The Fall of Cinderella Page 2

  A knock sounds on the door, and I have to force myself off the couch. Make a concentrated effort to put one foot in front of the other. I don’t bother looking through the peephole; I already know whom I’ll find. Not just because Dante has barely left my side, but there are also things that need to be taken care of. Things I don’t have the strength to do on my own.

  I open the door and stand wordlessly, watching him move his eyes over my frame. When his dark irises meet mine, they’re filled with concern. He looks so tired, like he hasn’t slept at all.

  “You hungry? We can stop and grab a bite.”

  “No.” I haven’t felt hungry in days.

  Neither one of us says a word as I pick up my purse from the table alongside the wall in the foyer, and I step out the door. The click of the lock ricochets through the hall. We’re mute as we step inside the elevator, both of us lost to our own thoughts. When the doors open into the lobby, Dante and I make our way across the floor toward the parking garage.

  “Mrs. Salinger…” Theo’s voice stops me.

  I turn to our doorman, and I can tell by the look on his face that he isn’t sure what to say. I attempt a sad smile for the older gentleman I’ve come to adore.

  “Theo,” I say in reply.

  The older man offers a sad smile but is at a loss for words.

  “We should get going,” Dante says, gesturing in the direction of the parking garage.

  Once we’re at the car, Dante opens the passenger door of his Audi, and I settle against the leather seat. When I make no move to fasten the seat belt, he pulls out the gray woven strap and clicks it in place before getting behind the wheel. We drive through the bustling Chicago streets, letting silence fill the space between us. I lean against the headrest, not bothering to fight the silent saltiness that rolls down my face and drips off my chin.

  I’m not sure how long we’ve been driving when Dante pulls into a parking lot and kills the engine. I keep my eyes fixed on the windshield and stare off into the distance. There is a small glimmer of hope that, if I don’t acknowledge it…if I don’t get out of this car, then I won’t have to face it.

  I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to do this.

  For a second, we’re at home in our bed where Trevor’s heart still beats in his chest. I close my eyes to the truth, and for a moment, I let myself pretend I’m tucked into the warmth of Trevor’s body. I imagine the pad of his finger gliding over my collarbone and then down my breast before he flattens his palm to ghost across my stomach. I envision his lips, warm and full against mine. I fantasize about the feel of his too-long surfer hair tickling my cheeks. All my energy is poured into conjuring the image of him, down to the dimple in his cheek.

  When I open my eyes, reality descends, dragging me into the undertow. I feel the weighty stare of Dante’s gaze on me. He gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, opening the door. He extends his hand and waits patiently for me to accept it. The minute my feet leave the confines of Dante’s car, when my shoes grind into the gravel…I won’t be able to pretend anymore. But sitting here won’t bring Trevor back; it won’t make him any less gone. With a deep inhale, I place my hand in Dante’s.

  The building looms like a portal to my own personal hell. My head spins, and my body sways. Anguish grips my insides, threatening to bring me to my knees.

  “Tessa.” Dante releases his hold and plants a hand on each of my upper arms.

  I shake my head. “I-I need a minute.”

  He gently tugs me into him, and I let him hold me. Not just because I need his comfort, but also because he’s the only barrier between me and the ground. I siphon his strength because I don’t have any of my own.

  After several long minutes, I nod my head against the hard wall of his chest. Together, we walk toward the entrance, and I try like hell to steel myself against the chasm of loss.

  Dante opens the door, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me inside. Hell smells like recycled air, slightly floral.

  I don’t want to be here.

  An older gentleman stands off to the side as we move further into the space. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Salinger,” he greets us. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Not as sorry as I am.

  Smile weak and eyes full of pity, he introduces himself, “I’m Henry, one of the funeral directors.”

  I don’t respond to Henry’s words. Instead, I stand silently beside Dante.

  “Hello, Henry. I’m Dante Salinger. Trevor is…was my brother.”

  Was.

  Trevor was…

  I squeeze my eyes tight while forcing my breaths to remain even. When I open them again, Dante is shaking hands with Henry. Neither seems to have noticed my lapse.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Henry says. “If you folks would follow me this way.”

  It occurs to me that I could stay fixed in this spot. Dig my feet in, and refuse to budge. My body and soul yearn to defy what my brain already knows. Staying rooted won’t change anything because there’s no way to put off the inevitable.

  Henry ushers us into a small conference room. I glance around the space, and my eyes roam over the urns. Some are carved from marble, others shaped from copper or glass. Crosses and doves adorn the walls—symbols meant to invoke a sense of serenity.

  They do nothing to bring me peace.

  Dante pulls out a chair, and I feel the warmth of his hand as he guides me into the seat. I struggle to breathe, and I can’t tell if the audible hiss is caused by the air whooshing from the chair or my lungs sticking together. I hide my hands in my lap beneath the table. My fingers curl of their own volition, balling into fists. Manicured nails bite into flesh. I savor the sting radiating through my palms. One sharp pain to counteract another.

  “Please help yourself to a bottle of water,” Henry offers, motioning to the tray in the center of the table.

