Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
And I’m not giving this fucker a damned dime.
Paying off a blackmailer only makes him stronger.
He’ll consider me a cash cow after the first payment, and once it’s gone, he’ll be back for more.
And then I’ll never be rid of him.
Once you have money, you want more. Braden and I are constantly adding to our wealth, and it’s not because we need it.
It’s because we want it.
“You’re not getting anything from me.”
Dirk scratches the light brown stubble on his chin. “I see you’re going to have to take some convincing.”
“The answer is no. Whether you convince me or not.”
“Have it your way, Black.” He turns, heads toward the door, and then looks over his shoulder. “Expect something in the mail tomorrow.”
“Your so-called evidence?”
He turns and then looks over his shoulder. “You wait and see.”
Chapter One
Tessa
Three Months Later…
Sometimes I’d rather die than go through one more day of feeling like this.
But I’m not suicidal. I don’t have a stash of sleeping pills or razor blades hidden at my place. The thought of anything like that sickens me. I’ve spoken to my therapist ad nauseam about these feelings, and she agrees I’m not at risk of ending my life.
She originally called it “passive suicide ideation,” but then she explained that term means actively thinking about one’s own death without having any plan for bringing it about.
Then after several sessions, she agreed that’s not me, either. I don’t actively think about ending my life or even about dying. Sometimes, though, I just feel like I’d rather be dead than go through one more day of this agony.
On my computer screen are photos of a private Jamaican resort. The featured image on the website is, of course, the gorgeous beach. The blue of the ocean contrasts with the dazzling white sand. Palm trees frame the outer edges, adding a lush green to the scene.
The photo must be enhanced. Nothing can be that beautiful.
My mood changes daily.
Today’s a bad day.
But I also have good days, and I remind myself of that when I’m having a bad day. I remind myself that I love the beach, the blue sky, the feeling of sand squishing between my toes. The sound of seagulls flying overhead. Stepping around jellyfish. Finding a starfish and throwing it back into the water, to its life.
Right now, I’m busy—or at least trying to be—planning my best friend’s bachelorette party in Jamaica. Skye Manning is marrying the blue-collar billionaire Braden Black, so no expense will be spared. Funny, the old Tessa—before Garrett Ramirez changed her—would love planning the most amazing bachelorette bash on the planet for her best friend in the world.
I’m glad to have a reprieve when my phone buzzes. It’s my father. Comfort settles over me. My father is such a strong and kind man, and I know he’d bear this burden for me if he could.
“Hey, Da,” I say into the phone.
“Hey, angel,” he says in his low voice. “Just wanted to hear your voice. Let you know your mom and I are thinking of you. How are you getting along?”
“I’m okay.” It’s not a lie, exactly. I’m not having a great day, but I don’t want him to worry. “I’m working on the bachelorette stuff for Skye.”
“Tessa, what have I told you your whole life? About lying to me?”
Good old Da. He always knows. Knows me better than I know myself sometimes. “I’m sorry. Today’s a bad day.”
“You want me to come get you? You know you can always come home if you need to.”
“I know, Da. Thanks. But I’m fine. Some days are harder than others, but I’m muddling through.”
“You’re a strong woman, Tessa. Just like your mother and your grandmother before her. You’ve got that Esparza spunk. Don’t forget that.”
“Sometimes I don’t feel very strong.”
“I know. We all feel that way occasionally.”
“Even you?” My father is so strong and robust. Sometimes I think he could face a Sherman tank and come out on top.
“Even me, sweetie. But you already know that.”
A lump forms in my throat. My father and I have always been close, and he’s been a rock for me these last few months. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Da.”
“You never have to worry about that. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“I will. Love you.”
“I love you too, angel.”
I end the call, and my adorable terrier-mix rescue dog, Margarita—Rita for short, named after my favorite cocktail, even though I no longer drink—climbs up into my lap.
The fact that Saint Rita is the patron saint of impossible and desperate causes isn’t lost on me. Nana used to tell me about the saints when I sat in her lap as a little girl.
She was my safe place.
How I wish she were here now.
…
Eighteen years earlier…
Nana has an altar in her room. I love Nana’s room because it has pretty gold wallpaper, and it always smells good. Kind of like smoke and perfume. Mommy and Da are Catholic, and so is Nana, but she’s a different kind of Catholic. She goes to Mass with us, but she also prays to the Virgin Mary at home, at her altar. She calls her “Our Lady of Guadaloop.”