His Belt (Part Three) Read online

  His Belt

  Part Three

  Hannah Ford

  Contents

  Copyright

  WANT TO BE IN THE KNOW?

  His Belt

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Copyright © 2018 by Hannah Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  His Belt

  (Part Three)

  Chapter 1

  ABIGAIL

  The word reverberates, seemingly hanging in the air like a cloud. WHORE WHORE WHORE. It’s humiliating hearing that someone changed my password to include that word, even more humiliating that I’m being informed of this fact by the IT guy, a man I barely know. His voice is soft and kind, which somehow makes it even worse.

  “You okay?” Will asks. He’s looking at me intently as I thank Todd and hang up the phone.

  “Yeah, it’s just…” I swallow. “Someone broke into my messenger account and changed the password to ‘I’M A WHORE.’” The words are out of my mouth before I can decide whether or not it’s a good idea to tell him. “Please don’t tell Hailey. She’s already so worried about me and Elijah, and now after the picture, I just… I don’t want her to worry.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Will says, running his hand through his dark hair, a look of concern on his face. “Were they able to figure out who did it?”

  I shook my head. “Whoever did it hacked in from outside the Armstrong Media servers.” Lucy. It’s the first name that pops into my head. I remember the way her face looked this morning, the venom in her voice. What was it that she’d said? I will destroy you.

  “What are you going to do?” Will asks.

  “About the password or about Elijah?”

  “Both.”

  “I have a feeling the two of them are connected.” I narrow my eyes, my jaw setting into a determined line. Now that the shock has warn off, it’s starting to be replaced with a simmering rage.

  I march toward the receptionist desk, feeling more determined than ever. What the hell was Elijah thinking, making that comment to Page Six? Couldn’t he have made something up, or better yet, stopped the picture from running at all? He was a powerful, wealthy man. Wasn’t that what powerful, wealthy man did? Stop things from sullying their reputations?

  Although, I realize, as I approach the reception desk, it wasn’t really his reputation on the line now, was it? It was mine.

  “Hello,” I say politely to Addison, Elijah’s receptionist. She holds up a finger, letting me know to wait.

  I tap my foot impatiently as she answers three phone calls with “Elijah Armstrong’s office, please hold” her voice so robotic and devoid of emotion that it sounds like a recording.

  Finally, she stops and looks at me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “She’s with me, Addison” Will says. “Buzz me in.” He gives me an apologetic look and rolls his eyes. Wow. Elijah must be so controlling that he doesn’t even let Will have a code to get into the office. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? The president? The thought of how much self-importance a person must have to do something like that makes me even angrier than I already am.

  “Certainly.” Addison’s voice is sugary sweet as she pushes the button behind her desk. The pocket doors open silently.

  “Thanks,” Will says.

  “But if you’re going to see Mr. Armstrong, he’s not in today.” Addison’s voice is still sugary sweet and robotic. I wonder if it’s a requirement for the job. ‘Must have an Ivy League degree and the ability to make your voice sound like an annoying recording.’

  “Where is he?” I demand.

  She shrugs. “Out on personal business. I can take your name and let you know when he’s back.”

  “It’s Abigail Bennett,” I say. “I was here yesterday, remember?”

  “Oh!” Addison’s eyes light up, the first flicker of emotion finally hitting her voice. “Mr. Armstrong left something for you, told me to make sure you got it.” She reaches behind her desk and pulls out a white box. It looks sort of like a shirt box, except it’s deeper and more of a square than a rectangle. It’s wrapped in a shiny red bow, with ribbons that crisscross over the top. “I was going to send it through the mail room, but since you’re here…” She looks super pleased with herself, like she’s accomplished something monumentally consequential instead of just giving me a box, something a three-year-old could have done.

  I take the box from her slowly, aware that Will’s eyes are boring into my back.

  “You okay?” he asks, not moving.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” But I’m not really fine, because how fine can you really be when your picture has just appeared on Page Six and someone at your office has broken into your office messaging system and changed your password to something obscene and your boss who you’ve hooked up with has now left you a mysterious gift?

  “Are you going to open it?” Will presses.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I run my hands over the ribbon, soft and shiny, wondering what the hell could be inside.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Will sighs.

  “What? Oh! Yes, sorry, I’m going to open it.” Of course I’m going to open it.

  Addison has gone back to answering the phones, her voice brisk and robotic. Now that she’s done her part in giving me the box, she couldn’t be less interested in me or Will.

  “Come on,” Will says. He ushers me through the open doors into a side room, one that’s filled with glass tables and sleek gray leather furniture. Elijah must have people wait here to see him. I can just imagine him sitting in his office, making people linger here until he deems them worthy of seeing him. Ugh.

