CHAPTER THREE
Scarlett
November
There was something familiar and soothing about the scent of books. The smell of books in a library to be more specific. New books smelled of crisp, fresh pages. Most books in a library were musty with age and life spent moving from the library to a temporary home and back.
When I returned to Mrs. Donovan's back in October, I never intended to stay. I planned to get the hell out of Boston and as far away from the man who had thrown me away and broken my heart. But after Amelia's visit, Mrs. Donovan had called Angela, my old boss at the South Boston branch of the public library. A member of staff had taken a leave of absence to look after a sick loved one, and Angela said I owed her one. So instead of fleeing the city, I let my guilt sway me. After all, I'd left Angela in the lurch last Spring. The least I could do was temp for her.
It was a much-needed distraction.
I'd thought I'd be gone by now, but Angela still needed me. And honestly, there was a masochistic part of me that was clinging to the city and the torturous memories it held. Not that I ventured very far from the library or my room at Mrs. Donovan's. I stuck to both places, the library in particular with its musty books and friendly patrons, a refuge from my heartache.
I did my best not to think about him.
However, my best was never good enough.
It was time, I thought. It was time to leave and move on with my life. I just didn’t know how to broach the subject with Angela.
With those worries percolating I didn't hear the door to the library open. I didn't hear the soft thud of footsteps approaching me, and it took a few seconds for the rose notes of a familiar perfume to hit me.
I tensed.
I'd know that perfume anywhere. It was Miss Dior, and there was only one person I knew who'd worn that signature perfume for years.
Turning my head from the shelf I was reorganizing, my heart sputtered into a race at the sight of my twin standing before me.
Mel glowered at me.
I didn’t know what was more shocking: her appearance or her appearance. Gone was the heavy make-up, replaced by a softer, toned down application of pinks and earth tones that made her aquamarine eyes brighter. She wore her hair how I’d worn it married to Griff, long, down and in soft waves. Her Ted Baker trench coat was the black version of my purple-blue one. I could see skinny jeans tucked into knee-high black wedged boots. She accessorized with a dark green snood and dark green leather Tory Burch shoulder bag.
We’d never looked more alike.
My hackles raised. “What are you doing here? And dressed like that? Is this a new game?”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, this is how I dress now.”
I scoffed, “It’s awfully familiar.”
“Since when do you wear jeans?” she crossed her arms over her chest.
Okay, so never. Still. "You've done your make up like mine."
Mel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and huffed. “Tavius doesn’t like it if it looks like I’m wearing a lot of make-up.”
Rage churned in my gut, and I took a step toward her. “Oh, and of course, you do everything Octavius tells you to do. Even if it means betraying me."
She looked away, apparently unable to meet my gaze. “I’m not here to fight.”
"Then why are you here? Because last time we spoke, I thought I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with you." I glanced around to make sure we weren't drawing unwanted attention, but the library was empty of patrons on this side of the building.
“And I was going to give you that play.” She stepped into my space and lowered her voice. “But you’re in danger, Scar.”
What was this? More lies? “Oh yeah? What is it this time? You screw over an imaginary client, and his imaginary goons are after you and thus me.”
Her eyes widened. “Okay, that is eerily close to the truth.”
I gave a huff of bitter laughter. “Oh my God. There is literally no low you won’t stoop to get attention. Did Octavius break up with you or something and you think you can get money out of me? Because I don’t know if you noticed,” I gestured around the room, “But I’m no longer fucking a millionaire. That money well dried up.”
Mel’s nostrils flared. “Shit, Scar, you don’t sound like yourself.”
“Funny that.” I shot her a hateful look and grabbed my cart with books and started walking away. “You can leave now.”
"No." She darted around me and put her hands on the cart to stop me. "The fact that you're not with that bastard Mandeville is why I'm here. If you were still with him, I'd know he'd keep you safe…but you're alone. And now you're a target."
The agony, the resentment I felt toward her was threatening to break through my cold façade. “Last warning, Mel. Get out and leave me alone.”
“Not before you listen to me.”
“Scarlett, we got a problem?”
I sagged with relief as my boss, Angela, came around the corner of the stacks. She stumbled at the sight of Mel, and I remembered I still hadn't told her about the existence of a twin sister.
“There are… holy…” she gaped.
Mel smirked. “Two of us. Yeah. I’m Scar’s sister, Mel.”
“And she was just leaving.”
“Not before you talk to me.”
“I’m going to give you to the count of ten to get the hell out of here before I call the cops,” I said, my voice carefully flat.
My sister stared at me in disbelief. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“There are a lot of things I’d do now that I wouldn’t have done before.”
“Shit, Scar—”
“I think your sister asked you to leave.” Angela marched up to Mel. “I won’t give you to the count of ten to get out before I call the cops. I’ll give you to the count of five to get your ass out of here before I whoop it good.”
Mel sneered and looked at me. “Scar—”
“One.” Angela stuck a finger aggressively in Mel’s face. “Two.”
“Fine.” My twin shook her head at me. “This isn’t over. Goddamn pain in my ass!”
I watched her stomp out of sight and heard the library door shut behind her a few seconds later.
Angela turned to me. “You have a twin sister?”
“No.” I shoved the pain back down to the cold depths of my soul. “She’s dead to me.”
Whatever my boss heard in my voice, for once in her life, she decided not to pry.
◆◆◆
Griffin
It had been weeks. Weeks since I’d allowed myself to go anywhere near the white and blue guest suite Scarlett had kept her things in. I had no idea what Xavier had done with all the clothes and jewelry my wife had returned to me until now as I stood in the doorway to the room.
