The Fall of Cinderella Read online

  Forget the agony.

  Forget the anger.

  Somewhere secrets are so well hidden, they’d never come to light. Somewhere guilt doesn’t exist.

  Knowing I can’t stay in this room another minute without touching her, I gather up the dishes and turn to her. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  “Dante…thank you,” she says softly with a sad, watery smile.

  I turn and walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.

  five

  Tessa

  Cold, so bitter it seeps into my pores, claims every nerve ending as it settles into my bones. I’m unable to feel my fingers, but I’m desperate for the numbness to reach beyond my flesh. I yearn for the gelid air to anaesthetize my heart, put my soul out of its misery. Everything hurts. Breathing is fucking painful. Each inhale is a reminder that I’ll never breathe the same air as Trevor. Ever. Again.

  Sorrow clings to the gray granite-spotted lawn. People gather near. Like me, they’re dressed in black. Unlike me, they’ll leave this place of perpetual death, and their lives will go on. I’ll be in limbo…irrevocably broken. Because my heart will no longer beat in my chest. Instead, it’ll be buried beneath the cold, dark earth.

  The minister’s words are an incessant buzzing, like a thousand bees are in my head. He reads the twenty-third Psalm aloud, and it takes every ounce of restraint I can muster not to leap from this icy metal chair and demand he shut up.

  “…for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  God is with me?

  Maybe God should have been with Trevor. Because, if God had been with Trevor, I wouldn’t be here. There wouldn’t be a cavernous hole, six feet deep, prepared to engulf my husband. And comfort…the scripture doesn’t comfort me. The words are a poker burning my flesh. Acid poured on a gaping wound.

  I tightly clasp my hands together in my lap, digging my nails into my knuckles hard enough to draw blood. An act that keeps me from covering my ears to block out the sound of the officiant.

  Minutes later, though not soon enough, the minister’s voice is replaced with the shuffling of feet. I don’t lift my head as mourners file past me or acknowledge the shoulder squeezes or the whispered apologies for my loss. Instead, I focus on the ground, my eyes trained on the spot where people pause to place flowers atop my husband’s casket.

  When everyone is gone and Dante is the only one left, aside from me, I rise to my feet and take a step forward.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Inhale.

  A single red rose trembles in my grasp as I lay it on top of the white ones left by the other mourners. With my hands placed on the frigid dark blue steel, I lean forward, laying my cheek on the casket until my flesh is numb. I turn my head, and my mouth meets the freezing metal. Chapped lips linger in a final kiss good-bye. My forehead rests against the surface, and the magnitude of my loss consumes me. An endless river of tears begins to flow.

  I don’t want to let you go.

  I need you.

  I love you, Trevor.

  How am I supposed to walk away and leave him behind?

  I want so badly to beg someone to open the coffin, so I can crawl in beside him.

  My hands are still flattened against the casket as sobs rip from the deepest part of me. Shattered keening wails split the sacred silence.

  Masculine warmth blankets my body, and for a split second, I can feel him. Trevor. His presence palpable. I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

  But it isn’t Trevor’s hands that cover my own. It isn’t Trevor who pries my frame away from the box that holds the center of my world.

  Dante’s strong arms protectively wrap around me. He pulls me into his chest and tightly clutches me to him. Somehow, he knows that I can’t stand on my own.

  “Shh…shh,” he shushes into my hair.

  I’m not sure how long we stand like this—me clinging to Dante, him bearing the weight of my brokenness. I struggle to get myself under control, and when my heart finally calms enough that I won’t have to be carried, I let Dante lead me away.

  We file past headstone after headstone, moving in the direction of the waiting town car. My vision remains fixed on my shoes. One foot and then the other. I don’t lift my head until Dante nearly misses a step, the action drawing my focus from the ground. In my periphery, I notice a woman standing next to a tree. As we draw closer, I try to place her, but I can’t. Nothing about her is familiar, but there’s something in the way she looks at me.

  I glance at Dante. He wears an odd expression, and his jaw is clenched.

  “Do you know her?” I gesture toward the woman.

  “No,” he says, quick and dismissive. “People will be waiting for us at the house. We should get back.”

  I let him steer me away, and the woman is long forgotten as I’m once again swept up in my grief.

  Endless dishes full of food blanket every available space in the kitchen, and I’m sickened by the sight of it. I make my way to the chair in the living room—the same one I sat in when the officers delivered the blow that rocked my world off its axis.

  I’m surrounded by a sea of faces, and I’ve never felt more alone in my life. People glance my way, all sad eyes and hushed voices. Tossing around clichés about God and mysterious ways. They offer their condolences, and when they can’t find their words, they pat my hand or give it a gentle squeeze. I want them to leave.

  I buried my husband today.

  I don’t give a shit about social graces.

  The smell of food competes with the stench of the people. Garlic and spices clash with flowery fragrances. It makes my head hurt and my stomach roil.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I slip away, undetected, shutting myself in the bedroom. Still in the black dress I wore to the funeral, I toe off my heels, pull back the covers, and slip beneath the warm bedding. Heavy-lidded eyes succumb to exhaustion, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.

