The Fall of Cinderella Read online

  Table of Contents

  prologue

  epilogue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  forty-seven

  forty-eight

  forty-nine

  fifty

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. STREET

  Healing the Broken

  (PROLOGUE INCLUDED IN BONUS MATERIAL)

  Copyright © 2017 by K. Street

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.KStreetauthor.com

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1979193887

  To my dad, for being the man you didn’t have to be. I miss you every day, but most especially, during hurricane season. I sure hope there are holes in the floor of heaven.

  And for my daughter, the original baby bear.

  contents

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  forty-one

  forty-two

  forty-three

  forty-four

  forty-five

  forty-six

  forty-seven

  forty-eight

  forty-nine

  fifty

  fifty-one

  fifty-two

  fifty-three

  epilogue

  Healing the Broken Teaser

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  prologue

  Tessa

  My heels clack against the tiles as I cross the lobby to meet my next client. He’s tall with blond hair that falls just over his right eye. Even though he’s wearing a suit and tie, he looks like he belongs on a surfboard in SoCal instead of standing inside the Art Institute of Chicago.

  I smile warmly and extend my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Salinger. I’m Tessa Carmichael, the assistant event coordinator.” My pulse races as his palm slides into mine.

  “Good morning, Tessa. Please, call me Trevor.” His voice is smooth and husky.

  “If you’ll join me in my office, I’ll show you what I’ve got in mind for the gala.” I gesture across the lobby.

  As we walk, he asks, “So, how long have you been the assistant event coordinator?”

  “Almost a year,” I reply and open the office door. “You can have a seat if you’d like.” I motion to the dark leather couch that faces the table where my laptop lies open. “Can I get you a bottle of water? Or a cup of coffee?”

  He sits down, and his eyes slowly scan over the length of me before returning to my face. “Water would be great.”

  I open the mini fridge, withdraw two bottles of water, and give one to him. I watch him unscrew the cap and lift the bottle to his mouth. His tongue darts out to catch a droplet of water, and an audible gasp escapes me.

  “Tessa? Everything okay?”

  “Um, yes. I’m sorry.” I desperately need to get control of my libido. I make sure to leave room between us when I take a seat on the couch and ask, “Do you have an updated head count?” I click open the Excel spreadsheet and wait for him to answer. When he doesn’t, I look up to see his eyes fixed on my lips.

  “Seven hundred,” he answers seamlessly.

  I enter the number and return my attention to him. “Did you bring a check for the deposit?”

  He reaches into his gray suit jacket and withdraws a white envelope. When he extends it to me, our fingers brush. My breath catches, and I feel his touch all the way to my toes. Our gazes lock, and a current crackles through the air. I try to take the envelope from his hand, but he holds tightly to it.

  “Tessa, have dinner with me.” He doesn’t phrase it like a question, and I’m certain it isn’t a request.

  “Mr. Salinger,” I say. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Trevor, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “You can’t? As in you’re not capable? Or you won’t?”

  “Won’t. It’s frowned upon. Sort of a conflict of interest.”

  “Meet me for a drink then.”

  “I—”

  “One drink, Tessa. That’s all,” he says, cutting me off.

  And damn if I don’t love the way he says my name.

  “Fine,” I concede.

  One drink leads to two. One dinner rolls into another, and by the time the charity gala comes and goes, I’m falling in love with Trevor Salinger. The man is full of charm, and loving him comes as easy as breathing. Just like a fairy tale…

  one

  Tessa

  Four and a Half Years Later

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The pounding on the door jerks me from sleep, and it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I must have dozed off on the couch, waiting for Trevor to get home. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I stumble to the door as the banging sounds again.

  “Mrs. Salinger?” a deep baritone calls from the other side of the door.

  “Just a minute. I’ll be right there,” I reply, striving to keep panic from my voice.

  With unsteady fingers, I comb through my hair and then run my flattened palms over my pajamas, smoothi
ng them out. On my tiptoes, I peer through the peephole and see Theo, our doorman, standing in the hall. He’s flanked by two officers from the Chicago Police Department. A sinking feeling settles into the pit of my gut as I twist the knob and open the door.

  “Theo.” My voice trembles as I say his name.

  “It’s all right, miss. These officers need a moment of your time.” He forces a smile, one I’m certain is meant for reassurance, but it doesn’t help. Theo turns and then walks to the elevator without glancing back.

  “Mrs. Salinger, may we come in?” one of the officers asks.

