Nila

“MS. WEAVER, SO nice to meet you.”

My attention snapped to the man wearing designer jeans and a cream tailored shirt. His hair was artfully coiffed, and he’d rimmed his baby-blue eyes with kohl. Thin and handsome, he was obviously gay and perfect for the role of jotting down gossip.

“There will be no children. No half-breeds. No saviour. I’ve won.”

I stared blankly, unable to do anything but listen to the echo of Jethro's voice inside my head.

“I’ve won. I’ve won. I’ve won.”

Tears pricked my eyes for the hundredth time since I’d arrived back at Hawksridge. How could he say that? He’d lost. We both had. Somehow, Cut had turned Jethro into his lap dog and the connection we’d shared gurgled down a drain of despair.

What if I had been pregnant? Would the contraceptive have hurt the baby?

How could Jethro do something so terrible?

I hate it here.

I positively hate it here.

I’d always hated it here.

How could I return with such stupid plans? How did I think I could save Jethro and kill Cut? What an idiot!

Jethro doesn’t even want saving.

Not after what they’d done to him.

“Ms. Weaver? Are you quite well?”

I shook my head, sniffing back unshed tears and doing my best to focus.

Gay Reporter’s assistant smiled, her purple fluffy pen tapping her chin in concern. “Can we get you a glass of water or something?”

“She’s fine,” Jethro murmured in his signature soft voice. I’d forgotten how smooth and precise he was. Forgotten how rigid he held himself, how restrained and contained and arctically frigid.

I shot him a look full of venom. “Actually, I would love a glass of water.”

Jethro pursed his lips as the blonde-haired woman who looked like a delicious cupcake in her pale pink dress and curves sprang from her chair.

She giggled. “I can’t believe I get to play hostess in this place.” Moving to the sideboard where an array of drinks and hors d'oeuvres had been set by invisible staff, she poured me a glass and came back. “Truly, it’s an incredible home you have here, Mr. Hawk.”

I smiled in thanks, taking the offered water.

Jethro shifted on the settee beside me, his temper gathering a tempest. “I’m so glad you like it.” Clasping his hands, he glowered at the reporter. “Are we quite ready to begin? I have a few other appointments that demand my attention.”

Gay Reporter nodded, sitting higher on the mirroring settee opposite us. “Yes, of course.” Revealing tic-tac perfect teeth, he began his well-rehearsed speech. “First, we want to say what an honour it is to be chosen for the exclusive interview. I have no doubt that our readers at Vanity Fair will highly enjoy such an intriguing piece. My name is George, and this is Sylvie.”

His eyes bounced between Jethro and me. “I predict the interview will go on for about thirty minutes, followed by a short tour of the grounds and anything else you wish to share with us for the article. Does that sound satisfactory?”

Sylvie scooped out a voice recorder, iPhone, and notepad and arranged her arsenal on the coffee table.

“Fine,” Jethro murmured, playing with a diamond cufflink. He looked resplendent in a grey cashmere suit and open-necked white shirt. His salt and pepper hair caught the light with distinguished old-world wealth and his shiny Gucci shoes were pristine.

The sun streamed in through the windows, stencilling the carpet with happiness I didn’t feel.

I was cold. Aching. Confused.

Once again, my fingers returned to the bruise on my arm. I flinched, remembering the pain of the needle piercing my flesh. The skin still stung from the contraceptive as if he’d only just done it—not a few hours ago.

How could he do that?

How could he obey Cut and dismiss me from his heart?

He’d shattered my dreams so damn quickly.

Why oh why did I come back here?

You know why.

To save Jethro, kill the Hawk bastards, and end this.

George’s eyes darted around the lounge. Jethro and I rested on a loveseat with silver swans gilded on white satin. Purple velvet-flocked chairs encircled the seating area, lending a richness to the oriental charm of the day parlour.

