Feathers and Thorne Series Books 1 - 3: The Complete Collection

Chapter Eleven

Isabella

Work is normal, or as normal as it can be when my boss and his father aggressively intended on fucking me yesterday. It seems like a nightmare, but I’ve been stuck at my desk all day with very few commands from Jacob Lacey, and the requests he does have for me are sent through email.

I am hopeful I won’t have to see him much in the upcoming months, thinking of my father’s declining health. I’ll be too worried over him to focus on my asshole of a boss, let alone the jerk that is my boss’ boss. William Lacey isn’t like his son.

He doesn’t mind a challenge unless it pertains to money. Luckily for him, my payroll is cheap, and my work is superfluous.

William lets himself into the office and slides into a chair opposite of my desk, a place not many people have ever sat before. His hands are folded in his lap, and he glares through me like the five thousand dollars I took is equivalent to me shooting his firstborn.

I wish I could have done that instead, but I bring myself back to reality shortly after.

“Mr. Lacey, what can I do for you?”

He speaks softly, though half of the office staff in this trailer has already filtered out for the afternoon. “Isabella, how are you today?” Before I can reply, he speaks again, “That’s good. Listen, I need you to settle something for me, little Bella.”

“What is it?”

“Carter Blackthorne,” he says, spitting out the name like it’s poison. “I need you to tell me how you know the head of the Blackthorne family.”

I answer honestly, “I don’t know him. I’ve run into him a few times on chance, but I don’t really know him, Mr. Lacey.”

He nods, obviously unsatisfied with that response. “Don’t play games with me, girl, or…”

He hesitates, and I recognize a hint of fear in his eyes—the same thing that I saw yesterday afternoon. He can’t really threaten me without angering Carter. I don’t even know where I put that peculiar black metal business card, but I don’t mention that to William.

“Tell me where you met Carter Blackthorne.”

I lean forward, speaking just low enough for both of us to hear. “Your son forced me on my knees, and Carter walked into the office. That’s all that happened before I ran into him throughout the city over the weekend. I don’t know him, Mr. Lacey. I swear.”

He stares at me curiously but looks aside when the tension is too tight for me to cut. “Try to get that monthly report done by tonight,” he growls. “Email it to me when you’re done, and don’t leave this office until it is.”

“Yes, sir,” I breathe, finally relaxing as I watch him leave the office.

Out of morbid interest, though, I type that enigmatic name into my laptop. I finished that monthly report hours ago but have been holding onto it as an excuse to sit at work and make a decent paycheck. My fingers feel like traitors while I type out his name in the search engine.

Wealthy billionaire closes deal on eight-million-dollar project downtown.

Art exhibitionist sells entire lot to New York City’s most elusive bachelor.

Vacant shipping yard sells for three billion dollars to New York’s Carter Blackthorne.

I scroll for as long as I can, feeling sick by the time I convince myself to close the laptop. I knew most of this information; that Carter is a rich, secretive businessman with probably thousands of women flinging themselves onto his lap. The pictures of him at various nightclubs prove that to be true, but one thing still haunts me.

All those purchases, all that attention, and not one article on how Carter Blackthorne acquired his wealth. Clearly, he has it in other places not mentioned to the news outlets, such as Mayor Frances Johnson, but I can only imagine that’s not the only place he pays off in the dark.

But for what?

I put myself into a migraine, sending over the monthly report and stepping out into the early evening of this secretive city. I kick my heels off to walk down the lengthy sidewalk, only slipping them back on when I come up to the hospital doors.

The intake nurses nod me through, as usual. My father’s room is pretty standard and consistent since he was admitted here eight months ago. I thought coming to see him on the weekends for college was enough, but when he took a steeper decline, I dropped out to be here more often.

Well, that, and to make money for his treatment.

I have only been successful at one of those things.

He’s asleep when I sneak into his room, his tired and worn features carved deeper in age and even more at the behest of his illness.

“Isabella?”

I perk up, sitting beside him so I can take his cold, needle-pricked hand. “Yes, Dad. What is it? What do you need?”

He shakes his head, his tired amber eyes opening to see me at last. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just trying to make sure it was you. Had a lot of visitors today.”

I grin at his claim. Sometimes he thinks he’s at his house with friendly neighbors stopping by to say hello when in reality, the only people who visit here are unhopeful doctors and pushy cafeteria workers.

My best defense is to let him believe all of that, for rational sake.

“That’s great, Dad. I’m happy you’ve had a good day.”

He nods, smiling in that other world of his where he isn’t sick, where my mother sits beside him on the porch, and where his daughter finishes college to land the job of her dreams.

“You know what? One of those nice guys from down the street came asking about you. I think he wants you to go on a date, but I told him, not my Isabella. She’s getting her education, and she doesn’t have time for anything like that,” he hums in innocent laughter.

I’m so thankful he misses my horrified expression. “What… who came by, Dad?”

He shrugs, winding down the lane of his perfect world, unaware of the dangers he doesn’t see around him. I was once reliant on that fact. If he didn’t know he was dying, or if he didn’t know how hard I’ve been struggling, then maybe that would make it easier for him.

I see now that every burden on my back just multiplied in a single weekend with one name attached to it all.

“I love you,” I mutter, kissing his cold hand while he drifts in and out of medicated sleep. “I’ll be back soon, Dad. I have to make a call.”

I run home in the dark cascade of night. I don’t stop for anything. I don’t look at anyone until I barge into my apartment and spot a black card propped up on my kitchen countertop. I freeze, my eyes flickering to my front door that wasn’t kicked in, but I doubt it would take a locksmith to break into this place.

I approach the card slowly as if it were an explosive, every cabinet in my kitchen open and stocked full of food. I fear touching any of it, taking in the realization that my fridge is in the same condition.

My hand shakes when I pick up the heavy card and bring it to the dim kitchen light.

I don’t have to read it to know what it says, but I do it anyway for good measure.

Blackthorne Lifestyle Club.