TESS

I snatch the last piece of clothing off the rack and toss it into a box before I sweep my gaze over the empty shelves and the nightstand.

I should probably move the rest of my things sometime next week. My books are already stacked in the moving boxes.

For a few moments, I look around, lost. Grappling with disbelief. My chest feels hollow while my eyes still sting because of crying. My lips are stripped of words.

I never thought it would end like this.

I pick up my phone from the kitchen counter when a loud, piercing noise rips through the evening air. My skin covers with goosebumps, and my hair bristles. Police cars fill the street, their sirens blaring, their lights strobing beneath the branches of the trees.

I dash to the window, my heart jumping up and down. I have to grip the window frame as my knees begin to shake.

The clamor and the beams of flashlights roll onto the street, a cloud of noise lifting off the sidewalks.

Cops push people away. People who look like photographers.

My eyes slant to the sports car parked at the front just as the cops enter the house.

A few TV crews surface. Men with video cameras propped on their shoulders and anchors holding microphones, people I recognize from the local TV News stations.

They all line up along the sidewalks.

My phone begins to ring, startling me. My heart starts skipping beats, my pulse spiking.

“Did you see this?” Anne asks in a breath.

“What? See what?”

“Where are you?”

“Home?”

“You see it then. It’s on the news,” she says with a trembling voice.

“What happened?” I ask, a bad feeling sweeping through me.

“Turned on the TV,” she barks.

I spin around and turn it on, just as the voices resonate so much louder outside.

“Wait,” I say, darting back to the window.

A spotlight falls on him.

Suit-clad, missing his tie, Sebastien Rockford stops in front of the cameras. I look at him paralyzed as he moves his lips and says a few words. His words echo in the background. In my room... On my TV.

Words that I have a hard time to comprehend.

Moments later, the cops surround him and push the crowd away as he slices his way through a few groups of people and heads to a black car waiting for him on the side.

He vanishes inside the SUV, his ride smoothly pulling away as a few unmarked cop cars roll ahead. Lights on, sirens blaring.

A few moments later, the noise dies out, the convoy vanishing around the corner, the lights fading out as well.

I turn around and finally, hear it.

“Jacqueline Monroe, the heiress of Monroe Enterprises and the late wife of tycoon Sebastien Rockford, was found dead in one of her properties at 10:45 this evening. A man who claimed to be her friend placed the 911 one call. The man is currently in custody, and he is also a person of interest. Sebastien Rockford, who made news earlier this year almost doubling the couple’s entire fortune through a few bold mergers and acquisitions, is now a person of interest as well. According to inside sources, the two spouses recently reconciled after being estranged for a couple of years. More information including a short statement from Sebastien Rockford will come shortly after the break.”

I mute the TV, and slump into the chair, my eyes staring vacantly at the screen.

“Tess? Are you still there?”

“Yes...” I answer with a faint, shaky voice. “They just picked him up...” I murmur, mainly to myself.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” I say mechanically, thoughts swimming in my head like sharks. “What happened?” I mutter, unable to collect myself.

“Seemingly, the main suspect is none other than Stephan Leon.”

“I know.”

“You knew?”

Her voice brims with surprise.

I swallow hard.

“Yes. I knew they were close.”

“Apparently, they were more than that. Rumor has it they’d been lovers for some time. His ex-girlfriend made a statement too. Carmen Velasquez. I didn’t know she was a model... Anyway. They broke up a few weeks ago. She seemed very distraught by the news and spoke in his defense. The man was drunk and frantic when the cops arrived. They took him into custody. He had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation and was placed on a suicide watch. His ex-girlfriend stands by his side. She repeatedly stated that he wouldn’t be able to hurt a fly.”

My mouth pulls shut.

I stay like that for a few moments, listening to her in silence as she relays more details of the story.

“Are you okay?” she asks after a while.

“Yes...”

“What were you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Where are you going?”

“Moving out.”

“Moving out?? You just moved in.”

“Things, um... changed,” I mutter.

“What things?” she asks, puzzled.

“We had a fight.”

She stays quiet.

“He got back with her.”