The décor was feminine with its intricate jewelled music boxes enclosed in glass-domed cases and ancient grandfather clocks chiming the hour. I would’ve liked to relax in this room and I guessed Jasmine used it, too—judging by the faint wheel marks in the thick lavender carpet.

I was tired. Terribly tired.

For three months, my life had been anything but normal and I needed to rest. I needed to stop and get my bearings, because I no longer knew where I was. I thought I understood Jethro.

How wrong was I?

A vertigo wave danced in my brain. I moaned, pressing my fingertips against my temples.

Jethro inched closer, resting his cool hand on my thigh.

My skin reacted instantly, craving him, seeking more. I cursed myself for reacting that way. It took everything in me not to shove him away and sprint from the room.

What a traitor.

What a bastard.

“Ms. Weaver, you don’t look entirely well.” George looked at his wristwatch. “We can postpone for an hour or so if you wish. To rest?”

“No.” Jethro’s eyes locked on George’s. “She’ll be fine.” His fingers tightened on my knee, biting uncomfortably. “Won’t you, Nila?”

Once upon a time, my heart would’ve fluttered if he used my first name. Now, it tore off those wings and plummeted to hell.

Leaning into me, Jethro whispered in my ear, “You know what’s expected of you. Behave and everything will remain cordial, got it?” Pulling away, he put on a show for the reporters. “I’m so worried about you, darling. For days, you’ve been saying how excited you are to reveal the truth to the world. You don’t want to ruin your chance now, do you?”

George clapped his hands. “Yes, please don’t let us down, Ms. Weaver. We are so excited to hear your tale.” He picked up an expensive camera with a zoom lens. “If you feel restricted sitting down, we could always conduct the questions by the window over there. Be a great spot for some pictures.”

“Oh, yes,” Sylvie said. “It would be such a romantic shot with the two of you. Our readers would love it.”

Another vertigo spell teased my vision. I didn’t trust my legs to stand and shook my head. “Perhaps in a little bit. I’m happy to answer whatever you want here.” I stretched my face into a smile, but it felt heavy, sad, fake.

George and Sylvie didn’t notice.

But of course, Jethro did. Pinching my knee again, Jethro cleared his throat. “My apologies. My love has been rather overworked the past few weeks.” He leaned forward with a conspirer’s smile. “She went home to her family, you see. A bit of a disaster—as you might’ve heard.”

Sylvie giggled, completely buying the lies Jethro spilled. “We did hear a rumour or two.”

His commanding fingers stroked my thigh, looking like a caress but feeling like a punishment. “Those rumours were started to thwart our love. Her family doesn’t approve of mine. They think she can do better than me and never approved—even though we were born for each other.”

My heart thudded to a stop. The words could’ve been so perfect. So full of promise. Instead, they reeked with deceit and dripped with lies.

We were born for each other, that’s true. But only for him to kill me in his quest for whatever Cut promised.

I sank further into the loveseat, wishing the swans on the fabric would come alive and fly me away from there. I missed the sanctuary of the Weaver quarters. After the awful injection, Jethro had left me to reacquaint myself with the space. I’d showered and tried not to cry over my gullible heart or naïve hopes smashing to dust in the face of Jethro's new behaviour.

I’d dressed in a blood-red A-line skirt that I’d made while here previously and shrugged into a slouchy jumper with a rose hand-stitched on the front. I hadn’t bothered with makeup or my hair. The damp strands hung down my back adding to the chill in my soul that I doubted would ever thaw.

Sitting beside Jethro in his immaculate attire, I truly did feel sick. Dying cell by cell until I would be nothing but a corpse.

“Sounds like an awful predicament to love a man your family doesn’t approve of, Ms. Weaver,” George prompted.

This is it then.

The interview had officially begun.

Placing my hands in my lap, I struggled to think up an approved reply. When Cut came to collect me for the reporters, he’d given me strict instructions:

“Act heartbroken but happy. Paint your family as the bad guys and us as the victims. Make the Hawks shine, Ms. Weaver, or else.”

