed than she had when I’d last seen her. She pulled me into an awkward hug. I didn’t want to release the grip on my suitcase, but Mom didn’t seem to notice I was carrying luggage and for a moment, we stood there uncomfortably with our arms wrapped around each other.

“Belle, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mom whispered into my neck. She was wearing so much perfume that it almost choked me. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know what to do without you.”

The sound of her voice stung me. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I told her. We pulled away but Mom kept a firm grip on my hands, clutching and squeezing my fingers painfully hard. “I know this is really hard for you.”

Mom nodded. “It is,” she said softly. “But I know you’ll help me through it, Belle.”

I swallowed nervously. “Am I late?”

Mom shook her head. She glanced around – there were tons of people, all clad in black, shuffling from one end of the vestibule to the other.

“Mitchell was so loved,” Mom said. A tear dripped down her cheek and she wiped it hastily away. “He was just such a wonderful man.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, feeling lame. As the sound of music began to play, Mom linked her arm with mine and we walked down the aisle of the church together. People were staring – for a moment, I thought it was because I was still carrying a suitcase – but Mom kept her head up and her chin lifted as she walked resolutely towards the front pews.

And that’s when I saw him.

Jackson Rhodes, my stepbrother.

He was seated at the front of the chapel, in a dark Calvin Klein suit. His blonde hair was a little longer than I remembered – he’d pushed it back from his forehead in a glossy pompadour – but his grey eyes were just as chilly. When he saw Mom, he smirked.

“Hello, Anne,” Jackson said in a slow drawl. “So pleased you could make it.”

Mom’s cheeks pinked but she didn’t say anything. Just as I was about to snarl something back at Jackson, Mom grabbed my elbow.

“Belle, behave yourself,” Mom hissed into my ear. “This is a place of God!”

Jackson kept his eyes glued to my body. “Hey, Sis,” he said smugly. “How’re you?”

I fought the urge to smack his smug, gorgeous face. “I’m fine,” I said curtly. “I’m sorry about your father, Jackson.”

For a moment, the icy look in Jackson’s eyes wavered. But seconds later, his cruel smirk was back on his face.