RIAN
Pierce is the picture of sexy sweetness sprawled out on the mattress, pale-blue sheets hanging precariously low on his hips. He’s out cold. Which makes sense since it’s eight in the morning and he’s been asleep for less than five hours.
I should close my eyes and try for a few more hours of rest, because I’m grossly underslept these days, but my brain is already on sprint mode, reviewing last night, the conversations, the sex, the everything. I shouldn’t have said anything about the Mission Mansion. But I’m tired of hiding. Obviously I’m scared that he’ll walk like everyone else has in the past, but if that’s the inevitable end, it’s better it happens now than later when my heart is totally locked up in him.
I glance around his bedroom. It was dark when we arrived last night after dinner and my focus was on Pierce. The mattress I’m lying on is cloudlike, and the bed frame is solid cherry. The sheets are satin soft, the pillows definitely feather. This bedroom screams money. Lots of money.
I throw off the covers and carefully leave the bed without disturbing Pierce. Nabbing Pierce’s shirt from the floor, I pull it over my head. I need to use the bathroom, but I don’t want to risk waking Pierce, so I slip out the door and wander down the hall. The floors are dark hardwood. Possibly Brazilian cherry. I find a second bedroom two doors down, smaller than the master, but at least three times the size of my own.
I use the private bathroom before I continue my self-guided tour.
The morning sun almost blinds me when I enter the living room, the wall of windows showcase a gorgeous skyline. The décor is a fusion of modern minimalist and antique rustic. It’s very Pierce. I run my hand along the back of the vintage leather couch—at least it looks vintage, but based on the buttery smoothness of the leather it can’t be very old, and like everything else in here, it’s expensive. I need to look up this building. My purse is where I dropped it when we arrived last night, by the dedicated elevator to his penthouse.
That’s right. A dedicated elevator. That small detail tells me all I need to know about how much it costs to live up here. I root around in my purse and find my phone. I log into my account on the listing site and punch in the address for the building. Only two condo units are currently available for sale. They aren’t corner penthouses and they’re listed at two million dollars each. “Good God,” I mutter, flipping through the pictures. Based on square footage and location, this has to be at least twice the cost.
I rub my forehead, my stomach knotting. A patent lawyer salary can’t afford this penthouse. I mean, I’m sure he makes excellent money as a patent lawyer, and the rental properties are probably helpful, but this doesn’t quite jibe.
I continue my exploration of Pierce’s penthouse. I stumble across his office, which is a grand, gorgeous space, one wall lined with ornate, hardwood shelves filled with legal books. On each shelf is a wooden sculpture of some kind, and I have to wonder if they’re Pierce’s creations. His office desk faces the wall of windows. I cross over to the executive chair and drop into it. This is where lawyer Pierce must sit and do lawyery things.
I picture him dressed as he was when he approached me in the grocery store. Tom Ford suit hugging his sculpted body. Tie begging to be yanked. I run my fingers along the edge of the desk. I bet it would be fun to play lawyer with him in here. He could wear his suit; I could be his naked desk ornament.
I sigh and swivel in the chair. There are several folders stacked to the right, all labeled with his neat printing. A few pictures line the shelves to the left—of him and his family based on Amalie and Lawson’s presence, and there are a couple that seem to include his brother-in-law-to-be.
On his desk is a copy of The Moorehead Review, a magazine dedicated to the upper crust and their financial dealings. It’s not the most reputable news source, but there are some interesting, although biased, articles in there on occasion. I flip to one about real estate in the Hamptons.
It seems to be about a huge hotel mogul coming in and buying up properties, particularly in Hamptons Bay. I turn the page and my stomach drops as I scan the image and then the article. One page is taken up by a glossy color image of a very familiar face. A very attractive familiar face. I scan the byline and a name pops out. Lexington Mills. Lex. The MMA fighter-superhero who’s engaged to Pierce’s sister stares back at me with his shockingly blue eyes and wide, almost smirky smile. He’s ridiculously attractive, even in a two-dimensional magazine photo.
He’s leaning against a desk and beside him is a man who must be his father. To his left are two other equally attractive men. The Mills family. Mills Hotels. They’re massive. Like the biggest. They were who my father wanted to be. The competition he could never catch. The same competition who brought him down. Because he scammed them along with everyone else, Marley and I included. And I’d unknowingly helped him do it.
