Chapter 2 - The Mask Slips Behind Closed Doors
“Where the hell were you?”
The moment the penthouse door swung shut and the heavy brass deadbolt engaged, the charming smile vanished from Graham Whitmore’s face like smoke in an updraft. He ripped off his satin bowtie, throwing it carelessly onto the glass console table, and turned on Evelyn.
The apartment was sprawling, modern, and sterile. Glass windows overlooked the shimmering skyline of Center City, but to Evelyn, it was nothing more than an upscale cage lined with imported hardwood and modern art.
“I was checking on the server, Graham,” Evelyn said, setting her keys down with hands she fought to keep steady. She kicked off her heels, her toes sinking into the rug, preparing herself mentally for the ritual.
“Checking on the server?” Graham mocked, his voice rising as he advanced across the living room. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you made me look out there? Jumping into the middle of a ballroom floor like some hysterical working-class union rep? Offering to pay for an eighty-dollar dry cleaning bill on a five-hundred-dollar dress?”
“She was terrified, Graham. The banquet manager was threatening her job.”
“And that is her problem!” Graham roared, slamming his palm against the marble kitchen island. The sharp crack made Evelyn jump, her shoulders curling inward. “You are the future wife of a city councilman! You are supposed to represent poise, status, and class! Instead, you remind the entire donor committee that six months ago you were wiping grease off laminated menus at two in the morning!”
“You said my background was an asset,” Evelyn said quietly, fighting the burn of tears behind her eyelids. “You said the voters would love a self-made woman.”
“For the campaign ads, Evelyn! For the thirty-second profile on local television! Not in real life!” Graham stepped into her personal space, his breathing ragged. The sweet smell of expensive scotch wafted from his breath. He reached out and grabbed her left arm, his fingers finding the exact spot above her wrist bone.
Evelyn gasped, the pain lancing through her skin where yesterday’s purpling bruise was still fresh beneath the foundation.
“You listen to me,” Graham whispered, his handsome face twisting into something ugly, venomous, and small. “I pulled you out of that filthy diner. I bought you these dresses. I gave you this ring. Without me, you are nobody. You don't speak unless I give you the cue. You don't run off into service hallways. And you never, ever make me the butt of an awkward joke in front of the press again.”
His grip tightened until her knuckles went numb.
“Do you understand me?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Evelyn choked out, tears finally breaking free and spilling over her lashes. “Graham, please. It hurts.”
Graham held her for three more agonizing seconds, letting the fear register in her eyes, before he shoved her arm away in disgust. “Go wash that ridiculous makeup off your face. We have breakfast with the campaign finance director at eight tomorrow morning. If you look tired, you'll answer to me.”
He turned on his heel and walked into his private study, slamming the mahogany door shut.
Evelyn stood in the center of the dark living room, cradling her aching wrist against her chest. She sank down to the hardwood floor, burying her face into her knees. Her body shook with silent, muffled sobs.
She was trapped. When she had tried to leave three months ago, Graham had threatened to have her younger brother’s mechanic shop shut down by the city inspectors on false code violations. He had threatened to frame her for theft using the jewelry he had given her. Graham Whitmore possessed money, influence, and the ear of every judge in the district.
She had no family powerful enough to fight him. No money saved because Graham controlled her accounts.
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Then, out of the dark recesses of her memory, Vincent Marchetti’s words echoed through her mind: I know when a woman is drowning in plain sight.
Vincent had seen the truth. But what could a mafia boss want with a broken waitress, other than another soul to crush?
