Chapter 8: Mitchell's POV: The Penthouse

Mitchell's POV

Seven years ago I signed my name to something my brother did.

I wasn't brave. I was tired, and my father was standing over me with a pen.

Lawrence had driven our father's car into the Ashcroft Grand's garage, drunk, and a valet had stepped out from behind a pillar.

"I'll owe you," Lawrence said that dawn, white and silent at the kitchen counter. "For life, Mitch."

I signed. My father threw me out of the will anyway.

For seven years my mother didn't say my name.

That is why I did what he asked, the week before the gala.

I wasn't in love with her. I want that written down somewhere.

I had seen Lana twice in my life, both times across a room, and otherwise only in photographs on his phone.

But he came to the yard in his good coat and said, I owe you.

I wanted so badly to believe that he meant it.

I carry the rest of it around.

I knew her voice in the dark. I knew her name in the dark.

I knew she called me Lawrence the whole time.

I told myself it was acting.

I told myself a lot of things, and every one of them stood up for exactly as long as it took her to pull that curtain.

There is a pearl earring in the top drawer of my dresser.

I found it that morning, tangled in the sheet, after she ran.

It was small and cheap, a drop of glass on a gold hook, and I should have mailed it back to her.

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