I’m so sorry, Vaughn.

After everything he’d done to save me, I was about to undo it all with a few awful sentences.

Jethro suddenly wrapped an arm around my shoulders, crushing me into his body. His lips landed on my ear in a whisper-kiss. “Play the damn role. It’s not hard.”

Pulling away, his eyes burned into mine. You wanted to come back. You invited me to take you. Now you have to play along if you want to survive.

Looking away, I answered George’s question. “It is hard. I love my father and brother so much, but when I met Jethro...I just knew. He was it for me, and no matter what they say or do, I can’t change something that’s written by fate.”

My voice hovered in the room, quiet, unsure, but resonating in just the right frequency to melt George and Sylvie. Their postures changed, their interest flared, and Jethro relaxed a smidgen. “Good girl,” he murmured into my hair.

I shivered as his breath warmed my nape. I wanted my words to be real. I wanted it so much.

Then make it real.

Just because Jethro was damaged again, didn’t mean I couldn’t win him back.

Where was my strength? My conviction? I’d come back not to wallow in misery but to end this.

Power shot into my blood; I sat straighter. Pinching my cheeks, I willed colour to paint my skin and dispel any sign of weakness. “True love is a curse, don’t you think?” I smiled for the first time, shoving aside my worries and throwing myself into this new challenge.

You want me to play my part, Jethro Hawk?

Fine.

I would play it so well, I would have the press eating out of my hand—not the Hawks’.

“I agree. Falling in love can be the most dangerous thing anyone can do.” Sylvie smiled.

Stealing Jethro’s hand, I looped my fingers with his and brought his large palm to my lips. I kissed him. I breathed in his scent of leather and money. I grew strong again.

He didn’t move. Didn’t inhale or twitch.

It doesn’t matter.

I’ll get him back.

“So your brother felt so strongly that the Hawk family wasn’t good enough for you, he spread vile rumours of debts and deaths...all to break you up?” George asked, his eyes gleaming.

Jethro faded into the background.

Please forgive me, Vaughn.

“Yes. V and I were very close growing up. I would tell him everything. But then I met Jethro, and I didn’t want to share my secret. I kept our affair hidden. I suppose that was a betrayal in my brother’s eyes. He felt like he lost me. And took it out on my love.”

Jethro smiled like the doting partner. “I will admit, it’s been hard.”

“I can imagine.” George grinned. Conferring to his notes, he perched higher. “How about, before we discuss other topics, we clear the confusion about those rumours. Would you mind?”

Jethro answered before I could. “By all means. We have nothing to hide.” His lips stretched over his teeth in a cool smile. “It would be beneficial to clear the air on the disgusting rumours Vaughn Weaver spread.”

My shoulders rolled at my twin’s name. I should’ve listened to him—not about running away, but arming myself with weapons and fighting the Hawks with violence rather than my idiotic idea of getting pregnant.

That’s over anyway.

I didn’t know how long the contraceptive would work, but I remembered a staff member having the injection and saying it lasted anywhere from three to six months.

I won’t be alive in six months.

Sylvie pulled an Elle magazine from her satchel beside her. Passing it to me, she asked, “Have you seen this particular article?”

I leaned forward, taking the glossy weight and forcing myself to remain detached as I stared at the cover. The model pouted for the camera, eerily close to my dusky colouring and black eyes. However, where I had long hair, hers was cut short—a sleek bob revealing the full impact of the heavy stones around her neck. The intricate design of the choker was missing the barely noticeable W’s hidden in the rows of diamonds, and the filigree work around the stones was ordinary compared to the workmanship in mine. Plus, my diamonds were bigger.

I smiled smugly, stroking my collar as if it no longer heralded my death sentence but linked me to a man who belonged to me.

“No, I haven’t seen it.”