I read on, devouring the article, snagging on a line about the Mission Mansion. There’s no reference to the shady dealings of my father, but there is a mention of the prime location of the rundown mansion, its sadly vacant state, and its buyer appeal. I flip back to the beginning and read it all over again. There’s conjecture that the Mills family would like to put up a hotel in the Hamptons. While this would ultimately drive up the housing prices, there are drawbacks with that plan. Excessive tourism, overcrowded beaches. And a huge gaudy hotel would ruin the landscape.
A sick feeling crawls up my throat. How long ago did I tell him about the Mission Mansion? It’s been weeks since I mentioned my summers spent there, and last night I finally came clean about my real connection to it. Pierce had more than one opportunity to mention this, especially knowing how important it is to me.
Is this what they’ve been planning the entire time? To buy up all the property around the Mission Mansion, put enough time and money into renovations to increase property value, and then sell it off to the Millses so they can build a huge hotel?
I want to believe it’s too elaborate a ruse, but at the same time, there are so many red flags flapping in the breeze. And this is exactly the kind of thing my father would’ve done to get what he wanted.
My stomach churns with the myriad possibilities, none of which are good. Pierce is far too close to the people in this scenario to be in the dark, and I’ve been so wrapped up in him and the Paulson renovation that I haven’t been staying on top of much else. I don’t know what to do, what to believe. I need to talk to Marley. My head has already gone to the worst places. I need perspective and I need out of here, before Pierce wakes up and this entire thing collapses. I don’t want to accuse him of something that isn’t true, but I also can’t ignore this feeling of doubt that’s twisting up my stomach.
I tiptoe back to his bedroom. He’s hugging my pillow, his spectacular bare backside on display. I quickly and quietly gather my clothes from the floor and dress in the spare bathroom. I pull my hair in a ponytail and fix my makeup as best as I can before I head for the elevator.
I call for an Uber on my way to street level, relieved when it arrives not two minutes later. I consider calling Marley on the trip to the train station, but I don’t think it’s the best plan. I need to be in front of a computer when I have this conversation with her, so I can figure out what the heck is going on and how Pierce is involved in this.
I bite my fingernails, tears pricking my eyes. He seemed so genuine last night. Things felt different, like maybe he’s serious about me being his girlfriend, and not temporarily. Or maybe it was a ploy to get me out of the Hamptons and keep me distracted, from what, I’m unsure. The train ride from Manhattan to the Hamptons seems to last forever. My phone is at 30 percent and draining fast. I didn’t bring a charger so I have limited battery life with which to search Pierce Whitfield.
I don’t know why I haven’t bothered to do this before now. Or maybe I do know. I liked getting to know him without dissecting a dating profile. And I don’t want him to search me. Although, to be fair, Sutter isn’t my last name by birth, and Marley and I have done everything we possibly can to separate ourselves from our father’s infamy. But sometimes things slip through. An old article, pictures, things that could easily lead back to us if we still lived in Long Island instead of the Hamptons.
The first Pierce Whitfield link takes me to his law firm. Halfway down the page are several Facebook profiles for various Pierce Whitfields—who knew it was such a popular name—but after that there are endless articles connecting him to a line of popular children’s dolls. I consider typing in Whitfield family net worth, but I don’t want to know that yet.
I’ll come back to that. When I’m ready. Next I search Mills Hotel and Mills Family. The name is actually rather common, but the familiarity lies with my father’s disdain for them, because they always had what he never could, and eventually they took it all by uncovering his endless scams and lies.
I pull up article after article on their family dynasty. They’re worth an insane amount of money. The kind of money that could buy up an entire strip of homes in the Hamptons without even blinking. Hundreds of millions of dollars.
I think for a moment about Amalie, Pierce’s sister, and how normal she seems to be considering she’s marrying into what is likely one of the richest families in New York. But then, her family has money too. I’d be surprised if the Millses don’t have their own private jet.
I flip back to the Whitfield family who hold the patent for Amalie Dolls. And dear God, they have an app. It’s crazypants. I click on a link that takes me to a website with endless varieties of those creepy dolls with the blinky eyes that are more often than not the demonic, possessed stars of horror movies.
I’ve seen those dolls in stores. They’re a huge deal during every holiday. Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas; there’s a new doll with a new outfit and new app add-ons. It’s no wonder Pierce can afford to buy a three-quarter-of-a-million-dollar house with cash.
It’s ten thirty when I arrive home, and it’s a Monday, which is typically a slow day in real estate, so I don’t expect Marley to be awake, particularly since she went out last night with friends. It’s possible she has company. I hope not.
