Page 21 of Most Eligible Billionaire

Sara held open the door for me and I stepped out into the sunshine only to come face-to-face with a crowd of reporters, yelling questions, taking pictures.

Do you have an apology for Denny Woodruff and his family? Do you feel like you deserved to be released? Do you have a message? Do you have a statement? How does it feel to be forgiven?

I didn’t have much left in me by then. Just two words for the crowd:Never again.I just looked into the nearest camera and vowed it.Never again.

People wanted clarification. Did I mean I’d never lie again?

I headed off onto the sidewalk. A few of the reporters tagged along with me, trying to get me into conversation. I would say nothing more. Eventually Sara the policewoman took pity on me and drove me home.

My release and my definitely-not-grateful-enough comment made the local and national news. It was your classic study in “do and don’t”—the Woodruffs outside their beautiful home with their forgiveness, hoping I could get help. They were the DO. And then there was me with my tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes croakingNever againinto the camera. I was the DON’T. Put a red circle around my face with a line through it.

I got asked about my terse statement a lot after that. People want contrition from a villain. They need you to feel pain for the wrong of your ways.Never againjust doesn’t do it.

But it did it for me.

Never againwas my vow to the world, to myself.Never againwould I be bullied by people like the Woodruffs.Never againwould I allow a rich asshole to make me feel small and scared.

Never again.

Looking back, the exercise of hauling me down to the station was simple intimidation. It was the Woodruffs flexing their muscles.This is what happens when you oppose us.

I tell myself that’s all this is with the Locke clan. I’m being detained, not arrested.

I think again of Henry, standing there all smug.We will bury you.Suddenly he was Denny Woodruff. And all I could think wasNever again, motherfucker.

Never again.

The price of taking that money was way too high, because it would be like admitting I’m a scam artist or a liar or guilty of something.

The price of taking that money would be losing myself.

When Henry’s cop friend showed up wanting to “Clear up the matter down at the station,” I went. They didn’t fingerprint me, though I was alarmed when they ran my ID. It seemed to hold up. It always does. The person who supplied our wildly expensive new identities seven years ago said they’d be foolproof, but it’s not like you can test drive that sort of thing.

I wait to see what the police will do, worrying mostly about Carly. I don’t want Mom knowing where to find us and taking Carly back. She never filed a missing persons report on us, but she’s a drug addict who’s proved she’s willing to put her habit above her girls. I’m not taking chances.

I called Carly on the way down to the station. She was just leaving rehearsal with her friend, Bess. I talked to Bess’s mom and made arrangements for Carly to stay there until I could deal with my “unexpected personal emergency.” I'm sure that left a great impression.

My phone is running out of juice, and frankly, so am I.

Finally the door opens, and there’s Henry, still in his fabulous suit.

His smile is pure arrogance, his attitude breezy. He sets a white bakery bag on the table—a bag that’s full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, if the smell is any indication.

I’ll admit, the smell of the cookies is exciting me a lot, but mostly it’s Henry. It’s as if his presence is lending me new energy.

Like he’s the lion who has finally appeared to my David.

Or maybe he’s the flame who has appeared to my moth, but let’s just go with lion.

“The playboy smirkitect has arrived,” I say simply. “How lucky for me.”

His blue eyes twinkle. He tilts his head. “Hello, jelly bean.”

I ignore the sizzle of his gaze on my skin. “Not my name.”

He puts down a leather folder and settles into a chair opposite me. I’m struck by how muscular and golden his hands are, with just the perfect amount of roughness to them.

That wristwatch still peeks out from under his jacket sleeves and white shirt cuffs, all hot heft and dials.

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