“Would you mind if you read some of it aloud, Ms. Weaver? Elaborate on a few key points?” George pointed at a Post-it note sticking from the pages. “I’ve bookmarked it for you.”

Flipping the magazine open, I gasped as the same model from the front smouldered in a centrefold. She wore a dress very similar to the feathered couture I paraded at the Milan show.

The title blazed in diamonds:

‘The Truth Behind the Weavers as told by Daphne Simons, Employee at Weaver Enterprises.’

“Do you know that employee?” Sylvie asked.

I looked up, shaking my head. “No. We hire too many people to know them all.”

The room turned silent as I skimmed the ridiculous article.

Nila Weaver, the daughter of the conglomerate company Weaver Enterprises has recently been spotted back in London after a stint outside the limelight. Gossip has spread over the past few weeks that her family  are victims of an age-old dispute that defies all logic and rationality. A world where promises are kept and oaths are never broken. Her brother, Vaughn Weaver, recently broke his silence when his efforts to have his sister returned went unheeded.

Turning the tables on the leaked photographs depicting Ms. Weaver with a young man unknown at the time, and the rumour that she’d had a mental breakdown and run off with her mystery lover, the world was shocked to discover the man in the photographs wasn’t her lover, but her kidnapper.

How could they print such heresy?

Upon Nila Weaver’s return to London High Society, she’s been repeatedly asked to tell her story, but has remained silent on the matter. However, here at Elle, we have an exclusive interview with one of her employees.

Elle: Thank you for meeting with us, Daphne. Care to tell us what you know?

Daphne: Well, all I know is she returned to work last month. She’s always been rather quiet. Too work focused and always stumbling into things. But now, she’s even worse.

Elle: You mentioned she seems different? Can you elaborate?

Daphne: It’s common knowledge about the collar. She never takes it off. She’s constantly touching it. The staff room is a buzz with conspiracies that she suffers that problem when a captive falls for her kidnapper...you know what I mean?

Elle: You’re saying she’s in love with the man who collared her?

Daphne: Yep. For sure. My theory is the debt stuff is just a cover up. I reckon she’s into that freaky business...you know like S&M? Not to mention the diamond collar is an obvious ode to belonging to a master when in those types of relationships. She’s changed.

Elle: How do you mean?

Daphne: Well... she used to be sweet, shy. It’s a family company, so we see the Weavers interact a lot. But now she’s shut down around her brother. Her love for the industry has gone.

Elle: And you believe this is due to a Sadomasochistic relationship?

Daphne: I believe she’s changed too much to fit in anymore. Mark my words. She won’t be in London long.

And there you have it; our very own textile heiress has returned bearing a collar, bruises, and a history of intolerable cruelty. I suppose we won’t get answers or know the full story until justice has been served.

“So, tell us,” George said. “Is any of that true? Are you in an S&M relationship?”

Jethro sat taller, chuckling under his breath. “You honestly expect us to answer questions about our sex life?”

Sylvie laughed. “Sorry if it sounds like we’re prying, but our readers love to know that stuff.”

Stroking my collar, I smiled coyly. “All your readers need to know is Jethro completes me both in and out of the bedroom.”

George laughed, slapping his thigh. “Now, that’s a politically correct reply, if I ever heard one.”

Jethro reclined, spreading his arm over the back of the loveseat. “The rumours about death and debts are complete lies. However, some parts are indeed true.”

I didn’t know how he did it, but in a few short sentences, he’d enraptured George and Sylvie.

“Oh, how so?”

“People no longer accept the idea of arranged marriages. They like to think we’re all free to do what we like, when we like, but realistically, we are all still governed by class, income, our family tree.” He ran a hand through his hair. “My family has known the Weavers for six hundred years. We’ve effectively grown up together, crossing paths and healing feuds, and ultimately agreeing to come together to form a strong alliance.”

George frowned. “So you’re saying this so-called Debt Inheritance is what? A marriage contract?”