“Back with her?? Why did he get back with her? The woman had a lover,” she says even more baffled. “And he wasn’t the only one if you take into account Allan. How could they get back together?”

I feel a dull, annoying pain in my chest.

“I have no idea...” I say, feeling the sting of tears. “But they did. They reconciled. They even had a birthday party last night. He was kissing her. I saw them. I saw everything...” I say, barely holding my voice steady, a curtain of tears blurring my eyes.

“Are you serious? This makes absolutely no sense. Did he say anything to you?”

“Nope. He kept me guessing for a few long days, not answering my calls and messages, and then he had a surprise birthday party for his wife and surely made a point out of kissing her in his office. Lights on. The only thing missing was a billboard, a camera and perhaps an orchestra in the background. It might’ve been perfectly staged but it looked real to me. So real in fact that I couldn’t control my anger and in a fit of fury I crossed the street and crash their party.”

“Oh, my God...’’ she says, the surprise in her voice shedding light on the magnitude of my stupidity.

“Yes...” I mutter, staring at the windows of his house, now dimly lit. “He let me make a fool of myself with all those people in the audience, his wife included. And, oh boy, did I do it? I crumbled in front of his eyes, wracked with anger and frustration. Reeking of desperation. He did nothing to stop me. He let me ramble on and on, witnessing my meltdown. And then... When I was done, he showed me out. And that was that. I don’t know who that man was. He was so much different than the man I thought I fell in love with.”

I tip my chin down, warm tears trickling down my cheeks.

* * *

It’s five o’clock in the morning when a live stream shows Sebastien back in front of the cameras. His eyes look dark and guarded as he reads a statement for the paparazzi.

Words roll off his lips in a monotone cadence, most of them flying by, only the last ones registering with me.

“In this time of grief, I ask for your compassion and respect for the woman who had been my partner for so many years. As you all know, as of right now, more questions than answers surround her untimely death. I trust that soon we’ll know the truth. In the meantime, I ask you all to respect my family and friends’ privacy and help the police investigation by using due diligence when disseminating the news. Thank you.”

He slips the piece of paper he was reading from into his pocket and steps away from the microphone.

A bunch of questions explodes in the air.

“Is it true that you and your wife have been estranged?”

“Is it true that Stephan Leon was her longtime lover?”

“Did you know that she was cheating on you?”

The police push the paparazzi back as he turns his back to the camera and for the second time this evening slides into that black SUV.

I stay paralyzed in my chair, my hand clutching the remote as the anchor keeps talking.

“In an unexpected twist of events, Sebastien Rockford becomes the wealthiest man under thirty on the entire East Coast. This early morning, we had the chance to interview some of his closest friends who happen to know him since he was a little boy.”

The segment starts rolling, a collage of images flashing in front of my eyes.

Sebastien in a rare picture with his mother. He was six, the snapshot taken a few weeks before her death. She was twenty-six. A beautiful, young woman with long dark hair and eyes blue like the sea. Taken on a luxury boat, the few snapshots speak of joy and happiness. His smile, a copy carbon of his mother’s makes my insides soft.

I’ve never seen him so happy. I wonder if he’s ever been like that since then.

A man makes a few appearances. He looks much older than her. A couple decades from what I can tell. Handsome, his hair sprayed with the dust of silver, his body toned and bronzed.

A few pictures show them together, a few details catching my eye.

For one, the little space between them as they get photographed as if they’re trying to distance themselves from one another. Her smile a little strained, different than the grin she has for her son. In one of the last shots, the man curls an arm around her waist while she holds Sebastien’s hand.

I notice the tension in her husband’s grip, her face no longer beaming with a smile, but rather crushing an expression of resentment.

The story moves on, briefly mentioning his mother’s accident.

The couple came home from an event when the car driven by Sebastien’s father tailspins in the middle of the road and rams into a tree.

She dies on the spot.

His father never remarried, his name linked to models and socialites later on. Just like his son’s name a few years later.

Sebastien started dating Jeraldine Monroe when he was twenty-four.

They were married within months. The documentary shifts the spotlight to her.