I pull up the article I read in The Moorehead Review on my laptop and send a text to my sister before I knock on her door. Then I send another one three minutes later because she still hasn’t answered. “Mar? Are you awake?”
I get a grunt in response.
“Are you alone?”
It takes several long seconds before I get a groggy “Yes.”
I feel a pang of guilt for my surprise. Marley after a night at a bar is usually accompanied by some guy, random or not, taking up space in our apartment and making things awkward.
“I’m opening the door,” I warn, in case she’s lying about her alone status.
She glances at the clock on her nightstand and frowns. “What’re you doing home this early? Shouldn’t you be having a sexathon with your lawn boy?”
I lean against the doorjamb, laptop propped against my hip, and attempt to feign calm. “I’m a little worried about my lawn boy.”
She sits up, rubbing her eyes, her frown deepening. “Uh-oh, did the condom break?” I shake my head, and she exhales a relieved breath, but it’s short-lived. “Are you okay? What happened? What did that asshole do?”
I love that she immediately makes him the villain, even though I’m unsure whether or not that’s true. I sit down on the mattress beside her and turn the laptop toward her. “Read this.”
“He’s not married, is he?”
“No, but it might be the same level of bad.”
She scans the article, eyes darting to mine when she gets to the part about the Mission Mansion.
“Is this even a credible news source? Isn’t Moorehead into those clickbait scams? And what does this have to do with Pierce?”
“His sister is engaged to Lexington Mills. Son of the CEO of the Mills Hotels. I met him at Lawson’s the day after we sold them the first house.”
Marley scrolls through the article again. “And you think Pierce is somehow involved?”
“I don’t know, but I told him a long time ago that we used to spend our summers there, and last night I told him our grandparents used to own it. He’s going to figure out how we’re connected to it sooner than later. What if he’s had a plan this whole time? What if he and Lawson are biding their time until the Millses start buying up property and he never said anything? Think about it: They’ve done minimal renovations on their properties this summer. We both know flipping is far more lucrative than renting, but they suddenly change gears and choose to hold onto everything they buy? What other reason would there be?”
“That they want to build a rental base? They obviously have money to play with. I don’t know that it has to be as sinister as all this.” She motions to the magazine spread out before us.
“The Mills family is beyond rich, though. They could buy up every single damn property on the beach and it would barely dent their bank account.”
Marley chews on her bottom lip and regards me with quiet speculation. “I don’t know, Rian. I mean, I guess I can see how you might think there’s a connection here, but Pierce doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to do something like this. It doesn’t seem logical, and honestly, he’s so into you. He sat on the front porch for hours waiting for you to come home.”
“How many properties have they bought this summer? Every time something comes up they’re right there, putting in an offer. It can’t all be a coincidence.”
She exhales a slow breath. “Okay, but if they’re going to sell it anyway, why put any money into renovations at all? Why not sit on it?”
“So they can rent until the Millses jump in and buy it up? Maybe it wasn’t their plan at first and then it changed when this article came out.” It’s a few weeks old. God, how long has Pierce known about this and not said anything?
“Pierce wasn’t all that excited about that plan, though, was he? I think you need to talk to him before you start jumping to conclusions.”
I run my palm down my face, hating the panic and the twisted feeling in my stomach. “I’m going to have to tell him how we’re connected to the Mission Mansion.”
“You can’t hide it from him forever.”
“Our dad screwed dozens of people out of their homes and money, including the Mills family, who he’s directly connected to, with my help.” Less than six hours ago I was sure I was falling for this man, and now the half truths are biting at my heels.
“You had no idea what he was doing, Rian. You can’t keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t do.”
“But I gave him what he needed to do it, which is just as bad.” And I’ve lied by omission, which is almost worse than lying outright. My phone buzzes with messages from Pierce. I don’t look at them. I’m pretty sure I know what they’ll say. He woke up to an empty bed.
Marley sighs. “Does he even know where you are?”
“He was asleep when I left.”
“What if he’s not involved? What if this is all on Lawson?”
“What if he is involved? What if he’s known this whole time and he’s been stringing me along, keeping me occupied while he and Lawson make deals with the Mills family.”
She sighs, her eyes sad. “Maybe you’re trying to make him into the bad guy so you can feel justified in walking away.”
“What about all these connections? It can’t be coincidental.”
“I think you need to ask yourself if you’re forcing them to be there because you’re afraid to tell him the truth. You have to talk to him, Rian.”
She could be right, but she could be wrong. Either way, there’s a real possibility I’m going to lose something important at the end of all of this. I hope it’s not my heart.