ABIGAIL

Fuck my life. That’s the summary of everything about this meeting, this day, this week — hell, the entire month.

Once again, we’re gathered in the business annex, too many people stuffed into this small conference room for my comfort level, and once again, everyone is twittering on like birds, chatting excitedly instead of getting this meeting started.

The difference is that this time, I’m not fidgeting. I don’t care if the meeting starts or not. I don’t care about anything, really.

There is no naked, beautiful Prince waiting for me to rush to when things wrap up here, no hope for a future that doesn’t involve Finley Prescott, and no chance of ever seeing Africa again, not unless it’s to accompany my arrogant, callous husband on a hunting trip.

Three days ago, I dutifully took the stage with Finley at the awards banquet after the charity polo matches in Doremont, joined by both sets of our parents as they joyfully announced our engagement. I played the part, smiling and waving, even allowing Finley to hold my hand while we walked forward to the edge of the stage to be cheered by the crowd of foreign dignitaries and members of the royal court, celebrities and distinguished guests packing the room.

That was bad enough — seeing all my dreams fading away as I stood there, a smile frozen on my face, pretending to be delighted with my new fiancé — but I fear that moment on stage may turn out to be the highlight of our engagement. My gut tells me it’s going to be all downhill from there. Way downhill, like a boulder cracking off the edge of an overhang, hurtling down the mountain, taking out everything in its path.

Henry may have been using me for his own reasons, but he was right about one thing — Finley is not a good person.

Mere moments after walking off stage from the engagement announcement, he pulled me into an empty storage room behind the banquet hall and grabbed me, pushing his lips against me.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked, twisting my head away.

“No foreplay? That’s fine with me.” He stepped back and unzipped his pants. “Time to sample the goods. Get that dress off.”

“What?” I recoiled in disgust, clutching my arms across my body.

“Since I’m the one verifying the agreement, there’s no need to wait until our wedding night. So, let’s get to it,” he’d said, pushing down his underwear.

“I am not sleeping with you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You do know, if our marriage isn’t consummated, the agreement is considered breached, and the Beauregard estate is mine,” he said with a laugh.

“Fuck you,” I spat.

“Yes, that’s exactly what you’re going to do if you want your family to stay in their nice home.”

I stared at him with steely eyes, refusing to let my gaze lower from his face.

He just stared back, hands on his hips, waiting for my eyes to wander down to what he had on display, growing impatient.

“Now, Abi.” He reached down, grabbing himself. “Come on, get over here and get me hard.”

I nearly gagged at the thought but managed to disguise it with a firm shake of my head, desperate to not let him see the nausea and despair coursing through me.

He finally shrugged and pulled up his pants. “Fine, have it your way. You don’t want deep dicking right now — that’s fine. We both know who the whore is in this arrangement.”

He zipped his pants and opened the door to the storage room.

“Keep that virgin cunt to yourself for a while longer if you want.” He sneered, looking back at me. “But on our wedding night? It’s mine.”

With that, he slammed the door shut, leaving me standing alone in the storage room in utter shock.

Sitting in the meeting space, I shudder at the memory of that day behind the stage with Finley. He’s been even more intolerable and cruel since, but I can’t bear to think about it anymore. I’ve just been going wherever I need to be, doing whatever needs doing, numbly following my parents’ lead, feeling like a shell of who I once was.

Sir Eldridge clears his throat. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” he says, and the room grows still. “Baroness, have you and Lady Abigail chosen a wedding planner yet?”

My mother nods. “Yes, we interviewed several agencies and have selected the Thomasia Firm. They seem very capable of handling a large wedding on short notice.”

Sir Eldridge nods. “Very good. That brings us to the press release. It really must be taken care of as soon as possible. I realize, of course, that Finley’s injuries delayed things a bit, but we really do need to get the engagement pictures taken as soon as possible. The media packets should have been sent out as soon as the date was set.”

“The photographer is coming tomorrow,” my mother replies.

“Excellent. Now, other items of business…”

I tune out as Sir Eldridge goes down a long list. Items of business. That’s what this is, no mistake about it. Business. Not sacred vows of commitment, not love, not passion. There’s no desire or tender feelings or happily-ever-after here — just business.

My mother is so excited about the wedding, she’s practically glowing. It’s the best outcome she could hope for — a grand wedding to a wealthy man with good social standing. She was terrified I’d be stuck with an old geezer three times my age, or married off to a penniless pauper because no suitable bachelors would be available on such short notice.

If only. I’d take a sassy old man or a broke-as-a joke sanitation worker over Finley. Hell, compared to Finley, even Horace the Horrible looks like a winner.

As Sir Eldridge rambles on, checking off things with various people in the room, I notice my brother slip in the door, carrying a large manila envelope.

His entrance surprises me. He’s not attended a single meeting and has been incredibly disconnected about the whole situation. Instead of getting involved, he’s spent most of his time away, and when he did come home to Beauregard, he staggered in drunk, eyes bloodshot, reeking of a bender and no shower for days.

The day of the engagement announcement, he saw me leave the storage room in tears and cornered me, demanding to know what had happened — the first time he’d shown interest in my life in months. I told him about Finley’s cruelty, but he just shook his head and stalked away. By the end of the awards banquet he was so hammered my father had to help him to the limo. I haven’t seen him since — until now.

He’s standing quietly in the corner of the conference room, his eyes darting between my parents and myself. He clutches the envelope to his chest and licks his lips nervously as Sir Eldridge rattles on and on.

Finally, the senior advisor comes up for air, pausing to look down at the meeting agenda to see what’s next.

My brother steps forward. “Excuse me.”

Sir Eldridge turns, and all eyes shift to Spencer. “Sir Strathmore? Do come in, we’ll find an extra seat.”

