Chapter 2 2

Spencer didn't wait for security. He practically sprinted across the polished floor, dodging a waiter and shoving past an elderly aunt. He reached Elena before the guard did, his hand clamping around her upper arm with a force that made her wince.

"Come with me," he hissed, the charm completely gone from his voice.

He didn't wait for an answer. He dragged her sideways, through a service door that swung shut behind them, cutting off the jazz music and the whispers.

They were in a catering corridor. The air here was hot and smelled of reduced balsamic vinegar and industrial dishwasher detergent. Waiters in white coats rushed past with trays of filet mignon, their eyes widening as they saw the groom-to-be dragging a woman in a trench coat.

Spencer hauled her past a stack of crates and shoved her into a small alcove near the ice machines. He released her arm as if she burned him.

He immediately reached up to check his bow tie in the reflection of the stainless steel freezer.

Elena rubbed her arm where his fingers had dug in. Her skin felt raw. She looked at him-really looked at him-and felt a wave of vertigo. This was the man she had made breakfast for this morning. This was the man who had kissed her forehead and said, "See you tonight, babe."

"How did you get here?" Spencer demanded. He turned on her, his face flushed. "Who told you?"

Not I'm sorry. Not Let me explain.

Just: Who leaked the memo?

Elena looked down at the gift bag in her hand. The weight of the lens felt stupid now. Heavy and useless.

She lifted her arm and swung.

The heavy bag hit Spencer square in the chest with a dull thud.

"Oof!" Spencer stumbled back, catching the bag before it hit the floor. The lens inside rolled out, the vintage glass clattering against the tiled floor.

He looked down at it. He recognized it immediately. The Canon 50mm. The one he'd pointed out in a shop window six months ago, saying it was "pure artistry."

For a second, his expression cracked. A flash of something like shame flickered behind his eyes.

"Elena..."

"Don't," she said. Her voice was steady, which surprised her. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was ice. "Don't you dare say my name."

Spencer ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Listen to me. You don't understand. This isn't real. It's... it's a merger. The Van Der Woodsens have the shipping lanes my father needs. It's business."

Elena felt her stomach lurch again. "Business? You're marrying her, Spencer. That's not a merger. That's a life."

"It's an arrangement!" He stepped closer, lowering his voice, his eyes darting to the door. "Vanessa knows. She doesn't care. We have an understanding. She gets the Kensington name, I get the trust fund unlocked."

He reached for her hand. Elena snatched it back, pressing herself against the cold metal of the ice machine.

"So what am I?" she asked, the words tasting like acid. "The side project? The pet?"

"You're the one I love," Spencer said, with a terrifying amount of sincerity. "Vanessa is... she's furniture. She's a mannequin. I can't talk to her like I talk to you. I can't be myself with her."

He looked at her with imploring eyes, the same eyes that had convinced her he was different from the rest of his family. "We can make this work, Elena. I can get you a better apartment. Something in the Upper East Side. Or a brownstone in the Village. Whatever you want. I'll take care of you."

The room seemed to tilt. "You want to make me your mistress."

Spencer winced at the word. "Don't call it that. It's... it's a partnership. Once I have access to the trust, I'll have the power. I can give you everything."

"Everything except you," Elena whispered.

The door at the end of the hall swung open. A busboy carrying a tray of dirty dishes froze, seeing them. Spencer glared at him, and the boy scrambled back out.

Elena started to laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound that scraped her throat.

"You really think," she said, stepping away from the machine, "that I would be okay with being your dirty little secret? That I would sit in a gilded cage waiting for you to sneak away from your wife?"

"It's better than struggling!" Spencer snapped, his patience fraying. "Look at you, Elena. You're drowning. You work yourself to the bone for a dying newspaper. You're constantly worried about your dad, about money, about the future. I can make it all go away. I can give you a life of ease."

The mention of her struggles felt like a slap. He made her resilience sound like a disease he needed to cure.

"I don't need you to save me, Spencer."

"Everyone needs saving!" he argued, his voice cracking with a desperate sort of entitlement. "My mother... she holds the purse strings. If I don't do this, she cuts me off. I'd have nothing. I can't live like... like normal people. I can't do what you do. I need the money to protect us."

"Protect us?" Elena said, her voice quiet and devastating. "You're not protecting us. You're selling yourself. And you want me to be the bonus prize."

Spencer's face hardened. The cruelty that lived just beneath the surface of his politeness broke through. "Careful, Elena. You walk out that door, you have nothing. No boyfriend. No access to this world. You think the Chronicle pays enough to keep you afloat in this city? You're one missed paycheck away from the street."

Elena straightened her spine. She felt taller, suddenly. "I'd rather sleep under a bridge than in your bed."

She turned toward the exit that led to the alley, not the ballroom.

Spencer lunged, slamming his hand against the doorframe to block her path.

"You can't go out there yet," he said, panic creeping back into his voice. "There are paparazzi at the back entrance. If they see you crying, if they link you to me tonight... it'll ruin the announcement."

Elena looked at his hand blocking her way. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen, bringing up the voice memo app. The red recording bar was pulsing.

"I've been recording since we walked into the hall," she lied. She hadn't been, but Spencer didn't know that. "Move, Spencer. Or tomorrow's headline reads: Kensington Heir Detains Ex-Girlfriend at Engagement Party."

Spencer went pale. He stared at the phone as if it were a loaded gun.

Slowly, resentfully, he lowered his arm.

"You're making a mistake," he muttered.

"The only mistake I made," Elena said, "was believing you were a man."

She pushed past him, her shoulder checking his chest, and shoved the heavy metal door open.

The night air hit her like a bucket of ice water. She was in the back alley behind the restaurant. Dumpsters overflowed with discarded lobster shells and wilted flowers. It smelled of rot and expensive waste.

The door clanged shut behind her, sealing Spencer inside his world of crystal and lies.

Elena leaned back against the brick wall, her legs finally giving out. She slid down until she was crouching on the damp pavement. She gasped for air, her lungs burning, her hands trembling so hard she almost dropped her phone.

She tried to call an Uber, but her screen showed No Service. The thick stone walls of the buildings were blocking the signal.

A sleek black SUV rolled slowly past the mouth of the alley. It paused for a second. The window was tinted so dark it looked like a mirror, reflecting the streetlights. Elena felt a gaze on her, heavy and intense.

She wiped her eyes furiously. She wouldn't let anyone see her break.

The car lingered for another heartbeat, the engine purring low and menacing, before it accelerated and disappeared into the night.