Chapter 8
"Florrie! Wait!"
The shout echoed down the hallway just as the elevator doors were opening.
Florrie sighed. She didn't turn around. She stepped into the elevator and pressed the Close Door button repeatedly.
But a hand-clad in the sleeve of an expensive suit-jammed between the doors. The safety sensors triggered, and the doors slid back open.
Boston stumbled in. He smelled of wet wool and betrayal. He looked manic.
"We need to talk," he panted.
"I think we've said everything," Florrie said, backing into the corner. "Specifically, the part where I said 'Get out' and 'I hate you'."
"The venue," Boston blurted out. "The Plaza Hotel. The Grand Ballroom. You have it reserved for the 18th."
Florrie stared at him. "Yes. For our wedding."
"I need it," Boston said. His tone had changed. It wasn't pleading anymore. It was demanding. "The press is already running with the 'Tragic Last Wish' angle. Canceling the venue now makes me look like a flake. It kills the narrative."
Florrie laughed. It was a genuine, incredulous laugh.
"You want me to give you my wedding venue to save your public image? After your fiancée just lied about a life-threatening allergy?"
"That's a family matter," Boston snapped. "This is business. The merger is in a delicate phase. I need good press. You owe me that, at least. For the years I supported you."
"I am using it," Florrie said coldly.
Boston blinked. "What? With who?"
"With no one," Florrie said. "I called the manager on the way here. The reservation was booked and paid for by my mother's trust, which, as of an hour ago, is back under my sole control. I'm converting the event."
"To what?"
"A funeral," Florrie said. Her eyes glittered. "A funeral for my relationship. Followed by a charity auction. I'm auctioning off everything you ever gave me. The proceeds go to the 'Victims of Narcissistic Abuse' foundation."
Boston's face turned purple. The vein in his forehead bulged.
"You bitch," he spat.
He lunged at her.
It happened fast. He raised his hand. It was a reflex of pure, impotent rage. He was going to slap her.
Florrie flinched, raising her arm to block the blow, her other hand fumbling for the pepper spray in her pocket.
But the blow never landed.
A hand-large, gloved in black leather-shot out from the hallway and grabbed Boston's wrist in mid-air.
It stopped Boston's arm like it had hit a steel wall.
Florrie opened her eyes.
Standing there, holding Boston's wrist in a crushing grip, was a man. He was huge. Broad shoulders, dark suit, earpiece.
"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Travis," the bodyguard said. His voice was gravel.
Boston gasped, trying to pull his arm back. The bodyguard didn't budge.
"Who are you?" Boston yelped. "Let go of me!"
"You're making a scene," the bodyguard said calmly. He shoved Boston backward.
Boston stumbled out of the elevator, slipping and landing hard on his ass in the hallway.
The bodyguard stepped into the elevator. He stood in front of Florrie, blocking her from Boston's view.
He pressed the Lobby button.
The doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of Boston scrambling to his feet.
Florrie stared at the man's broad back.
"Who are you?" she whispered. "Did... did my father send you?"
The man didn't turn around. He kept his eyes on the numbers counting down.
"Just a concerned citizen, Miss Jefferson," he said.
"You're not a citizen," Florrie said. "You're private security. Who pays you?"
The man turned his head slightly. "A friend. Someone who doesn't like seeing women hit."
A friend.
Florrie's mind flashed to the silver locket in her safe, to a boy's voice cracking with fear so many years ago. It couldn't be. Could it?
The elevator dinged at the lobby.
"Have a good evening, Miss Jefferson," the bodyguard said. He stepped out and turned left, disappearing toward the parking garage.
Florrie stood there for a moment, her heart pounding.
It was impossible. He was on the other side of the world. And yet...
She shook her head. She couldn't think about that now. She had a war to finish.
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