Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways, #2)

by L.J. Shen

“Did I? Oh, it used to happen to me all the time in college.” “What does it mean?” I ask. “No idea. I should really get it checked. I’ve been really stressed since the will. Didn’t even use my vibrator once.” “Call your doctor tomorrow.” “Yessir.”

“All right, future hubby. Come here now.” She reaches for me and drags me down onto the bed with her. “Let’s cuddle a little.” Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Woman?

“Since when do we cuddle?” “Now we’re going to have to start!” she exclaims, back to being fake cheerful. “We’re about to get married, right?” We try watching something together, but Grace is allergic to documentaries, and I don’t give two damns about stupid reality TV shows where people drink, gossip, and sell houses. In the end, I let her watch something on Bravo and fall asleep.

We are getting married. Mission accomplished. And yet. And yet. I can’t say I’m truly satisfied. I’ve reached the top of Everest, only to find out I can barely breathe up there.

was talking about the will.” She licks her lips, her eyes skittishly moving around the crowded room. “What about it?” “Well, now that we’re engaged, maybe it’s best if we write each other into our individual wills. You know, just in case.” “In case what?” My jaw hardens. “Anything happens.” “Define anything.”

“Won’t you even think about that? For me?” Her eyes are two onyx diamonds. “Knowing how much that means to me. The trust, obviously. Not the money. Just the trust.” It’s not like I have any living family to give my possessions to.

Still, it doesn’t take a genius to see Grace’s intentions are anything but pure. We’re both in our thirties, healthy, and in no immediate danger of cashing in our chips. “No,” I say flatly. “No?” She blinks, looking genuinely surprised. She is not accustomed to that word, especially from me. “No,” I repeat. “I don’t intend to think about it.” “Oh . . . well, I understand.” But she doesn’t. Which is why she deflates like a balloon.

“So you can call off the engagement right now,” I urge her, almost tauntingly. “If this is a deal breaker for you.” She shakes her head, a shriek of laughter bubbling from her throat. “That won’t be necessary. Really, it was only a suggestion. I’m okay with whatever you choose. I’m not marrying you for your money.” Of course she is. And the worst part is, I know I’m not going to deny her. Test her—sure. But I’ll never follow through. She will get what she wants. I will write her into my will, and vice versa. “Grace.” “Yes, my love?” She attempts a weak smile. Fails. “We’ll visit my lawyer this week and make the necessary changes.”

Sure jan

Her shoulders sag in relief. She smiles—really smiles now—her entire features brightening up, like a flower angled up toward the sun on the first day of spring. I’ve never made her smile like this before. A rush of possessiveness and desire courses through me. She is mine. Her bony fingers. Her shrewd eyes. Her black heart. All mine. “Thank you for trusting me.” She reaches across the table, grabs my hand, squeezes. Her hand is cold and dry. “I love you.” I promise myself not to drink or eat anything she makes in the future unless she takes a first sip or bite. “Love you too.” And I do. I love her. I’m sure of it. But I also know one thing for sure—a leopard never changes its spots.

“I really do love you, Arsène. I know you don’t believe it. Not all the time, anyway. But it’s true. I’m glad we chose each other. I’m glad you won.” My whole body beams. It is pathetic, how much I crave her approval. This must be the most pitiful form of mommy issues I’ve yet to witness. “Hey, Grace?” I tug at her dark ponytail, winking. “I believe you.” “You do?” She brightens.

I nod. “Forever yours.” She kisses the side of my mouth. “Forever yours.” I kiss the tip of her nose.

ANd i do not believe her

“Are you Gracelynn Langston’s fiancé?” he asks. My heart, untouchable merely seconds before, now feels like it’s being clenched in their fists. Not her. “Yeah. Why?” “We’re very sorry.” The woman bites on her lips. Her chin trembles. “But your fiancée was involved in a plane crash. She died on impact.”