Spencer holds up a hand. “That won’t be necessary. I actually need to meet with my family, alone — just my mother, father, and sister.”

I straighten in surprise and glance at my parents to see if they know what this request is about, but they look just as bewildered as I do. I turn back to my brother, and he’s staring at me, his cheeks flushed. Normally, I would chalk that color up to his drinking, but today his eyes are clear and his hands steady.

The senior advisor frowns and glances down at his list. “Would you mind terribly if we wrap up first, sir? We’re almost through the list of items that need to be addressed for the wedding of Lady Abigail and Mr. Prescott.”

Spencer shakes his head. “No need to continue with the wedding plans. My sister won’t be marrying Finley Prescott.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” My parents’ advisor rises to a high note and he does a double-take, his hand flying to his chest in astonishment. Everyone in the room stirs and murmurs fill the space.

“I request the room, immediately,” Spencer says, his voice even and firm. “Please leave me with my family.” My brother and the older man lock eyes, Spencer never wavering.

Tense seconds tick by as the two conduct a silent battle, but it is the older man who relents and sets his eyes dancing over the table as he quickly collects documents into a pile. “Very well. We will move to the library and finish the business at hand.”

My parents and I remain silent as Spencer thanks the assembly and the Council shuffles from the room, many of them looking back over their shoulders at us questioningly. He waits until the door is securely shut and then hesitates only a moment before pacing forward, tossing the manila envelope onto the table. It slides to a stop in front of my parents.

Father is the one who reaches for it, not questioning Spencer until he has a series of affidavits and high-resolution photographs in hand. His eyes narrow, and I see a light of comprehension.

“What am I looking at here, son?”

Spencer leans across the table and presses his fingertips onto the still bulging envelope. “This package contains ample evidence of Finley’s illicit activities. For starters, his involvement in a drug ring.”

My brother starts to pace the room. “I don’t mean selling pills to some college kids on the side. All those investments he claims to be making all his money on? It all traces back to the drugs he’s having smuggled into the country.”

My brother digs more papers from the envelope and hands them to our mother. Having managed our stock holdings for the better part of a quarter century, her practiced eye skims the small print littering the pages. She flips through the papers, scanning each one, glancing back and forth between the documents. “All these companies are just shells.”

“That’s right,” Spencer says. “His millions have been made dealing drugs, not playing the foreign currency exchange or investing in real estate. And that’s not the worst of it.”

This time, the papers Spencer removes from the folder — he lays them in front of me. I flip through them with growing horror. Hospital records, results from a rape kit. My hand moves to my mouth, my eyes wide. Several sworn statements from multiple women attesting to Finley’s unwanted advances and the violence with which he took what he wanted anyway, the dates spanning several years. The last of the papers are banking records of wire transfers to various accounts — women, investigators, judges. Incredible sums of cash, all linked back to Finley. Hush money to keep the assault charges from any further proceedings out of court.

I can’t form words. This is the man I’m to marry. It’s all too grotesque. I shake my head, tears coming to my eyes. I breathe deep, forcing back my nerves which are frayed to the breaking point.

My father’s voice is low and quiet. Dangerous. “Where did all this come from? My God. The drug charges alone could put him away for life.”

Spencer’s cheeks flush with righteous anger. “Yes, they could.”

“This has to be made public. Based on these records,” my mother says, sweeping another glance across the table at the stacks of papers, her jaw firm and the muscles in her neck tight, “Finley should have been in jail long ago.”

I jump as my father’s fist collides with the table. “Get my advisors back in here right now. I’m turning this over to the press immediately.”

“Wait.” Spencer holds out a hand. “There’s a better option. One that can fix this situation once and for all and ensure Finley pays for his crimes.”

My mother reaches out a hand to me. Clasping her trembling fingers to mine, she looks at Spencer. “What is it?”

Spencer taps at the manila envelope. “It’s all here. Like you said, enough to put him away for a lifetime. No parole. If the media got hold of this? They practically wouldn’t even need a trial.”

“That’s exactly why it should be released to the press. Mr. Prescott would have no chance.”

“And he knows it,” Spencer says. “Show him what we know. Threaten to expose all of this unless he nullifies that fucking agreement and returns all rightful ownership of the Beauregard Estate over to the Strathmore family — our titles, assets, investments, all of it. Tell him that he can buy our silence if he releases us from that contract.”

Father surveys the scattered documents for a moment and nods. “That could work, yes.”

I frown. “But we can’t let Finley get away with all this! Yes, he’ll probably nullify the Goutley agreement if we show him the evidence we have. But what about all these women?” I point at the pile of documents in front of me. “He should burn in hell for this. I won’t be the keeper of Finley’s secrets. No way,” I say, shaking my head.

“Ah, but who said we’d actually keep the deal?” my brother replies. “As we speak, a special counselor is being assigned to an investigative ministry that was quietly assembled in the court, with the sole purpose of bringing these charges to bear. As soon as Finley voids the Goutley agreement, they’ll be ready to take him down.”

I sit up straighter, a sprig of hope blooming. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, one hundred percent,” Spencer nods. He looks at me as he speaks. “A powerful friend has been gathering this evidence for a while, working to uncover all of Finley’s crimes so he can be brought to justice. I met with him yesterday. We stayed up all night going over these documents.”

My heart skips a beat. Henry. He’s talking about Henry. For a moment, a fire alights inside me. I want to race to him and throw my arms around him, smothering him in grateful kisses. Then I remember the photographs in the folder and the flame inside my chest goes out and my heart grows heavy once again.

“This plan will work. It’s solid,” Spencer says confidently, looking more alive than I’ve seen him in months. “Beauregard will be ours again and Finley will have no rights to anything in our family anymore — including Abi’s hand in marriage.”