He’d put everything back in here. As though one day she might return.
Her jewelry and perfume were on the dresser. Clothes hung up in the walk-in closet. Traces of her scent still lingered in the air. It was like the room belonged to a ghost.
The phone call I’d just taken had for some reason propelled me along the hallway to this room. I could see her everywhere in it. Smiling up at me from a tangle of bedsheets, eyes filled with laughter and heat.
I shuddered.
I hadn’t seen my wife in four weeks, two days and eight hours. But who the fuck was counting?
“Why don’t you admit you’ve made a mistake?” Quentin’s voice made me jolt in surprise.
“Fuck.” I spun around and found my friend standing in the hallway staring at me in pity.
Damm his pity! And his condescension. I scowled. “This is the last time I tell you that I’m not talking about her.”
He huffed and gestured to the room behind me. “She’s haunting you, Griff. And it’s not going away, is it?”
"I'm fine." I pulled the door shut and let it slam. "I just took an annoying phone call that's all. My father's lawyers found out about the separation. I told them it's merely a tiff, and it will be resolved soon, but they don't seem convinced."
“I thought your lawyer said there was little they could do now that the estate has passed into your hands.”
“They won’t win it back.” I nodded, assured of that fact. “But if Sebastian makes a fuss it could turn into a lengthy and expensive legal battle.”
Quentin followed me into my office. “There is a solution to all of it.”
“Oh?”
“You’re miserable. Scarlett’s…”
My heart pounded at the mere mention of her name. Had Amelia seen her lately? “Scarlett’s what?”
“Between what you and her sister have done to her… Amelia said she’s changed.”
I frowned. It was a repeat of what Amelia had said weeks ago. I didn’t want to hear it.
“Amelia gave her a few weeks, thinking she just needed some time, but she’s rebuffed Amelia’s attempt to reconnect. She’s not herself.”
Agitation squirmed in my blood. “It’s not my problem.”
"Liar. You've been moping around for weeks, and I know it's not just to do with this mess with Pete Svenson. You haven't looked at, let alone touched, another woman. When are you going to admit that you're in love with your wife?"
Panic suffused me at the thought, and my chest grew tight. "It's not love. It's an obsession. And I won't become my fucking father."
Quentin gave me another pitying look. “Love is obsession, Griff. It's just learning how to not stifle the person you love with those feelings. I'm going to tell you something that I've only ever told Amelia, and it goes no further than this room. And the only reason I'm talking about this shit is in the hope that I get my friend back. I'm obsessed with my wife. I obsess over her happiness. If she's out without me, I worry about her. I worry about other men looking at her. I worry that what happened to Scarlett with Bryce will happen to Amelia. The very thought sets my teeth on edge. What you did to Bryce? If he'd done that to Amelia, he'd be dead right now, Griff. Even if I'd been pulled off him, I'd have hunted him down, and fucking killed him. And Pete Svenson would be dead too. But you didn't do that. You controlled those urges. When Scarlett was here, and she was wearing something you hated her wearing because other men looked at her in it… did you make her change her clothes?"
I frowned, remembering all the times my father tried to do that to my mother even though they were divorced. “Of course not.”
“Did you tell her who to be friends with? Did you tell her she couldn’t work anymore so you could keep an eye on her?”
Like my father tried to do. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. “No.”
"Exactly. Your father was about obsession and control. The way you feel right now? Like you're coming out of your fucking skin. Like all you can think about is her, what's she doing, what she's thinking, wondering when will be the next time you get to touch her… that's called ‘what every man feels when he's so fucking in love he can't think straight.' It's how I feel about Amelia. Love is obsession, my friend." He repeated. "But when you love a woman more than you love yourself, you'll do anything to make her happy, including not getting in the way of her being who she wants to be."
I slumped into my chair, winded my Quentin’s words. My pulse raced at the mere thought of finding Scarlett and convincing her to come back to me. An itch tinkled the tips of my fingers as I imagined her eating breakfast with me, accompanying me to dinner, seeking her out just to talk about our day… lying in bed, waiting for me. The ache in my chest sharpened into something un-fucking-bearable. Still… “I’m not an easy man to live with, Quentin. Leaving her was what was best for her, not me.”
“Really? You really think pushing her away was what was best for her? She’s in love with you, Griff. She told Amelia. And being fucked over by her sister and then by you has fundamentally changed who she is. How is that what’s best for her?”
“Why didn’t you say all this sooner?”
Quentin didn’t even flinch at the snarl in my words. “You wouldn’t have listened. You needed time to realize that missing her will probably never go away.”
“You’re a coward. And I’ll never forgive you for this. Not just for this…But for leaving me when I needed you most.” Her words from all those weeks ago haunted me for the hundredth millionth time since she’d said them. The inkling of hope I’d felt was quickly quelled. “She hates me. She thinks I threw her away when she needed me.”
“Then find a way to win her back.”
“How?”
But before Quentin could offer me any more advice a knock on my office door sounded. "Come in."
Xavier stepped inside. He looked surprisingly flustered. “Sir, a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Mrs. Mandeville is at the front door claiming to be her twin sister. A Miss Melanie Jennings. And she’s insistent upon seeing you. She said that Mrs. Mandeville’s life depended upon it.”
Suspicion, worry, anger coalesced inside of me, and I looked at Quentin.
My friend smirked. “I think ‘how’ just landed on your doorstep.”