  When I wake, it’s quiet, too quiet for a crowd of people to be here. I listen to the stillness, the noises a home makes when it seems silent but isn’t. The hum of the ceiling fan, the ticking of a clock. Soon, I’m thinking about the sounds I’ll never hear again. Trevor’s hearty laugh, his snore, my name on his lips.

  A lone tear rolls from my eye. I swipe it and climb out of bed. The sudden urge to wash today from my skin overwhelms me, and I need to use the bathroom.

  I wash and dry my hands and then study my reflection. After reaching for the makeup remover, I dampen a cotton pad with the solution and wipe away the mask. With each swab of softness across my skin, the hardness of my new reality stares back at me.

  Tessa Salinger. Twenty-seven years old. Widow.

  Widow.

  The word echoes through me like the slamming door of a cell. I turn my back and strip out of my clothes.

  After my shower, I get dressed and pad into the kitchen. The counters are clear, all traces of the funeral reception gone. I walk to the refrigerator and spot a note Dante left on the door.

  TESSA,

  EAT SOMETHING. I’LL BE BACK SOON.

  DANTE

  Completely ignoring Dante’s written order, I forgo the food and grasp a bottle of water, taking it into the living room. I curl into the corner of the couch, wrapping the throw over me, and breathe out a heavy sigh. There’s a new permanent ache living in my chest. I flatten my palm, pressing against it, as if I can make it go away.

  My eyes move around the room, settling on the center of the bookshelf, focusing on the framed picture of Trevor and me on our wedding day. Beside the photo is our wedding album. I can’t recall the last time I flipped through its pages. Filled with an innate desperation to be close to Trevor, I rise from my spot and walk over to the bookshelf to remove the album.

  Hugging it closely to my body, I carry it back to the sofa and pull the ribbons from the intricate bow. The book lies open and flat across my lap. The memories of that day wash over me. A small laug
h escapes as I remember; for someone who plans events for a living, I was a mess on my wedding day.

  I stare at the close-up photograph of Trevor and me. My index finger trails over his face. He looks so handsome in his tux, his eyes bright, full of love and life, as he smiles that heart-stopping, panty-dropping grin at me. Somehow, the photographer captured the love that radiated from the two of us.

  Trevor was the sum of all my childhood dreams. He was my Prince Charming. And he made me feel like…Cinderella. He gave me everything I could’ve ever wanted. Our castle was a high-rise condo. I had fancy shoes and beautiful clothes. More importantly, we shared a love that ran deep. The only thing missing was a baby, and we’d been trying without luck.

  Tears stream over my cheeks, and when the pain is too much to bear, I close the album and set it on the table in front of me. Sorrow thick as quicksand sucks me into its bottomless pit.

  six

  Dante

  Tessa is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, face in her hands and shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Whatever is left of daylight filters through the large picture window, spotlighting the despair that glistens between the cracks of her fingers. I stand just inside the doorway of the living room, drinking her in. Her sadness is palpable as I watch it shudder through her, and I can’t recall a time I’ve ever felt more helpless.

  Wordlessly, I cross the room to the bar cart, set up two shot glasses, and fill them with bourbon. Gripping the bottle in one hand and carrying the shots in the other, I stride over to her, placing the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.

  “Here,” I say, extending the amber liquor. “Drink this.”

  Before she takes the glass, she reaches for the box of tissues and wipes the wetness from her face. “I’m sorry.” Her caramel irises are full of sorrow.

  Swollen red eyes and tearstained cheeks stare up at me. She’s never looked more beautiful.

  Tessa takes my offering as I sit next to her.

  “Stop apologizing. You’re allowed to cry, Tess. You just buried your husband.” I toss back the bourbon and refill my glass.

  She slowly rolls her full glass in her hands, staring into it, as if it somehow holds the answers. “I do-don’t know h-how I’m supposed to l-li-live without him.”

  I want to kiss away her tears and promise her it’s going to be okay. But I can’t do that. Instead, I slip an arm around her and pull her close. She lays her head against my shoulder. Her chest rises as she heaves out shuddered breaths.

  “One day at a time, and if that’s too much, one minute at a time.”

  We sit here for several minutes before I break the silence. “Have you eaten anything?”

  “No,” she remarks before leaning up and slamming the shot back.

  She reaches forward for the bottle, and I drop my arm from the back of the couch. Her eyes flit between the shot glass and the bourbon, as if she’s trying to decide. Her long, slender fingers wrap around the neck, and she leans back into the couch, tipping the bottle to her lips.

  My cock twitches as I watch her mouth pucker around the rim. I let her swallow a gulp before I remove the bottle from her grip. “What’re you doing?”

  She looks at me as though it’s such an asinine question. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’re trying to get shit-faced.”

  “You know, I always liked that about you, Dante; you’re so damn perceptive.”

  “Tess—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  Her words hang in the air between us, and in the silence, I hear everything she doesn’t say. I lift the alcohol to my mouth and take a swig before passing it to Tessa. We go back and forth, and neither of us speaks a word until we have drained the last drop.

  “Dante?” My name is almost a slur.

  I sit with my head leaning against the couch cushion, eyes closed. “Hmm?”