Jethro shook his head. “Not quite. It’s an agreement of debts between two houses that strive to support each other with payments in different forms throughout the years.”

I blinked stupidly, unable to believe the way Jethro spun three weeks of rumours. It made people seem ridiculous—clutching at straws and jumping onto a witch-hunt they knew nothing about.

He sounded so reasonable, so justifiable.

His speech was too perfect not to be scripted...perhaps by Bonnie.

Bonnie.

Did she tell Jethro to come and collect me, or was she against this development? After all, she’d kicked me out. She was the one who wanted me gone.

“And you, Ms. Weaver. That’s how your family sees this Debt Inheritance, too?” George pinned his baby-blues on me.

“Yes, of course. What else could it be? To think that one family owns another is completely ludicrous. We support one another. Sure, at times there’s some unrest and rivalry, but for the most part, we’re one big happy family.”

Maids arrived with fresh tea and a three-tier cake stand with cucumber sandwiches and éclairs.

George grabbed one, jotting down a few notes. “So really...it’s the age-old ‘mountain out of a mole hill’ kinda thing.”

Jethro crossed his ankles, ignoring the finger food. “Yes. Not that it’s anyone’s business, but our two influential families have always prospered by linking our history. It’s such a shame that after centuries of friendship, it’s come down to Mr. Weaver spreading such terrible lies.”

I sucked in a breath. I wanted to tell the truth but what good would it do? Would it stop the Hawks from breaking countless laws—would it save my life?

Vaughn had told the world, yet even with so much gossip, it was still his word against the Hawks. And they sounded so much more believable than him. A sure way to disband the Twitter posters and bury old Facebook shout-outs under new intrigue.

George swallowed a bite of cucumber sandwich. “Are you happy to be back? After the time away?”

This was it. My turn to lie as spectacularly as Jethro.

Swooning into Jethro’s side, I snuggled against his chest and sighed dramatically. “Oh, yes. Every night we messaged each other. And every night we professed our belonging and knowledge that we wouldn’t let lies come between us.”

Jethro stiffened then slowly wrapped an icy arm around my shoulders.

My body trembled with the need to be hugged—for real. Having the weight of his body cloaking mine did nothing to ease the inconsolable pain inside my heart.

I wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me.

I wanted him to wake up!

But how?

Then suddenly, I knew exactly how. How to get back at him for what he’d done to me. How to announce to Cut that his plan to steal my right to bear children wouldn’t come without consequences.

Placing my hand on Jethro’s chest, I sought out the flat-line and uninterested beat of his heart. “It was agony being apart.” Dropping my voice to a breathy whisper, I said, “I was so homesick for Jethro; I threw up almost every day.”

Jethro’s heart remained steady and unaffected.

Try ignoring this, you monster.

“But it turned out I was throwing up because I was pregnant.”

Jethro's heart screeched to a stop. He went deathly still.

George clapped. “Oh, that’s wonderful! So if the Debt Inheritance is kind of like a marriage contract, then they have to let it take place now that you’re carrying!”

I swallowed my morbid giggle.

You want them to cut off my head?

If only they knew what it meant.

“That’s amazing. I call first dibs on coming to the wedding and baby shower!” Sylvie laughed.

Jethro never looked at me; his gaze remained locked on the other end of the room. He struggled to plant a smile on his face, nodding at the ecstatic interviewers. “Yes...it was quite a surprise. But of course...a welcome one.”

Letting tears spring to my eyes, I murmured, “I was so happy. I couldn’t wait to start our family and create something that was just ours. But...” I played up the hitch in my voice.

Sylvie leaned forward. “What—what happened?”

Jethro tightened his arm around me. “Yes, Nila. What happened?” His voice was whip-sharp.

George passed me his handkerchief. I accepted it, dabbing my dry eyes. “I lost the baby!” I sniffed loudly, making sure I sounded extra pitiful. “The stress of all the rumours made me sick, and I lost the best thing that could’ve ever happened to us.”

