"Do you think they know? That they are telling the truth?"
Sabrina’s voice was low, rough around the edges, already bruised by everything she had heard about an hour ago. It hurt to hear from Zane’s mouth, pop and clear, that she had been sacked. On air. To the whole world.
She had always known. Always. From the mont that email landed in her inbox, she had seen it for what it was—a re formality, a polite way of telling her she would never return to Whitman Jewelries.
Still, hearing Zane say it out loud, calmly, publicly, stripped away every illusion she had clung to.
How had she gone from a respected designer—praised, envied, sought after—to this laughed-at, mocked-at fellow?
Her fingers curled into the fabric of the bedspread as the thought burned. Gianna. Of course.
Where Gianna should have been jobless after stupid Dane sold his company, she had instead taken Sabrina’s place in the industry. Taken her seat. Taken her spotlight.
And with Zane even endorsing her and her designs on air, that was another blow, a sharp twist of the knife Sabrina was already bleeding from.
Was it so misguided sense of guilt? So shred of misplaced emotion acting up on Zane’s side?
If so, then Sabrina realized—too late—that she had shot herself in the foot.
No, worse. She had blown the whole thing apart. She had worsened everything for herself. She had followed the line drawn by rage, followed it blindly, and now it was dragging her deeper into despair.
Why was every plan she made to deal with Gianna failing? Why did everything backfire?
Now there was a possibility—terrifying and unavoidable—that they knew it was her.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
What would happen then? Would they hand her over to the police? Would the Thornes crush her without rcy?
She shuddered, the fear crawling under her skin as she thought about them, about their reach, about how rciless they were rumored to be.
What had she done?
Her breathing turned shallow. Her father had to do sothing. He had to help her. He had to fix this.
anwhile, Josephine watched her daughter spiral silently, saw the way her eyes darted and her shoulders trembled, and felt a painful mix of pity and anger settle in her chest.
How did every plan co to naught? And why did everything Sabrina touched collapse, dragging the entire family down with her?
"I don’t know, Sabrina," Josephine finally said. Her voice was tired, stripped of warmth. "Ti will tell."
Sabrina stared at her mother with narrowed eyes. She noticed it instantly—her mother had called her by her full na. "You are angry with too?"
Josephine looked at Sabrina’s purple-colored face, the ugly bloom of Clent’s violence still fresh, and didn’t have the heart to say the truth.
She couldn’t bring herself to continue blaming her already broken daughter.
"No," she said softly, though it wasn’t entirely true. "I just wish things had gone differently. Especially with the company."
Her breath hitched. "Your father is about to lose it. We have millions to pay—to both Gianna and Zane’s company. It’s safe to say we will be poor by month’s end."
Josephine sighed and pushed herself to her feet, the weight of reality pressing down on her shoulders. Was there truly no way to get even a shred of satisfaction?
No way to see Gianna dead? Sothing to make the impending ruin easier to bear?
But that, too, was impossible. According to her husband, Gianna now moved with security.
And whoever he had contacted for dirty jobs was backing away from the ss, one by one. So, technically, they were alone.
"Sabrina..." Josephine said at last, her gaze sweeping the beautiful room—the furniture, the décor, the luxury that would soon be stripped bare. "Take a catalogue of things you would sell."
She hesitated, licking her lower lip. "Your father won’t be pleased if he cos to retrieve things and they are not ready."
Without waiting to see how Sabrina took the news, she turned and left the room, heading toward her own.
She paused in the hallway when she spotted her husband, well dressed, struggling with his tie. A soft snort escaped her.
She crossed the distance between them and lifted her hands automatically, fingers going to work on the knot.
"More than two decades," she murmured, "and yet you still can’t deal with a tie."
But Clent wasn’t in the mood for jokes—or intimacy, especially not from her.
He shrugged her off, or tried to, then stopped himself. With a frustrated sigh, he pulled her back, resigned to the fact that only she could knot it the way he liked.
"Sorry," he muttered. "My head is in a lot of places."
Josephine ignored the apology and focused on the multicolored striped tie. "Where are you heading off to?"
"To see him. Only he can help us now. Maybe he can change Noah’s mind." His jaw tightened. "And I heard the shareholders are having a eting tomorrow."
His teeth gnashed audibly. "Can you imagine they did that without letting know?"
Josephine could imagine it very well. She said nothing. Silence was what he wanted.
"Those brats!" Clent snapped. "I’ll deal with them soon. Let just—" He stopped when he saw she was done, tapped her shoulders lightly, chanically, then turned and stalked toward his room.
Josephine watched him leave, her mind drifting back to their younger days, when they had been in love—or when she had believed they were.
What had gone wrong? What had poisoned everything?
She pushed the thought away. There were goods to catalogue.
anwhile, back in the room she had just left, Sabrina still sat on the bed, staring at nothing. Thinking of what to do. Thinking of where to go.
Noah had been right to suggest that she leave the country. The realization made her lips purse in reluctant agreent.
She picked up her phone and dialed the man she had sent the videos to, desperate to silence the train of thought making her sick.
The phone rang. And rang. No answer.
She tried again. And again. By the fifth attempt, frustration boiled over.
Finally, he picked up.
Before she could speak though, his voice cut through the line. "Don’t call this number again."
Then he called her a slut.
The line went dead. No explanations. Nothing.
Sabrina’s irritation—her anger at being dismissed like nothing—collapsed into pure, paralyzing fear a second later.
The blogger was angry because he had been uncovered. The realization hit hard. She swallowed. He must have talked. He must have said sothing.
But she had hidden her tracks. He didn’t know who she was. She had used a voice-changing app. For the docunts, she had contacted him through her second social account—the one she used to troll people.
Could she really be traced?
Her heart pounded as she clung to the hope of a positive outco, because her mind—and her heart—could not survive the alternative.
—
Mason watched his phone ring incessantly, then watched it fall silent.
He made no move to answer Es’s call. He already knew why she was calling. Noah had taken Gianna.
He had watched the news, the interview he considered la.
Still, he wouldn’t be deterred.
Mason’s jaw hardened with determination. Hadn’t Noah touched what was his before—knowing full well that it was his?
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