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[Addison]
I thought we were in love. I thought we were a family.
It’s funny the way things can change in a snap.
My world changed the day of my son‘s sixth birthday.
It’s not everyday that your only child turns six, so I wanted to make the day extra special for my son. I work overtime every day, securing business for our family law firm, but I left early, squeezing as much as in to the early morning hours, so I could take the rest of the day off to make his favorite meal from scratch and bake his very special birthday treats.
He is my miracle child and deserves the very best.
Donning a fancy outfit I selected for this occasion, I floated out of the house on a cloud of happiness. He is going to be so surprised! I can’t wait to see the look of joy on his smiling face.
“Mrs. Stone,” the crossing guard., Mrs. Jenkins greets me as I approach my son’s school. “What’s the occasion? This wouldn’t be for a special little gentlemen’s special day?”
Her eyes sparkle as she gazes up at the balloons in my hands, and looks down to see my knee-length, rhinestone dress that floats from my waist like a cloud of cotton candy.
“Well, it isn’t every day Jayson turns 6,” I smile back at her. I never dress like this, preferring the practicality of a smartly tailored suit and the simplicity of a face clean of makeup, but Jayson always wanted me to be like “the other mommies,” who wore fancy jewelry and sparkling dresses.
“I thought I’d be a princess for him today.” I point at the tiara and glitter.
“Well you look spectacular, Mrs. Stone,” Mrs. Jenkins nods in approval her gentle smile extending across her face as she holds back the cars for me. My heart lifts, feeling her warm gaze follow my movements as I safely approach the main gates of Westwind Academy, one of the most prestigious schools in the Upper East Side.
It’s a rare occasion that I can take this much time off just to be with my little guy. I work in my husband’s law office and often work later hours than he does as his assistant and co-council.
I was a top law school graduate, but after marrying my husband, Michael, I turned down a huge offer without hesitation and chose to work as a legal advisor for his small company instead. The law waits for no one, but neither does childhood. Jayson is growing up so quickly. Before I know it he’ll be off and gone, heading to college and I’ll miss all these small moments.
But where is he? His teacher should have brought him to the gate.
“Jayson!” I call out, my heart racing. This school is safe. Nobody but family could take him so he must be around here somewhere.
“Jayson, where are you?” I try again. This is strange. I even sent a text to his teacher reminding her that I’d be picking my son up early for his birthday. And now he seems to be missing.
“Did I make a mistake?” My fingers grip the cast-iron bars of the school gate as I pull my phone from my purse. No, it is Monday the 7th, 1 pm. The reminder is in my calendar with a note reminding me to pick him up early. There are no text messages saying that anything has changed, no note from his father or his school. He should be standing right there, in his usual spot, next to the lilacs.
Just as I turn towards the school office, my son’s lilting laughter carries on the wind like birdsong. My skirt floats around me, twirling as I look for the source, hoping to find my son laughing as he runs towards me.
What I see instead is a beautiful family–mother, father, and child. The man, tall and handsome has beautiful cheekbones and the brightest blue eyes. Holding onto him is a little boy with hair so blonde it looks almost white, a shade or two brighter than my own. On the little one’s other side, the mother is holding onto him, her petite hand griping his small one with tenderness, her perfect golden blonde hair cascading down her back in gentle waves, diamonds glistening on her ears and wrists.
It is a beautiful scene except for one thing–that’s my family. My husband and my son. But that woman with her elegant clothes and her effortless beauty isn’t me.
As she turns her head towards the gate, the sunlight illuminates her profile, making her hair glow like a halo of gold. She has the face of an angel, with small, perfectly formed lips and luminescent eyes, large and golden-brown like a cat, like a more vibrant version of my hazel.
She is stunning. And familiar.
No. I must be mistaken. It can’t be her. Michael would have told me if she were back in town.
The woman raises her eyes and our gazes connect from across the field. She places a hand on Michael's shoulder before pointing in my direction, smiling warmly and I know at once I am not mistaken after all.
That’s Michael’s first love, the girl who broke his heart and left him a shattered mess for me to heal in her wake. His college girlfriend whose picture still resides behind his driver’s license in the front pocket of his wallet, right behind our wedding picture and the baby picture of his son.
The woman of my nightmares.
Evelyn Valentine.