  Will steers me to the sofa and sits down next to me. “Open it.”

  I stare down at the box, the red ribbon like a stop sign, warning me. I take a deep breath, then hook my index finger under the ribbon. It slides off in one smooth motion, not like the ribbons I usually end up with when I wrap my Christmas presents, ribbons that take scissors to get off successfully and end up leaving paper cuts on your fingers. Of course, those ribbons are from the dollar store, not the kind of ribbons that Elijah uses, which seem almost like works of art.

  I pull off the top of the box to reveal clouds of white tissue paper.

  And under that, a peek of fabric. It’s deep red, almost a cranberry.

  A dress.

  I pull it out of the box and stand up, holding it in front of me, watching the layers of fabric as they fall to the floor like a waterfall.

  I’m not one to get obsessed with clothes – they’ve never been my thing, and you could fit what I know about fashion into one short blog post – but this dress is gorgeous, the kind of dress that takes your breath away.

  It has thin straps, and the bodice is fitted down to the sweetheart waist, which then explodes into falls of fabric that cascade to the floor in soft swirls.

  “There’s a note,” Will says, handing it to me.

  My name is written
on the envelope, and I open it, holding my breath, not sure I want to know what it says.

  Wear this tonight. The car will arrive at seven.

  I frown and turn it over, looking for further instructions, but there are none.

  “What does it say?” Will asks, then shakes his head. “Sorry, you don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I hold the card out to him.

  “Wow,” he says. “The premier of AMStream is tonight.”

  “That’s tonight?”

  “Yes. At the Carlisle. It’s been on Armstrong’s calendar for weeks.”

  AMStream is Armstrong Media’s new online streaming service. The film and television division has been developing original content for it for over a year now, and tonight they’re going to show sneak peeks of some of the projects they’ve acquired. It’s a huge event at the Carlisle Hotel, with a red carpet and a fancy dinner.

  “He’s inviting you to be his date,” Will says, his face stoic, watching me as he tries to figure out how I feel about this. I appreciate this about Will – if Hailey were here, she would be freaking out, telling me what a horrible idea it was, telling me there was no way I could go, that I shouldn’t reward Elijah’s behavior of commenting to Page Six by being his date to a high-profile function.

  But Will was wrong.

  Elijah wasn’t asking me to be his date. The romance editors had been invited already. Normally, we weren’t important enough to be invited to the kind of galas and Hollywood-esque red carpet events that Armstrong Media throws, but since one of the movies they’re showing is based on a sci-fi book we published, all the editors got invited to the screenings. When I’d gotten e-vite, I’d glanced at it then sent it right to the trash.

  The thought at being at one of those things raised my anxiety level sky high. It was all tuxedos and designer dresses, cooperate people and stiff conversation. All the things that made my skin crawl.

  So no, Elijah wasn’t asking me to be his date.

  This was a test.

  Do everything I say. Wear what I say.

  The words he’d spoken in his office right before he spanked me with his belt replayed in my mind.

  No, this wasn’t a date.

  This was a test.

  Chapter 2

  ABIGAIL

  By the time the car pulls up in front of my apartment at seven o’clock that night, I’m still not sure if I’m going to the Carlisle

  I mean, I certainly look like someone who’s going to a gala. My hair is pulled back in a loose fishtail braid, my smoky eye is on point and my contouring game is strong. I’m wearing the dress Elijah left for me, along with a pair of soft white glittery flats that were nestled in the bottom of the box. Under my dress is the lingerie that was also in the box, a lacy black thong and matching strapless bra.

  I told myself as I showered that I wasn’t sure if I was going, but that I might as well shower just in case.

  I told myself the same thing as I dried my hair, then fixed it into the loose braid using an internet video tutorial to guide me.

  And the same thing as I did my makeup and pulled the beautiful dress over my head, then used a coat hanger to pull the zipper up.

  Now I stood at my window watching the black car idling at the curb, stared at the text on my phone from the driver that alerted me to the fact that a car was waiting for me.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wondering if Elijah was in the car, imagining him waiting there, the scent of his cologne on the air, the sheer presence of him, so masculine, so overwhelming, so just… him.

  And then before I could talk myself out of it, I ran down the stairs to the waiting car, feeling like some sort of Cinderella as my dress trailed behind me.

  But my thoughts of being in a fairy tale were dashed pretty quickly as the driver opened the door for me and I climbed into the back of… an empty limo.

  Elijah wasn’t there.

  In fact, I hadn’t heard from him all day.

  I’d resisted the urge to send him an email or call him, somehow knowing that this wasn’t what he wanted – that he’d wanted me to do what the card had said, no questions asked.

