Hudson(121)

Finally, I have what I need to get rid of Celia once and for all.

Seven hours later, I’m sitting on the armchair in the loft, swirling the ice in my empty glass of Scotch while Celia looks over the contracts for the business I’ve worked so hard to acquire. I’ve dragged this moment out, letting her argue and goad before presenting her with the facts. It’s the last game I ever plan on playing, and I want to enjoy it.

Except there isn’t any enjoyment in it. There’s no rush. There’s no thrill. Perhaps I’m too numb with sadness about Alayna, but I know that’s not it. I’ve lost the taste for the play. That’s all.

So as Celia reads, I silently say goodbye. Even through the ache, I feel a breath of peace.

I watch her as she flips through the pages. She takes her time. I’m sure some of the language is difficult for her to sift through, but I can tell when she understands. Her face goes white, and her breathing slows.

Finally, she asks, “How did you…?”

“Very sneakily.” I force myself to relish this moment. I did this for Alayna, and I wish she could witness it. I’m proud that I could do this for her, though she would never have needed this sort of protection if it weren’t for me in the first place. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t easy. I had to convince another company to purchase a portion of the stock, and then I bought out that company—you don’t really want the details, do you?”




She scowls. Every trace of humor has left her eyes.

“The contracts are signed now. That’s all that matters. I’m officially the majority owner of Werner Media Corporation.”

Celia’s lips tighten as she closes the file that contains the contracts. “And you said you’d quit playing the game.”

“I had one final move to make.” I wonder briefly if she really thinks that’s what all of this is for me—another game. She’d loved once upon a time. Doesn’t she remember?

A familiar stab of guilt strikes me, low and hard in the gut.

And then it’s gone.

It’s been so easy to blame myself for her choices. But sooner or later, we have to take responsibility for ourselves—just as Dr. Alberts said. I may have taught her this life, but she’s the one who chose to embrace it. Now, as I try to show her another way to live, she refuses to see it.

I’m not responsible for her. It’s the final snipping of the cord that bound us together. The last strand between us clipped, and now we’re both completely free.

Celia sees it too. She lets me go with a long, slow hiss of air. “It’s checkmate, is it then?”

“You tell me.” It’s almost admirable how she plays to the very end. Once upon a time, I would have been impressed. Now, I’m weary.

“What are your plans for Werner Media?”

This is a fair question. “At the moment, I have no plans. The company’s doing well as it is. Warren Werner is definitely the right man to be in charge. However, if there were any reason that I felt his presence was no longer needed…” I trail off, letting her fill in the blanks.

“He’d be devastated.” Her brows are pinched, and her usual stone-cold expression has been replaced with despondency.

I feel a flicker of relief. I’d gambled here. My entire plan only worked if Celia still had the capability to care for someone other than herself—namely, her father. It’s further proof that she’s only living like she’s heartless because she chooses to.

Though I don’t rule out that her concern may be monetary—I’ve been convinced for ages that Celia lives off her daddy’s wealth. And while he’d still have it even if I stole his title, it’s less likely he’d feel as generous. It’s well-known that a happy Warren is a sharing Warren.

“I imagine he’d be devastated just to learn he no longer holds controlling interest. For now, the fact is still hidden. He has no idea that he’s no longer in charge. Would you like that to change?”

“No,” she says.

“Do you plan on doing anything that might cause me to alter my current business plan?”

Her shoulders sag. “No.”

“Then yes, it’s checkmate.”

We sit silently for several minutes. It’s been a long battle. And this is the official end of our friendship. It deserves some mourning. Memories flip through my mind like a bunch of stills in a photo slideshow. Some are from so long ago, I can’t date them accurately. Others so imprinted in my soul I’ll never forget the details. Her winning backhand stroke in a game of tennis that had been so close. The bottle of champagne we opened at the end of our first successful play. Her hand on my back, and her soft, sincere confession—I love you.

This is all the time I’ll spend grieving for what we once were. It’s brief, but I let myself feel it.

Eventually, she stands. “I guess it’s time for me to go.”

“It is. I’ll walk you out.”

I check my watch as we cross the floor together. I need to leave for my parents’ in half an hour or so. Today is Mirabelle’s planned intervention. A day of hard words, I think. And hard emotions. It’s as if I can make up for a lifetime of non-feeling in just a few days’ time. It’s something I hope to never have to do again.

I open the door for Celia and hold it wide for her to cross past me. She doesn’t look at me as she does. Or I don’t look at her. I’m not sure which. I start to shut it behind her when my gaze hits something unexpected—a duffel bag on the floor. It’s Alayna’s. I’m sure of it.