  “How’re you doing…with everything?”

  I feel her shift her body toward me.

  That’s a loaded question.

  I open my eyes and turn my head to look at her. “I’m not sure how to answer that,” I tell her honestly. Trevor was only thirty-three, just three years younger than me. He hadn’t even really lived.

  “How can someone so full of life be snuffed out like that?”

  Her question seems rhetorical, so I don’t answer her. Instead, I say, “The guy…the one who fled the scene”—I can’t bring myself to say the one who killed Trevor—“he’s dead.”

  She’s quiet for a few minutes, and I’m not sure if she’s going to say anything at all.

  “I’m glad.” Her words don’t surprise me. “I’m glad, and if that makes me a horrible person, I don’t give a damn. Trevor would be here if it wasn’t for him.”

  Trevor would be here, but your world would still come crashing down around you.

  She should’ve been mine, but she doesn’t know that. I was supposed to meet her that day for the charity gala, not Trevor. I’d been swamped at work, and when Trevor got back to the office early, he offered to go in my place. I didn’t think twice. I’ve regretted it every motherfucking day since.

  A million questions spin in my head like a ball on a roulette wheel.

  What if I’d met Tessa first?

  What if Trevor hadn’t been a fucking idiot?

  What if I’d never confronted my brother at the bar?

  What if…

  I get up to retrieve another bottle from the bar cart. Carrying it back across the room, I resume my place beside Tessa and take a long pull of alcohol.

  “Here’s to getting shit-faced,” I say, passing her the whiskey.

  seven

  Dante

  A quiet tap on my office door draws my attention from the papers I’ve been poring over, and I look up to find my assistant, Katie, standing in the entryway.

  “Do you need anything else before I leave?” she asks when I meet her gaze.

  It’s been six weeks since the funeral. I’ve been burying myself in work, and I’m doing my best to hold Tessa together.

  “I’m good. Have a nice weekend, Katie.”

  I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not fooled. “You, too, Dante,” she says before striding away.

  My thoughts turn to Tessa. We’ve grown closer since Trevor’s death. Tessa needs a friend right now, and frankly, so do I.

  Despite it all, Trevor and I were close even if we hadn’t grown up together.

  Our father, Grant Salinger, and my mother had a brief love affair before Grant moved on. The first time I met my father, I was ten, and Trevor was seven. Grant raised him when his mother died. After Trevor graduated, he applied to the same college I attended. We had the same major and used our father’s money to start Salinger and Salinger Internet Securities. It was the first and last time I took a handout from Grant.

  My cell chimes from somewhere beneath the pile of new client contracts. I rummage through the documents until I find it. The screen lights up with a text from Tessa.

  Tessa: I’m going to skip tonight. Rain check?

  I knew she’d try to get out of going tonight. We’re supposed to go to a pub for dinner. Apart from going to work, she doesn’t leave the confines of her four walls, and I’m trying to change that.

  Me: How about we stay in instead? Come to my place. I’ll order pizza.

  Tessa: I think I’m just going to stay home.

  Me: Tess, come over. Just for a little while.

  My eyes roam over the expanse of my office. It’s quiet, except for the noise of the Chicago streets below. I place the phone back down on my desk, rise to my feet, and move to stand in front of the wall of windows to take in the city. People move along like tiny soldiers, completely ignorant of how drastically life can shift in a split second. How one decision has the power to change everything.

  My phone vibrates against the wood. I stride over to my desk, pick up the phone, and swipe the screen.

  Tessa: Hold the bl
ack olives.

  I answer the door to find Tessa waiting on the other side. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing Trevor’s Chicago Blackhawks hoodie and a pair of jeans. The dark circles under her eyes are on full display. Her face is free of the makeup she wears to conceal them.

  A beautiful mess.

  “Hey,” I greet her and step back to allow her to enter before closing the door.

  “Hey,” she says softly, leaning in for a hug. She steps away, a sad smile on her face.

  “Come into the kitchen.”

  I hear Tessa’s footfalls as she follows behind me. I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with red wine, and pass it to her.

  “Thanks.” She takes it from my hand and lifts it to her lips.

  I move to the fridge to grab a beer.

  Tessa makes a face as I open the bottle and take a long pull. “I don’t see how you can drink that stuff.”

  “What? Beer?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Yes. I’m not sure what horse piss tastes like, but I’d bet that’s pretty damn close,” she says, indicating the bottle.

  “This from the woman who can shoot whiskey like water,” I tease.

  “Jealous?” She grins.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Pizza’s here. Want to grab some plates out of the cabinet and meet me in the living room?”

  “Sure.”

  I pay the delivery guy and then head into the living room where Tessa already has the TV on. We situate ourselves on the sofa with our dinner and dig in. I watch Tessa in my periphery as she eats her slice of pizza. She’s barely finished half of it when she abandons her plate. She hardly eats enough to stay alive, and I constantly worry about her.

  We’re halfway through the movie when we both bust out laughing. She throws her head back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her reaction has me chuckling even harder. She’s carefree, uninhibited. It’s the first glance I’ve had of the old Tessa in for-fucking-ever, and I suppress the urge to kiss her.