Sole child and fiercely independent, Jacqueline had become the role model for many young women. Educated, rich and outspoken, she had a knack for business. She inherited most of her wealth when her father died, the same way Sebastien did when his father perished a few months later. The couple had been highly regarded in the business community and for a good reason. Known for their charitable actions, they stole the spotlight and held the headlines for years.

Separation rumors surfaced recently, fueled by the sightings of the couple in the company of other people. Although they could never be romantically linked to them.

An obscure piece of information made it to the web a few years back, speculating that Sebastien Rockford’s inheritance came with strings attached. Nobody could verify it since it was a revocable living trust and therefore not public.

The documentary ends a few moments later before an ad starts playing on the screen.

I turn off the TV and tip my head back, slumping in my chair. My eyes close, my thoughts bouncing around in my head.

The snapshots and the words whip up chaos in me. Him and me, the clips, Jacqueline, the red camellias, and our first kiss.

The first time he had me. The night we spent at his mother’s house.

Allan and Stephan.

The passing of the seasons since the inception of this story.

The colorful fall and silver winter. The nights and days of the summer. The feel of his body against mine and the touch of his lips against my skin. His words, and grins. The luring power of his eyes.

It all comes to me like a cloud of confetti, throwing bits and pieces at me as my mind is watching the unraveling story.

How did we get here?

Little by little, I recognize the trail. Every step of the way he pulled me deeper into the story, sewing me into the fabric of it.

I slowly open my eyes and shift my empty stare to the window.

I ponder for a moment.

No... This can’t be possible.

A smile creases my lips.

A silent, bitter grin.

There’s no way he could’ve planned all that. There’s no way in hell, he would’ve known all the variables, the unforeseeable, the capricious, fickle nature of the people. The accidents and twists of fate.

And yet, now that I look at it... It all panned out perfectly.

The circle had been closed. The players had fulfilled their roles. Myself included.

With the exquisite elegance of a chess master, he made his last move and let the last piece of the puzzle fall.

He built a web around me and caught me in it. In his life, his secrets, the war of love and hate between him and his wife.

He did all that so that he could free himself.

He. Is. Free. Now.

Isn’t that what he wanted all along? To free himself?

I was the linchpin. The key to his escape.

But was that all?

As I stare into the patch of darkness lining my window, I no longer see the glass and the trees waving their branches outside.

I only see him, and no matter how much I try to read him, even in my imagination, his back is turned to me, refusing me that last piece of information.

Will I ever know?

I flick my hand and wipe away his image, my eyes getting in focus again as a distinct noise of slammed doors drifts through the air.

I shift my gaze down. The street is closed off now and guarded by the police. His white shirt stands out in the grayish morning light as large strides take him into the house.

The lights turn on as he strolls across, the glow trailing him. The shadow of his silhouette slides from one level to the other, from one room to another.

I wait.

The door of his office slides open, and I merely get a glimpse of him before he vanishes into an adjacent chamber.

A few moments pass by until I move my eyes away from his windows and shift my attention to my phone screen. The news breaks rampantly, the media having a blast running the story.

A bit of information catches my eye.

“Sources close to the investigation who are familiar with Stephan Leon’s preliminary interrogation suggest that an instrumental piece of information might have triggered the unfolding of the dramatic events last night. However, at this time we can’t confirm it. When asked, the detectives assigned to this case denied that such information exists.”

My breath hitches in my throat.

With trembling fingers, I let the phone slide onto the side table, my body shaking as well.

It takes seconds before the scorching heat of a stare makes me flick my gaze to the side. My eyes get blurry with tears as I spot his silhouette in his office. Hands in his pockets, he stands next to the window and looks at me.

Straight at me.

Unwavering eyes. No smile on his lips.

Doing to me what I haven’t been able to do to him lately.

Reading me.

Taking inventory of my teary eyes, and distraught expression. Of my trembling hand running through my hair. Of my chest rocking with quiet sobs as guilt begins to flood me.

Splaying his fingers on the glass, he tips his chin down in a soft greeting as if he says hi to me...

For the very first time.