Cruel Fortune (Cruel #2)(3)

“So, please, just go.” She brushed more tears from her cheeks. “Don’t call or write or try to see me again. I can’t handle being near you.”

Gallantly, I swept her hand into my own and placed a tender kiss on it. Just as I had done the very first time we met. “I wish it were different.”

She choked back tears. “Just…go.”

I didn’t want to go. I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and shut the rest of the world out. To make her see that this was all that mattered.

But never once in my entire life had love mattered. Not with my drill-sergeant mother or alcoholic father or train-wreck brother. Not with any women in my life or even the crew. We were bound by loyalty and secrets, not love. Not really. Why had I thought Natalie would be any different?





Part I





It All Started In A Board Room In Manhattan





Natalie





1





Natalie,

I spoke with Gillian last week and confirmed the remaining details for your New York trip. We’re both so excited to see you and celebrate the release of Bet on It. It’s been a year in the making. Hard to believe that it’s finally here.

I’ve attached the itinerary that Gillian sent over and penciled in our lunch to discuss your next book. I am interested to hear all your brilliant ideas.

If you need anything or have questions, I’m always a phone call away. Congratulations, Natalie! I’m so proud of you!

Regards,

Caroline Liebermann Whitten, Jones, & Liebermann Literary





Fwd:



Caroline,

Here is the finalized itinerary for Natalie. I hope to see you at the party as well.

Best,

Gillian Kent

Senior Editor

Warren Publishing





Itinerary



Sunday

1:20 p.m. Flight—ticket attached





Monday

10:30 a.m. Warren tour 11:00 a.m. Warren meeting 7:30 p.m. Warren dinner @ Twig





Tuesday

12:00 p.m. Lunch w/Caroline @ Norma’s (You’ll love it!) 6:00 p.m. Bet on It release party @ Club 360





Wednesday

12:00–4:00 p.m. Signing @ The Strand on Broadway 8:00 p.m. Hamilton





Thursday

7:30 a.m. Flight—ticket attached





I stared down at my phone, then back up at the Warren Publishing building on Fifth Avenue, then back at my phone, and then back up to the building.

“Would you chill out, Nat?” Amy muttered next to me. “This is clearly the right place.”

Of course it was. With its distinct, flourishing W that looked like two crossed Vs with a loop off of the last one. I’d dreamed about this moment my whole life, and now that it was here, I didn’t feel excited or relieved or giddy. I felt sick mostly. Really sick. Like, at any moment, the stress and anxiety of knowing that I was going to release a book tomorrow might overwhelm me.

“I know it is. I just can’t believe this is happening,” I finally said.

“Your dreams are all coming true. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except for the fact that all I’ve done since I finished the edits on Bet on It is write a few paragraphs and delete them. Rinse and repeat. Now, my agent, my editor, and the entire publishing team at Warren are going to want to know what I’m writing next. And I haven’t written anything.”

Amy rolled her big brown eyes. “Just be a diva about it and tell them that genius only strikes when it’s ready. You aren’t beholden to them. God knows I’ve worked with enough artists to know that. Your publisher should, too.”

Amy was probably right. But it didn’t lessen my nerves an ounce.

Not the least of all because I was back in this city.

My eyes scanned the skyscrapers, dirty sidewalks, crush of taxis, and jittery, frazzled pedestrians rushing to and fro. A year ago, I’d thought that this would be my home. That, despite getting fired from my job as a vacation home watcher for the mayor of New York City, I’d still land on my feet here in this beautiful, crazy city.

But, now, when I looked around at all the hustle and bustle, all the glamour of the city that never sleeps, all I saw was him.

Penn Kensington.

My heart lurched uncomfortably in my chest. I didn’t like to think about him. Or what he’d done to me. Or how he’d used me. Again.

But being here…it was hard not to see him on every street corner.

Those all-knowing blue eyes. The dark hair that he’d constantly mussed as he furiously wrote philosophical musings into his leather-bound notebook. The shape of his muscular body. The habit of slipping his hands into his pockets and staring straight into my soul. His smile, his laugh, the way he’d insisted on teaching me how to sail, how to think, how to learn. Not to mention, his tiny Italian greyhound puppy, Totle. Every little thing about him that had made me fall head over heels, madly in love with him.

And how it had all shattered into pieces a year ago.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Amy said quietly. She touched my shoulder as if she were trying to reel in a kicked dog.