  I settled into the backseat, arranging the train of my dress around me, watching the lights of the city turn into a blur through the window as the car headed for Midtown. The commuters were still out in full force, the nightly commute in New York City lasting well past eight o’clock as New Yorkers desperate to get ahead stayed chained to their desks well into the evening.

  I fiddled with my phone, jumping when it buzzed with a text from Hailey.

  Dinner? I have a coupon for a free burrito from Burrito Palace, we could split it and gorge ourselves on the free chips.

  I closed my eyes, my hands hovering over the button, not wanting to tell her where I was or why I couldn’t go.

  Raincheck?

  Sure. You still okay?

  Fine. Thanks for talking earlier.

  We’d had lunch together, huddled together in the back of Cocoa’s over a plate of buffalo chicken nachos as Hailey cautioned me on the dangers of getting involved with my boss. (It’s career suicide, Abigail, you’re the one who’s going to suffer, Abigail, he’s a womanizer, Abigail.)

  I’d agreed with her, buoyed by the fact that no one at work except for Lucy had said anything about the picture on Page Six.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting – maybe that I was going to step off the elevator and hear whispers while people pointed and giggled at me, just like in the movies. But besides people being maybe a little more polite to me, there hadn’t been much fallout. At least not yet.

  So I’d sat in that booth with Hailey and told myself she was right, even said it out loud, trying not to think about what Elijah had done to me the night before in that very same restaurant, just feet from where we sat.

  Hailey and I had decided I could still make sure this whole situation didn’t effect me. Besides Lucy – who I was almost sure had been the one to change my password now that I saw the way everyone else was reacting– no one seemed to care about the picture, or know exactly what it meant. If I was smart, I could get out of this situation unscathed, without anyone the wiser.

  But if I continued to play with fire, I was going to get burned.

  But then I’d gotten home, and I’d pulled that beautiful dress out of the box, and I’d thought about seeing him, and his touch, the feel of his lips on my neck, the sound his belt had made slashing through the air and I’d just…. I’d gotten into the shower.

  I shove my phone back into my tiny beaded clutch as the car pulls up in front of the Carlisle, and I open my own door before realizing it’s the driver’s job.

  He pulls it open from the other side, and helps me out.

  There’s a red carpet and a step and repeat call set up outside the hotel, and the paparazzi are lined up on either side of it, waiting for the stars of the shows to pull up so they can get their pictures.

  They swing their cameras toward me and then back down when they realize I’m no one to be worried about.

  I hurry down the red carpet, and up the sweeping front steps of the hotel. I’m almost inside when I hear a commotion behind me.

  I turn around, watching as a limo pulls up and Elijah Armstrong steps out. My breath catches, my throat constricting.

  He’s wearing a black tux, perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, his shoulder wide and strong under his jacket. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, cut short on the sides, his jaw strong. He commands attention, and the paparazzi immediately start snapping pictures of him, calling his name in an effort to get him to turn toward their cameras.

  He seems completely oblivious to the attention, almost like this grand party is an annoyance rather than one of the biggest nights of his career.

  I stand under the archways that line the top of the stairs that lead into the hotel, watching as Elijah stands in front of the step and repeat, not smiling as the paparazzi take photo after
photo, still shouting his name.

  His stare is intense, a hint of a smile on his lips, but his brow is furrowed, and I can tell he’s only tolerating this.

  Suddenly, another limo pulls up to the curb, and there’s another commotion as the paparazzi realize that it’s Chloe Castle, upcoming starlet and lead actress of one of the movies that will be previewed tonight, Take Me Down.

  She steps out of her limo and onto the red carpet, and even I’m breathless at the sight of her. Long blonde hair flows down her back in soft curves, and her dress is a sheath of light blue that hugs her body perfectly.

  I watch as her face lights up when she sees Elijah, and she joins him in front of the step and repeat.

  His hand snakes around her tiny little waist, and she leans in and whispers something into his ear, something that makes him smile.

  The photographers are snapping maniacally, getting the two of them together looking perfect.

  And I start to feel stupid that I ever came.

  I find my seat in the ballroom at my assigned table. The other editors from the romance division are already there -- Jane Marshall, Mackenzie Jessup, Olivia Hunter, and of course, Lucy.

  She’s drinking something pink and frothy from a glass.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” she says as soon as she sees me. Her ice blue eyes narrow into little slits, like the fact that’s she’s now in my presence is somehow an unbearable insult.

  “Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”

  “Where did you get your dress?” she asks suspiciously, her eyes taking in the smooth lines and the cut, knowing instinctively that I couldn’t afford something so beautiful on my own.

  “I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “I didn’t know you had any friends who were interested in fashion,” she snorts.

  “Yeah, well, there’s a lot about me you don’t know.” It’s a lame comeback, and it sets me up for her own.