Married to a powerful businessman feared all-over Portland, Mia Kingston has a reputation to uphold. As the CEO of MK, her own lingerie brand, everyone believes she has everything, including the perfect marriage most women envy.
She's beautiful, s...
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Anne and Derek are two people who aren't even close to being friends. In fact, Anne knows how noxious my relationship with Derek and his mother has been since the moment I stepped foot in Portland. Elena hates me and the same goes for everyone in her family.
Everyone except her other son, Eliot.
I stare at the picture more closely. My eyes seem to be working transcendently, needless to use any kind of spectacles. The two people inside an intimate restaurant seem to be into a deep conversation. Whoever took the photo wasn't quite far from them—that I can tell from its angle.
"What is this?" I'm getting highly bemused the more I urge my mind to gather what's going on here.
Sitting up in my bed, I try to call the number which sent me the photo. I fail to go through it. Damn! Who could it be? And why did he or she send me this picture? And since when did Anne become close to Derek? Morbific thoughts keep abusing my intelligence and I think I'm going nuts.
Deliberately, I decide to put this matter pending after a long moment of answerless questions and go to sleep. But something else forces me otherwise. My phone stays in my tight hold as I begin pondering on how Patrick learns of almost my every move. Clearly he's no magician to have it all under his control . . . is he?
No, someone's tipping him of everything I do in the office. I have a mole right under my nose and I ought to discover who it is. Detective Smith's distorted warning flings into my memory when I think of this. Could it really be someone close to me? Fuck, I hate that I can't trust anyone lately.
"Leslie," I mutter and dial her number immediately. It takes a short moment until I hear her voice. "Did you speak to my husband today?" I go straight to the point, giving no space for mind games.
"Huh?" Leslie sounds surprised, for it's very strange that I'm asking her this question.
"Did you speak to Patrick today? It's a simple question, Leslie!" My voice turns imperative and I can imagine the start on her face.
"No, ma'am. He didn't call the office today," Leslie answers nervously—her usual reaction—and I feel inclined to trust her words, for she's never done anything to weave my confidence in her.
"Who else asked where I was today?" I quiz her.
"Um, no one," Leslie replies. My brows arch briskly. "Oh, wait! Ms. Anne asked if you were returning to the office and if I knew where you were going after our trip to the fabric store."
Anne again? I frown.
"She did?" I mutter.
Why does this sound disturbing?
Leslie hums affirmatively. "And also . . . Well, I don't know if I should tell you this, ma'am. I don't want to get in trouble with her," she says hesitantly.