Grace can’t be gone. We’ve only just begun our lives together. We have plans. A wedding to organize. A honeymoon booked. She still hasn’t quit, birthed our babies, had her dream nuptials. Her bucket list is still full, sloshing about with plans and ideas.

Her concerned, poor-you frown doesn’t waver. “So here’s what we know so far. Miss Langston’s private plane left Teterboro Airport at quarter past midnight this Friday—” “See?” I sneer. “You’ve got your facts wrong. Grace boarded a United Airlines flight to Zurich. UA2988. She flew out of Newark. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe my hard-earned tax money is wasted on you and your likes.”

I’m rendered speechless. It can’t be. Why would Grace lie about flying private? Is it possible they got a perk this time around and she forgot to tell me? Unlikely, but not completely impossible. I shake my head. “What about Chip Breslin? Paul Ashcroft? Pablo Villegas? Were they on the plane too?” The two officers exchange glances. I want to grab them by the collar and shake the information out of them. Suddenly, I’m on the brink of laughter. This is ridiculous.

Because my life is not bizarre enough as it is tonight. “Lord! Tell me it ain’t true!” the strange woman wails in a southern accent. Winnifred.

Officer Hannah looks pained when she asks, “Do you happen to know, Mrs. Ashcroft . . . did they travel for business or . . . um, leisure?” Closing my eyes, I feel everything inside me collapsing, brick by brick. Everything I built over the years is gone, buried in ashes. The memories. The stolen kisses. The games. The stakes. The winning. All gone. Winnifred’s voice sounds far away. “I—I don’t know.” “You don’t know if they were traveling for business or pleasure?” Officer Damien repeats crassly. “No.” “I suppose this means you didn’t know that they were traveling together at all, then?” “Stop that,” Officer Hannah chides under her breath. “No,” Winnifred says, jutting her chin up, proud despite the ridiculousness of her outfit and this situation and this question. “He didn’t tell me he was traveling with Miss Langston.” “All right.”

She sucks in a breath, nodding. “Good. Now tell me everything.” “Paul bought two tickets to Paris at the beginning of the month. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway. A reset button . . .” She hesitates, not wanting to unravel too much. “A chance for some one-on-one quality time.” At the word Paris, the full weight of the betrayal crashes into me. Grace went with Paul to the most romantic city in the world. Alone. It doesn’t take a genius to know they intended on enjoying more than the local pastries and champagne. I nod encouragingly. “And?” “I told him I couldn’t come. I’d just landed my first theater gig. It was a big deal for me. Tonight was my first show. I’m Belle from Beauty and the Beast.”

Then it dawns on me. She has a role to play. The devoted, loving wife. The one who will later get the fat insurance check and the sympathy. It’s not that Winnifred doesn’t believe Paul and Grace had an affair—it’s that she doesn’t give a damn. She probably didn’t care who this white bread of a man screwed as long as she had access to his credit cards when he was alive.

“Your version of reality is askew, anyway, Beast.” She huddles on the other side of the room and plasters her forehead against the wall. I let out a bark of laughter. “Did you just call me a beast?” “Yes, but I take it back,” she bites out. “The Beast redeems himself. You would never!” “How was Paul not arrested for marrying you?” I wonder aloud. “You’re mentally twelve.” “Well, no one forced you to talk to me!” she hits back. Her accent is thicker than ever when she’s angry. “Stay on your side of the room, and leave me the heck alone.” We are both shells of our former selves. I know exactly why I’m broken—I just lost the love of my life, or the closest thing to one I’d ever have. But what’s her excuse? Instead of processing the possible death of my fiancée, my mind begins swerving out of control, spinning wildly down an endless rabbit hole. Did Grace love Paul? Did she want to leave me for him?

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment. I hope my eyes convey what every bone in my body is screaming. It should’ve been you on the plane. You were supposed to die. You. Unremarkable. Insignificant. Forgettable. Country Bumpkin. Not my beautiful, sophisticated, math-wiz fiancée. Not the cunning, alluring Gracelynn Langston. The spectacular woman only I understood.