As a young child, I was prone to psychotic attacks and occasional moments of disassociation. My severe mental fits were the reason my parents had shipped me off, and with good reason–I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. Usually the trigger was emotional, moments when I was pushed too far or overwhelmed with too many other sensations. When these moments happened, sometimes I’d withdraw inward, rocking back and forth, my consciousness shifting to see my behavior in a detached way, as if floating above myself unable to stop. Other times, it would be outwardly destructive, tearing apart a room in seconds as I raged, mentally aware but physically unable to stop. This time, sitting tied and helpless in a chair as Debrassy bragged about his involvement in the gruesome deaths of my grandparents, my last shred of sanity snapped. One moment I was aware, screaming threats as I thrashed against the hard chair and my tight bindings, and the next moment, I was across the room standing
A slap, followed by the bag being pulled off of my head stunned me awake, my head throbbing in agony. I had been taken from my house by more than one person I realized as I struggled to discern the shapes and colors moving before me, their rough hands pushing me harder into the chair as they zip tied my wrists and ankles. When my vision cleared, I discovered I was sitting in the middle of an empty conference room facing a row of windows with a view of the night sky over Manhattan. My captors were busying themselves behind me, and I would have turned my head to look, except that even moving my head a fraction of an inch made me so suddenly nauseous I thought I’d vomit. Whoever punched me gave me a concussion. Between that and whatever the hell else they did to me while I was knocked out, I needed medical attention, not another layer of bindings to keep me in place.“Where are the hard drives, Hunter?” a familiar voice asked, his sneakers squeaking along the smooth surface of the ding
That was the night I discovered that my grandfather was in fact more of a “creative entrepreneur” himself. During that meeting I’d learn about the history of the “Westside Thorns.” Its roots stretch all the way back to the late 1700s during the various events leading the the American Revolution. An armed militia of elite families based in Westside Manhattan began patrolling the streets to keep the people safe from British officers who often abused the rules of hospitality. “We keep our people safe, we always have,” he explained. “During the civil war and before, we helped enslaved Americans find and keep their freedom, many taking places among our ranks, and later as the streets grew tougher, we used our might to protect our people from human trafficking, drugs, and other dangers.”He also explained how their recruitment process worked. Many of their leaders have come from the original elite families, including the Grants. “I was recruited the other way–I was rescued from a forced i
[Hunter]Mr. Rose exhaled slowly. "Maybe you should start at the beginning." He smiled. "I already know some of it, maybe you can fill in the rest." I looked over at my friends. Ace looked guilty but Katelyn looked resigned, as if keeping a secret from her father was impossible. "Sorry to throw you under the bus, Hunter, but dad saw that I had hacked into the CTV feed," Katelyn shrugged. "Again." I gaped slightly at her declaration wondering how often she broke into the city's cameras. Mr. Rose laughed. "I only noticed because I was doing my own reconnaissance." He smiled proudly at his daughter. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have noticed. It was expertly done."Katelyn blushed under her father's praise. "I'm sorry, Sir!" I apologized immediately. "Katie only did that for me. I didn't ask her too but..." Raising a hand, to silence me, I closed my mouth. "Be at ease, Hunter. I already know that my daughter is at least half as stubborn as her old man," he laughs, "and if she did something
[Hunter]“Hey, so don’t be nervous,” Ace grinned warmly as he clasped a hand on my shoulder, greeting me at the elevator after Reggie dropped me off at the front door. “My dad can be a bit intense, but he’s actually really nice. He’s strict, yeah, but he’s fair. He only punishes you if it’s deserved.” His words did nothing to ease my fears. If anyone deserved punishment it was me. I not only committed a crime, but I involved his children as accessories after the fact. “Does he ever use the men in your house to punish?” I ask nervously, voicing a concern that weighed on me from my first visit. Ace gave me a wide eyed stare, before turning his head and laughing. “Oh my god, Hunter. My dad is a mobster, but he isn’t going to kill my friend.” The way he said “mobster” at first made me think he was joking. But as the elevator descended, Ace told me a bit more about his family, finally clarifying a few details that never sat right when I considered their family’s secrecy, wealth, and he
Other than a few awkward stares, and the notes of condolence from some teachers and staff, my first day back at school since my grandparents death was weirdly normal.My grandparents, David and Eleanora Grant, were a big part of New York's elite, and were locally famous for their contributions to the arts and a wide range of city improvement projects. Our family name was on half of the hospital buildings, orphanages, and museums in town. We were an old money family who had lived in New York since before the American Revolution.But they were not like modern celebrities who flash their wealth and influence as a public flex. They were old-time classy, and so their death didn't draw the national attention you might see for a more well known name. Because of who they were in our social circle, almost every family in our school knew that they had passed, but the det