  I don’t look up, but I see Dante reach for one in my periphery. He twists the cap off and sets it in front of me. My tongue is so dry, it’s plastered to the roof of my mouth. I tip the water to my lips and chug half of it before placing it back on the table.

  “Mrs. Salinger,” Henry begins as he removes a folder sitting on top of a thick book beside him, “we have some paperwork to go over, and I’ll need you to sign some documents.” When I don’t reply, he continues, “Are you interested in burial or cremation services?”

  How about neither? Is neither an option? Because I don’t want to fucking do this. I don’t want to be here. I want my husband.

  “Burial,” I say softly, my eyes fixed on the condensation settling into the grooves of the plastic bottle.

  “Of course.” Henry moves his pen over the paper. “How many copies of the death certificate would you like?”

  Is this some sort of joke? How many would I like? None. How many do I need?

  “I’m really not sure. What’s a good number, Henry?” I can’t hide the hint of irritation in my voice.

  I don’t know. I can’t think straight. Henry is supposed to have the answers.

  I feel sick. I don’t want to be here.

  Dante reaches into my lap and gently squeezes my fisted hands. I can’t tell if he’s lending me strength or if it’s an admonishment.

  “Eight,” he says, releasing my hand.

  Henry marks it down before setting the pen and papers aside and dragging the thick book in front of him, but his eyes are on me. “We have the pricing arranged in tiers, but if you have any questions, please ask.” He opens the catalog. “Do you know what kind of casket you’d like for Mr. Salinger?”

  That’s it. I can’t do this.

  The seemingly unrelenting tears streak down my face, burning my sensitive skin with their salt.

  I shake my head back and forth. “D-D-Dante.” I say his name like a prayer, a plea for him to do something.

  “Henry, could you give us a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Just come right through that door whenever yo
u’re ready.” He gestures to somewhere, but I don’t pay any attention.

  When I hear the door click, I lift my hands to my face and sob into my palms. “I-I can’t. I can’t do this.” My breathing quickly becomes erratic, and I struggle to suck air into my lungs.

  Dante slides his chair back and then turns my chair to face him. He cups my cheeks, not caring that I’m a mess of tears and snot. He clasps my face. “Breathe, Tess. Come on now. Breathe.”

  Eyes wide and hands clawing at my throat, I can’t. I can’t breathe.

  “Tessa. Look at me.” His authoritative tone snaps my eyes to his. “You’re having a panic attack. You’ve got to control your breathing. Breathe with me, Tessa.”

  We breathe in sync for as long as it takes my racing heart to settle. Gradually, the panic ebbs away.

  Dante drops his hands from my face. He grabs a few tissues from the box on the table and gives them to me. “Better?”

  “Yes,” I lie through a broken, breathy sob.

  He reaches for the casket catalog, dragging it toward us, and I dig my nails into my palms again, using enough force to leave marks for days.

  “Sip your water,” Dante orders, passing me the bottle.

  Trembling fingers grip the container and lift it to my lips. I take a few small drinks and set it back on the table.

  Dante questioningly looks at me. “Ready?”

  No.

  I close my eyes and will myself to push through this. When I open my eyes again, Dante is closely watching me.

  I know he’ll give me as much time as I need, and somehow, I summon the strength to tell him what he’s waiting to hear, “Okay.”

  “Sure?” he asks, needing confirmation.

  “Yes.”

  Dante flips through a few pages when I see a blue coffin just a shade darker than Trevor’s eyes.

  “That one,” I say in a ragged breath.

  “This one?” He points to the one on the right.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What about flowers?” he asks.

  I can hear the pain in his voice. He hates doing this as much as I do.

  “I d-don’t care. Just p-pick something.” It’s the truth; I don’t care. The flowers will all die anyway. They’ll be dead, just like Trevor.

  Dante grabs the paperwork. I don’t say anything as I watch him fill out the obituary information. With every stroke of the pen, he sums up Trevor’s life in a matter of a few paragraphs. Thousands of people will read these words in a newspaper or online. To them, my husband is merely a name printed on a page. They might remark how it’s unbelievably tragic that he died so young. But they won’t grieve for him. Not the way I grieve for him. They won’t miss his smile or the sound of his laughter. No one else will yearn for his touch or miss the feel of his body pressed up behind theirs. Those people won’t miss the inside jokes or all the little things that make up a life. Our life. They won’t ache for the memories we’ll never have a chance to make or the babies we should’ve had. I have nothing left of him. No reason to keep going.

  “Tessa,” Dante calls.

  The sound of his voice tugs me from my dark thoughts. He slides a few papers in front of me and hands me a pen, pointing to where I need to sign.

  I scrawl my signature across the space.

  Tessa Salinger.

  I took Trevor’s name and wore it like a badge of honor.

  Who am I…without him?

  This is my own personal hell.

  After a few more signatures, Dante removes the pen from my grip and says, “Let’s get you out of here.”

  We find Henry standing at the receptionist desk.

  “Everything is on the table. If you have any questions, call me.” Dante reaches into his wallet and gives him a business card. “I’ll drop off his clothes tomorrow.”