George slapped a hand over his mouth, totally forgetting his notepad and pen. “Oh, that’s tragically awful.” Getting up, he came to squat in front of me.

Jethro glowered at him as George took my hand and kissed my knuckles. “It’s okay though...that little one wasn’t meant to be, but you can try again. You can have other babies.” His gaze flashed to Jethro. “Can’t you? You’re both young. It’s only natural to create your own family and make this love story complete.”

“Yes, quite,” Jethro muttered, tugging me away from George’s caressing fingers.

I fought Jethro’s hold, clutching onto George. If Jethro wanted the world to believe we were together and happy then it was his turn to play along with my farce.

Letting a sob free, I wailed, “That’s the problem. Something happened....” I narrowed my eyes at Jethro, letting him see my wrath and hate for what he’d done.

You took away the one weapon I might’ve had to free us.

George clutched my fingers tighter, completely buying my story. “Oh no, not more bad news?”

Imbecile.

Leech.

As lovely as he seemed, I couldn’t stand what he represented. He was there to make my family look like liars and the Hawks to smell like roses. They would tarnish my brother, break my father’s heart even more, and make me seem as if I was a scatter-brained lovesick child completely out of her depth.

I mean to change all that.

“I was told the conception was a miracle. That I have a rare disorder that might mean I’ll never conceive again. The doctor said I might die if I ever carried a child full term, but he knew I wouldn’t give up. It’s my ultimate dream—the one thing I have to have.”

Jethro growled, “Nila, no need to tell the world our—”

“Jethro's father, Bryan Hawk, loves me like a daughter. He arranged for the doctor to give me a contraceptive, completely against my will. He said if I tried to bear the child of my soul-mate, I might die, and he couldn’t have that on his soul!” I let ugly, wet sobs spew forth, hurling myself into the performance.

George went white, his face half enthralled with having a delicious story to tell and half full of heartbroken sorrow. “Oh, you poor thing. You poor, poor—”

Jethro sniffed, physically untangling George’s fingers from mine and pushing him away. Pulling me into his body, he snapped, “It’s been a hard time for all of us.” Standing, he yanked me to my feet.

His eyes shot a warning.

What the hell are you doing?

Anger radiated, but beneath it all was the faintest shadow of horror. Did he believe my tale? How did he feel to know what he’d done when I might’ve been carrying his child?

Does it make you sick? I blazed my own silent message. Does it rip out your insides to think you might’ve killed your own flesh and blood?

Before I could seek answers in his eyes, he looked away.

“I’m sorry, but the interview is over.” Jethro stood to his full height, his suit looking crisp compared to his ruffled exterior.

I’d come into this as a victim, but I’d stolen the show.

I felt redeemed.

They might’ve robbed my plans of pregnancy, but I’d just poached theirs in return.

I was no longer the meek little woman. I was the strong barren woman destined to live with a man she adored and never get pregnant. The media would direct their sympathy onto me—they would be kinder to my family, less likely to slander my last name.

And should all my scheming fail and it came time for me to pay the Final Debt, I might have some chance of rallying them to save me.

George stood up, his fingers fluttering over his camera. “Ah, can we bother you for some pictures? Before we conclude for the day?”

Jethro’s nostrils flared. “No, I think my girlfriend needs to lie down. This has—”

“Now, honey, don’t hide the truth from them.” I wiped beneath my eyes, hoping he saw my challenge.

I’m not done with you yet.

Jethro’s eyebrows knitted together. “We haven’t hidden anything, my love.” He smiled thinly, pinching my arm where George couldn’t see.

“Wait—what are you talking about, Ms. Weaver?” Sylvie asked.

I smiled radiantly. “I’m not just his girlfriend.”

Jethro sucked in a breath.

George bounced on the spot with anticipation. “What do you mean?”

Beaming at Jethro, I said, “I’m his fiancée. We’re getting married.”