  “I’m so sorry. Yes, of course, please come inside.” I gesture to the living room and wait for them to step inside before closing the door. My feet are heavy as I follow behind them.

  The crumpled blanket remains strewed over the couch from where I left it moments ago. With trembling fingers, I fold it before laying it over the back of the sofa.

  In a voice so quiet, I barely recognize it as my own, I ask the question I don’t want to hear the answer to, “It’s Trevor, isn’t it?”

  “I’m Officer Wade and this is my partner, Officer Finch.” He points to the petite blonde beside him. “Please, let’s sit down.” His tone is even as he invites me to have a seat in my own home.

  His face is a mask of professionalism, but for a split second, it hides nothing, and cold dread seeps into my pores.

  “No. Please, I’d rather stand.” A million horrific scenarios run through my head, each one worse than the last. This moment will be burned into my brain with such clarity years from now. I’ll remember where I stood and exactly what I wore. In the next few seconds, my heart will shatter.

  “Mrs. Salinger, it really would be best for you to take a seat,” Officer Wade insists.

  Their pitying eyes seem to assess each small step I take toward the chair. They settle on the couch, grim smiles replacing the pleasantries.

  “Mrs. Salinger, I’m sorry to inform you that your husband, Trevor, has been involved in an accident,” Officer Wade tells me.

  My heart squeezes in my chest, and words wobble past my lips. “What do you mean, he’s been involved in an accident?” My eyes flit to the clock on the wall. It’s after two in the morning, and Trevor should’ve been home a few hours ago.

  Oh God. Please. Please.

  “A suspect fleeing a crime struck Mr. Salinger’s vehicle,” Officer Wade explains. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salinger. Your husband died on impact.”

  I shake my head in denial. “No! No.” He was on his way home to me. “It’s not him,” I say defiantly. “There’s been some sort of mistake.” My arms wrap tightly around my middle, and tears sting my eyes. Please let it be a mistake. This can’t be happening.

  They look at me with sympathy in their eyes.

  “Is there someone we can call for you?” Officer Finch asks.

  Her words jumble in my head as the room begins to sway and spin.

  “No. No. Please just go.” When they make no attempt to leave, I repeat, “Please.”

  “Once again, we’re so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Salinger. We’ll show ourselves out,” Officer Finch says.

  I don’t acknowledge them as they walk out the door. Or turn my head when the clicking of the doorknob echoes through our condo.

  “Your husband died on impact.”

  Those five words warble and whir like scratched vinyl on a record player. I sink to the floor, my hands covering my ears to block out the sound.

  “Your husband died on impact.”

  They strike with the strength of an F5 tornado, crushing bones and shattering my heart.

  Vomit burns at the base of my esophagus. I struggle to get to my feet and clamp a hand over my mouth. Then, I hurry into the kitchen to heave the contents of my stomach into the trash can. I stagger to the cabinet for a glass and fill it beneath the water dispenser in the refrigerator door. My hand quakes so badly, the water sloshes from side to side, and I have to use both hands to steady it as I move to the sink. I lift the tumbler to my lips and swish the cold liquid in my mouth. Then, I lean over and spit down the drain. With the glass still clutched in my hand, I fall to my knees on the hardwood floor.

  “Trevor!” I scream into the emptiness.

  I hurl the glass at the wall. It splinters into a thousand tiny shards, much like my soul. I tuck my body into a fetal position, and my entire being shudders with the force of my sobs. The endless stream of tears distorts my vision. I roll to my side and press my cheek against the floor.

  “Pl-please, G-god. Not Trev-or,” I beg.

  It hurts so much. I can’t breathe.

  I cry until everything around me fades to black.

  Hours later, I wake up in bed with no memory of how I got here. I roll over and glide a hand across Trevor’s pillowcase, the fabric is cold against my warm palm. For a split second, I wonder if he’s in the kitchen, making coffee. Then, the memory of last night comes crashing over me in a tsunami of ruin. My hand finds its way to my mouth, repressing the sob.

  Trevor. Oh God. Trevor.

  I tuck my knees to my chest, and the tears start all over again.

  A soft knock sounds from the other side of the bedroom door.

  “Tessa? It’s Dante. I’m coming in.” It’s the only warning I get before Trevor’s half-brother walks into the room.

  Pressing my hand harder against my lips, I shake my head. I’m trying so hard to keep the sobs in. Overwhelming loss, jagged and painful, overtakes me. The force of the silent cries racks my body. My hand slips, and silence is no more. The sounds piercing the air are otherworldly. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

  “Tessa?”