  His clothes.

  His.

  Clothes.

  Gnashing sharp teeth tear through me. A crippling agony seizes every cell and nerve ending in my body. I crumple to my knees, and the world goes black.

  four

  Dante

  Guilt burns in my gut like a steel blade forged in fire. Every time I look at Tessa, see the heartbreak in her amber eyes, the knife twists.

  Trevor’s death is on me. I asked him to meet me at the bar that night for a drink. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not only as my brother, but also as my business partner. There had to be an explanation, some way to justify it. When he confirmed what I’d already suspected, we got into an argument. He never made it home.

  Trevor is gone, and I’m the one left with the weight of his secrets hanging around my neck like a noose. Secrets I plan to keep—not for him, but for Tessa. She isn’t strong enough to withstand this kind of blow. It would fucking obliterate her. The rope she’s hanging on to is threadbare, and I refuse to be the one who causes it to snap.

  After she blacked out at the funeral home, there was no way I was going to leave her alone.

  I need a fucking distraction before I end up sitting in her room, watching her sleep like a damn creeper. I reach for my phone, slide my finger over the screen, and scroll through several emails, starring the important ones.

  Loud sobs break through the silence, scaring the shit outta me. I race toward the master bedroom, my phone clutched tightly in my grip.

  “Tess?” I call from outside her door.

  When she doesn’t answer, I twist the doorknob and shove the door open. She’s curled into a ball in the center of their king-size bed. A quaking small heap beneath the blankets—grief in its purest form. The sight of her rips my fucking heart out.

  I have to do something, and there’s only one person who comes to mind. I scroll through my Contacts and halt when I find the name I was looking for.

  Madison Parker, MD.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Dante?”

  “Madison. It’s been a long time.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she says in a flirty tone.

  “I need a favor…” I step into the hall and explain the reason for my call.

  After I hang up, I buzz Tessa’s doorman to let him know I am expecting a delivery in about thirty minutes and give him the go-ahead to bring it up when it arrives. Then, I return to the bedroom, stride over to Tessa, and sit down on the bed. I reach for her, pull her into my arms to cradle her into my chest, and croon words of comfort against her hair.

  Her tears seep through my shirt, and wetness clings to my skin. Seeing her like this kills me. Wanting to fix it but knowing I can’t is fucking torture. I have to exercise restraint to keep from kissing away her pain.

  Several minutes pass before she speaks, her voice quiet and thick, “I w-wish my pa-parents were here.”

  “I’ll call the cruise line, Tessa. Charter a plane. If you want them here, I’ll make it happen.” And I will; all she has to do is say the word.

  She shakes her head against me. “No.” She slightly leans up, wiping her face with the backs of her hands before drawing in a calming breath and leaning into me again. “Dante, they’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long. It’s their thirtieth anniversary. I won’t ruin it for them.”

  “You sure?” It wouldn’t be an easy thing to pull off, but it isn’t impossible. “Maybe you should email them at least.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “Besides, my parents aren’t exactly tech-savvy. There’s no way they purchased a Wi-Fi package, and their cell reception is spotty at best most of the time.”

  “If you change your mind, I’ll take care of it.” I wrap my arms around her and squeeze.

  When I release her, she slides off my lap to lie back down. A glance at my watch tells me that Theo should be here any minute with the delivery.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” she says, resting her head on the pillow.

  I walk out of the room and toward the kitchen, but a knock on the door has me changing directions. I stride to the door, grasp the handle and open it.


  Theo is standing on the other side with a small bag in his grip. “Your package, sir.”

  “Thanks for bringing it up.” I don’t even have to open it to know it’s the sedative Madison sent via courier. I take it from his outstretched hand and then reach into my pocket before pulling out a twenty.

  “You’re welcome. Let me know if there is anything else I can do,” he says, walking away.

  When I spoke to Madison earlier, she told me to make sure Tessa took the pills with food, so I go into the kitchen and assemble a plate of peanut butter crackers, and then I pour her a glass of milk.

  She’s still in the same position I left her, staring into space. “Tess. Here, you need to eat.”

  She shakes her head. “Not hungry.”

  “Try to eat a few bites,” I encourage. “I called a friend, a doctor. She sent something over to help you sleep, but you can’t take it on an empty stomach.”

  She sits up, leans against the headboard, and takes the plate and glass from my outstretched hands. She eats a few crackers and drinks some milk. Taking the bottle from the bag, I open it and give her a tiny white pill.

  “Thanks,” she says quietly before swallowing it with the rest of the milk. Then, she sets the plate of crackers and the empty glass on the nightstand.

  I watch as she lies down again, her hair spilling over the pillow. She’s the most beautiful broken creature I’ve ever seen. Her long lashes brush against the dark circles under her eyes. A silent tear streams down her face, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with her. Trace the tip of my tongue over her cheeks and lick the trail of saltiness from her flesh. I want to spread her legs, sink balls deep inside her, and dominate her pain from the inside. Take her to a place where she’d exchange her sorrow for sweet torture. The kind that would lead to an ecstasy where we both could forget.