The woman in the white robe ushers her. Winnifred complies swiftly and comes back ten minutes later, looking ashen and pale. Her shoulder bumps into my arm as she leaves the room, but she doesn’t even notice. I swivel my head to follow her movements. In the hallway, Winnifred collapses midstep, on the floor, back hunched, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.

I close my eyes and press the back of my head against the wall. Grace has somehow managed to slip through my fingers. Again. I didn’t hold her tight enough, close enough, good enough. And this time? The water didn’t save her.

All I feel is a mild chill, thanks to the fifteen pounds I’ve lost since Paul. My eyes are still dry. “No, you shouldn’t cry. You’re happy,” I mumble to myself aloud. “Fine. Maybe happy’s not the right word . . . satisfied. Yes. You’re satisfied with your little accomplishment, Winnie Ashcroft.”

Most days I’m slumped on my couch, staring at the door, waiting for Paul to return.

It was just another way Paul was amazing. Considerate and always thoughtful. Other than the times he wasn’t.

Paul and I had signed an iron-clad prenup upon his parents’ request, which means I’m not as well off as people might suspect. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, because the idea of ever parting ways with Paul was crazy to me. It’s going to suck to sell and move away and leave all his memories behind.

In the kitchen, I fill myself three tall glasses of water and drink all of them. I like to wake up at least a couple of times each night. I do a little inspection around the apartment, making sure I’m really alone. I’ve always been scared of sleeping by myself. At Julliard, I had a bucketload of roommates, and before that, I shared a room with both my sisters. There’s no doubt I’m not good at being alone.

He had asked me not to open it whenever he locked it. Trade secrets, baby doll. Plus, I kind of like the idea of having an island of my own. A private place that only belongs to me. And me, blindly loyal, unreservedly faithful, decided to never break this rule. Even now, after all these months, the office is still closed. Waiting for me to betray him, just like he allegedly betrayed me.

Arya Roth-Miller

Suprised she didnt ditch roth

“Jesus, you won’t have to pay!” Arya waves her hand. I feel my ears pinking in shame. “But I do want you to be there. You’re one of our most dedicated volunteers. No one cares about those kids like you do, Winnie. And they always ask for you, specifically. Some of the parents are going to be there, and, well, I can’t afford not to have you there.” “Then I’ll be there.”

This is the thing ars mentioned earlier...

The door to the theater flings open. From the corner of my eye, I can see a demon-like creature. Tall and dark, filling the frame like a black gaping hole. The energy in the room shifts. The little hairs on my arm stand on end. I force my attention back to Rahim. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Cold sweat gathers at the back of my neck. Who is this person who just came inside? This is a dry rehearsal, closed to the public. Lucas and his assistant still haven’t spotted the intruder. But I seem to be attuned to him as he descends the stairway toward the stage. He’s not alone. There’s someone trailing behind him. His movements are sleek and smooth, tigerlike.

When I see his face, the sharp planes of his jaw, the black irises, no part of me is surprised. He is the only person who has ever managed to make my skin crawl and my mouth dry with a simple stare. His mere existence turns me inside out. Arsène Corbin.

My colleagues know I’m a young widow, but they don’t know much about Paul. They don’t know about his maybe-affair with Grace. They don’t know Arsène and I are bound together by an awful tragedy. My heart is still out of whack when Renee, Rahim, and Sloan all lift their eyes to glare at something behind me. Their mouths slacken collectively. “What?”

Beautiful, yes. In the same way an active volcano is. Fascinating from a safe distance, but not anything I’d like to touch. And now I see it. The one and

heartbreak. The same thing I see every day in the mirror. His eyes, once sharp, sultry, and full of sardonic laughter, are now dull and ...

“Mrs. Ashcroft.” Arsène’s voice is velvety. “Follow me.”

“In that case, leave me alone,” I bite out. “Afraid I can’t do that either.”