  The bed dips.

  “Tessa! Come on, Tessa.” Dante’s eyes are wild, panicked.

  It looks as though he’s trying to say something, but the screaming is so loud that I can’t hear him. His strong hands grip my arms and lift me from the mattress. He wraps me in a snug embrace and cradles me into him, burying my face against the crook of his neck. And I cry with a brokenness so guttural, the strength of it shakes our bodies as well as the bed. The harder I weep, the tighter Dante holds on to me.

  Minutes, maybe hours, pass when I finally lift my head.

  “Hey,” he says, meeting my swollen eyes. His dark hair is disheveled. The skin below his eyes is darkened with shadows. Chocolate irises reveal sadness and shock. “Tessa…I’m so sorry.”

  My head pounds from crying. “I wa-want to wa-wake up.” My breath is ragged and thick. “I wa-want th-this not to be real.”

  Dante’s eyes are flecked with pain as my gaze locks on his. “I know, Tess. Me, too.” He studies me for a minute, and I know he has something more to say. “I came over last night as soon as I heard…” His voice trails off, and I realize how I got to bed.

  Suddenly, sitting on his lap is awkward. I slide off and sit beside him, dropping my head into my hands.

  “I went out earlier to pick up breakfast and coffee. I’ll give you a few minutes.” Dante stands and walks toward the door.

  I draw in a stuttered breath and wipe my eyes. “I-I’ll b-be down in a few,” I say, rising to my feet.

  He turns back and crosses the small space between us. When we’re inches apart, he opens his arms and tugs me into his chest. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat as my arms encircle his waist. He securely holds me against him, wordlessly stroking my hair, and I can’t stop the tears.

  When he finally speaks, he says, “We’ll get through this, Tessa, I promise.” I sniffle, and he holds me closer and whispers, “I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this on your own.”

  I don’t see how I’m supposed to get through this. To keep breathing when the very foundation of my entire world has dropped from beneath me.

  Without responding, I let his words hang in the air and step out of his embrace. There is a softness in Dante’s normally intense stare. He walks away, and I gather my clothes before heading into the en suite bathroom. After I turn on the showe
r, I strip out of my pajamas.

  The bathroom mirror fogs from the rising heat, and my reflection in the glass vanishes. There one minute and then…gone.

  Just like Trevor.

  I step beneath the water. The nearly too-hot spray stings, but I don’t adjust the temperature. I’m driven by the need to feel something besides overwhelming grief. The torrent camouflages the tears streaming down my cheeks. I move through the motions on autopilot—my hair first and then my body. The bottle of Trevor’s shower gel draws my attention. I reach for it, open the top, and squeeze it into my hand, inhaling his spicy sandalwood scent.

  And it hits me. He’ll never hold me in his arms again. We won’t stroll through the city streets, hand in hand, or dance in Grant Park during Lollapalooza. There will be no more birthdays or holidays or ordinary days.

  The heaviness of grief takes on a presence of its own. Loud sobs wrench from my throat, and I cover my mouth to suppress the sound. No longer able to stand under the weight of my despair, I fall to my knees and weep until the water runs cold.

  In the blink of an eye, my whole world changed. And, for the life of me, I can’t remember how to draw air into my lungs.

  two

  Dante

  Tessa’s cries bleed through the walls over the sound of running water. It takes all my restraint not to bust through the door to get to her. I want to pull her into my arms and fuse her soul back together.

  I’ve spent years trying to fuck Tessa out of my system, using one woman after another. Each warm, wet pussy fades into the next, absorbing into a faceless sea of no-strings-attached sex. I’m always hoping the next pair of legs I land between will break the spell. She isn’t mine to love; she belongs to my brother. Life or death. His wife or his widow. It’s all semantics. Yet I still crave what isn’t mine, and it makes me the biggest son of a bitch there is.

  three

  Tessa

  I sit here, in my living room, the stillness closing in on me. Sounds of the city filter through concrete and steel, making it evident that, outside these walls, life moves on. But, within them, there’s only existence.

  I pick up my cell from the coffee table and swipe a finger over the screen. My heart lurches at the sight of Trevor’s bright blue eyes and dimpled smile. We took a silly selfie together, sitting in a cart atop the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. We look ridiculously in love, like nothing else mattered. I hate the fucking tears that prick my eyes. All I’ve done for nearly the past thirty-six hours is cry. My eyelids are in a permanent state of puffiness and so red that they’re almost purple.