Chapter 4
Rosalind
By the time Beckett pulled up to an unmarked building in the financial district, the sun was already setting, painting Boston's skyline in shades of amber and blood. I'd stopped crying somewhere around Newbury Street, but my eyes still burned and my chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out everything inside and left only echoes.
I stared at the discrete entrance, confused through my emotional fog. "You're taking me to a bar?" My voice came out raw, disbelieving. "I just found out my parents would literally trade my bone marrow for social status, let them drill into my bones for it, and your solution is getting drunk?"
"Would you rather go to a church?" he asked, already getting out of the car. "I find confession booths kinda cramped."
"This isn't funny—"
"No, it's not." He came around to open my door, his expression serious. "But sitting in some bright café while you process your parents screwing you over isn't gonna help either."
The doorman nodded at Beckett without asking for identification, opening a door that led to a dimly lit staircase going down.
"Members only," Beckett explained as we descended. "No cameras, no gossip bloggers. You can have your breakdown without it making tomorrow's headlines."
The bar itself was all shadows and amber lighting, leather chairs that whispered money, and the kind of silence that came from excellent soundproofing and people who minded their own business. He guided me to a corner booth, practically invisible from the main room.
"I don't even drink," I said numbly, sliding into the seat.
"Tonight you do." He signaled the bartender with two fingers. "Trust me on this."
Three drinks in, my careful composure cracked. Four drinks in, it shattered completely.
"Here's what's really fucked up," I laughed, slamming my glass down harder than intended. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim, pooling on the dark wood. "I used to be somebody. I had this whole portfolio—architectural designs, interior concepts. I was gonna revolutionize sustainable urban living. God, I was such a pretentious little bitch." My hands shook slightly as I reached for my drink again.
Beckett sipped his drink, watching me with those unreadable eyes.
"But Calloway said it was 'too masculine' for his future wife. So I became this pathetic shell." I gestured at myself disgustedly. "Spent five years learning about wine pairings and flower arrangements. You wanna know how many ways there are to fold a napkin? Seventeen. I know seventeen ways to fold a fucking napkin."
"Useful skill," he commented dryly.
"Oh, totally. Almost as useful as knowing which goddamn fork to use for the fish course." I downed another shot. "You wanna know when I realized I'd become a complete fucking joke?"
He waited, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.
"I walked in on them on my birthday. MY birthday." The memory burned even through the alcohol haze. "Hannah was wearing the La Perla set Calloway had bought me—tags still on because I was 'saving it for our wedding night.' She saw me standing there, and you know what she did?"
"Said sorry and covered up?" His tone suggested he knew better, but his voice had dropped to something dangerous and quiet.
I laughed harshly. "She looked me dead in the eyes, smiled, and said 'Happy birthday, cuz. Wanna watch?' Then she... put on a show. Made sure I saw everything. Every position. Every sound. Like she was performing just for me."
"And you stayed with him after that?" Beckett's voice was clinically curious, but his knuckles had gone white around his glass. "That's pretty fucking pathetic of you."
The word hit like cold water. I jerked back as if he'd physically struck me. "Pathetic?" My voice came out strangled.
"What else would you call it?" He set his drink down with deliberate control, the ice clinking against crystal. "The guy was screwing your cousin in your bed, and you thought—what? That he'd suddenly grow a heart? That your seventeen napkin tricks would win him back?" His eyes had gone dark, almost predatory.
"You don't get it—" I started, but my voice cracked mid-sentence.
"I get it perfectly." He leaned back against the leather booth, his fingers drumming once against his glass. "You were so desperate to marry Calloway that you convinced yourself being a doormat was love."
Heat flashed through me, cutting through the alcohol haze. "Fuck you." I spat the words across the table, my hands clenched into fists.
"There she is." He raised his glass slightly. "The real Rosalind. Tell me, when did you decide he was more important than what you actually wanted?"
"When my parents—" I stopped, shaking my head. "No, before that. When I came back from Paris at seventeen and everyone kept saying how lucky I was that Calloway wanted me. The poor little Blackwell girl getting saved by the golden boy."
"Except he'd rather fuck your cousin."
I took another drink, the alcohol making everything feel sharper and more surreal. "But here's the really fucked up part. The diagnosis came exactly one week after I hired a private investigator. One week! Suddenly she's dying, desperately needs bone marrow, and I'm supposedly the only match in the entire world."
"And you actually fell for that? Jesus, Rosalind, how fucking naive are you?"
I threw my empty glass at him. He caught it easily, setting it aside without expression.
"I hate you," I informed him.
"No, you hate yourself. I'm just the first person to call you on your bullshit."
That stopped me cold. Because he was right. Every vicious thing he'd said was something I'd thought about myself at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling while Calloway slept beside me, probably dreaming of Hannah.
"She's not really sick, is she?" I asked quietly.