“You need to leave,” he says decisively. “You asked me to come here.” I fold my arms, intentionally playing dumb. “Nice try, Bumpkin.” He flicks invisible dirt from his cashmere sweater, as if his presence here is dirty. “You’re fired, effective immediately. You’ll be compensated for your ti—” “You’re not the director, or the producer.” I let out a shriek, anger rising up through my chest. “You can’t do that.” “I can and am.”

“May I remind you, Mrs. Ashcroft, I own Calypso Hall. I get to say who stays and who goes.” “May I remind you, Mr. Corbin, that your director, Lucas Morton, hired me. We signed a contract. I’ve done nothing wrong. The play premieres in two weeks. The backup actress hasn’t even learned the entire play yet. You won’t be able to find a sufficient replacement in time.” “Everyone is replaceable.” “Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow, knowing we’re both thinking about the same people. The people who left glaring holes in our hearts. “Yes.” His nostrils flare. “Everyone.”

“Nina is a once-in-a-lifetime creature. I know you probably haven’t read The Seagull—” “A lovestruck, ignorant country girl desperate to become a part of a world she doesn’t belong in?” he asks smoothly, his voice as dry as the Sahara Desert. Well, then, I suppose he did read it. He reaches to clasp my chin and closes my mouth with a movement so soft I can’t fully trust that he actually touched me. “Don’t look so surprised, Bumpkin. My former boarding

school is the unofficial feeder of Harvard and Yale. I’d learned them all. The English, the Russians, the Greeks. Even the few Americans who managed to weasel their way into the world’s famous literature.”

Then I remember the last thing he told me when we were at the morgue. How I was a gold digger who was probably happy to be rid of her rich husband. I decided to use his jadedness against him. “Fine.” I swat his hand away. “Fire me. See how that works out for you.” He gives me a once-over, trying to read between the lines. “Right, let me spell it out for you, in case your big ol’ brain can’t figure it out.” I put on my thickest accent, stubbing my chest with my finger. “This country bumpkin is gonna run to the nearest tabloid and sell her story. Don’t you know actresses? We’re a fame-seeking breed, Mr. Corbin. And what’d Andy Warhol once say? Ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.” I wink at him. “Plus, my story fits into the current cultural narrative like a glove to a hand. A rich, white, billionaire male going after a helpless widow just tryin’ to make it in the cruel Big Apple.” I press my palms together, looking heavenward. “Think about it. Our story is so juicy. Tongues would waggle for months! My loving husband caught with your fiancée, red handed, heading toward a romantic vacation in Paris. Why, I bet neither of us will be able to leave our apartment without getting caught by the paps!”

“Your presumption, that anything—least of all you—can touch me, not to mention humiliate me, is endearing.”

“You’re lucky I’m a big fan of opportunists. They’re my favorite breed of people. Now, any other backup plan to stop me from giving you the boot? And drop the exaggerated accent. You’re fooling no one, Bumpkin.”

headline, Mr. Corbin.” I frame my fingers in the air. “Actress Winnifred Ashcroft Sues for Wrongful Termination.” “It’s not wrong to want the woman whose husband fucked my dead fiancée far away from me.” “New York is mighty big, and as far as I’m aware, you haven’t set foot in Calypso Hall for decades before today.”

“Y’all never paid any attention to this place in the decades your family owned it. Didn’t spend a dime on restoring it either. It was only when I saw you here that I remembered what Grace had said in Italy—” “Don’t speak her name!” he lashes out, baring his teeth like a monster.

“If you stay . . .” He chooses his words carefully. My corroded heart beats wildly in my chest, reminding me for a change that it is here, that it’s still working. “I’m going to make your life so miserable you’re going to regret the day you were born.”

“I understand, Mr. Corbin, that you’re used to getting your way since people either fear you, loathe you, or are indebted to you. Well, we have a saying in the South. You look rode hard and put up wet.” He frowns. “Sounds like a dirty pickup line.”