Somewhere Between the Depths

Chapter Nineteen

 

Three Years Later... 

Nora: Age Twenty-Five

I sign the paperwork with stiff precision, sliding the documents across the table toward my attorney. I sit back in the plush leather chair opposite him, crossing one stockinged leg over the other and place my perfectly manicured hands in my lap. He studies the documents while I take a leisurely glance around his office. There are various photos of his family, framed accomplishments, his law-school degree hanging above all else. One photo on his desk has my breath catching and my chest tightening to the point of pain. 

He's straddling a motorcycle, helmet held under his arm as he grins at the camera, and even after all this time, the memories come rushing back. The rumble of an engine, the vibration of it through my body, the way my arms felt around his waist... 

Mr. Crandle catches my stare and chuckles softly, yanking from the past as I blink at him slowly. 

"I know, I don't look the type to have a motorcycle." He shrugs, stamping the paperwork with his official seal, "It's my guilty pleasure." 

I smile politely in return, but don't bother engaging in conversation. Checking my watch, I sigh loudly enough to catch his attention. His eyes tighten around the corners, but otherwise seems unruffled by my obvious rushing. He stands, makes a copy at his personal printer, and then slips the paperwork into a manilla envelope before handing them over to me. 

"Congratulations, Mrs. Prescott. How does it feel to be a millionaire?" He reaches out his hand for me to shake. 

"Exhausting." I quip, grabbing my purse and striding toward the exit. 

I manage, by sheer luck in a building this size, to snag an elevator to myself on the ride back down to reality. I was twenty-two stories up in a fantasy world, half expecting to see dragons flying about out the floor to ceiling windows. I'd grown up with money floating around me, never considered myself poor, but there was a difference in being exposed to a plethora of money and having millions of dollars deposited into your account with flick of a signature. I was a millionaire, fueled with blood money that I'd earned throughout my childhood. 

The mirrored interior walls of the elevator mock me in this pencil skirt and silk, black blouse. My height magnified in these stiletto heels that clack with every step, my hair styled to perfection while my lips are painted a deep ox-blood red. I don't recognize the woman staring back at me, but I haven't for years. I haven't recognized myself since the night I left Variety. I showed up in New York, just a shell of a person, and while I've filled myself up with things over the years, the one thing keeping me going, burning white-hot through my veins at all times, an old friend I call rage. 

My heels click along the tiled floor of Crandle and Marksman's lobby as I exit into the California sun. It's a beautiful November day, but the surroundings still make me nauseous no matter how many therapy sessions I attend. I've bled all over this town, and I've caused others to bleed. I've killed in this town, and the sick part is, I don't regret it. Not for a single moment. In fact, if I could go back, I'd do it again. I'd just do it much sooner. 

Three long days I've spent in LA finalizing the paperwork to inherit Jace's money. The money he never wanted to leave me, because he knew. He knew I wasn't his daughter, and whenever I look back, I laugh at how painfully obvious it was. All those years of bleeding and bruising for that sad sack of a man, and the only semblance of closure I get are those crisp bills being loaded into my account. I hope that bastard is turning in his grave as he watches me spend this money.