The Perfect Descent

By Jessica Holbrook

Deacon Shaw is a washed up marine turned mercenary turned boozer employed to protect and train Madison Benchley-Lawrence, the youngest member in a grossly wealthy, world renowned family. But when tragedy strikes the family, and they begin to drop like flies one after the other, Deacon finds himself challenged against one of New York’s notorious serial killers police have been chasing for the past fifteen years. Deacon is forced to confront his past he has tried to bury for years, fight to the death, piece together the sad, twisted, shady lives of the multi-billion dollar Benchley’s. He will tackle feelings he has never before felt in his life; pity, sympathy, sadness. Would he even dare to go as far to think… love? Is there more to the façade the family puts on for the entire world? Is there more that happens behind their closed mansion walls and doors? Is it even worth it? …Is she even worth it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329959996

Book preview

The Perfect Descent

The Perfect Descent

Jessica Holbrook

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

Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Holbrook

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, write to the author/publisher at the email address below.

Jessica Holbrook

[e-mail]

eBook ISBN 978-1-329-95999-6

First Edition: March 2016

eBook ISBN 978-1-329-95999-6

Prologue

DR. SPENCER R. BENCHLEY uses the tip of his five hundred dollar Testoni dress shoe to roll the repellent half-naked man, who lies dormant on his stomach beside the dried up pool, over onto his back. A half empty Corona bottle is still clenched in his hand. Spencer’s face twists with pure and absolute disgust. His head cocks to the side as he studies the inebriated man in his blotto coma. There is an abundant combination of drained beer bottles and Jack Daniels Tennessee whiskey bottles smashed at the bottom of the desiccated pool.

No one can drink this much and live to tell the tale…that is, if they could even remember it. Dr. Spencer R. Benchley has had his share of late nights where the next morning is foggy and the prior events were questionable, but he has never been so drunk that he lost consciousness.

Hello? Spencer prods the man with his dress shoe cautiously. Are you dead?

The man lies there unmoving, lifeless. Spencer squats down closer to the stranger, his knees popping in protest. He reeks of booze, body odor, sweat, and weeks of devouring nothing but hard liquor and beer.

Alcohol—instead of sweat—slowly oozes out of the man’s pores, creating a thin film of secretion over the man’s exposed skin and beginning to soak his shirt. Apparently, he was still alive. Spencer gets an unwanted whiff of his horrible breath and gags. The unbearable stench clings to the inside of Spencer’s nose and coats his throat.

This man is a drunk, an alcoholic. Why would Spencer want to hire a washed up ex-marine, ex-mercenary boozer to protect his family? Might as well buy a flashing neon target to attach to everyone’s forehead while he is at it. What was Lieutenant Carl Beck thinking when he recommended this degenerate? This was a waste of his valuable time.

The hell with this, I’m outta here.

Wuh…?

Spencer glances back down as the ex-killing machine stirs, trying to pull out of his beer and whiskey coma. His eyes barely slit open, wincing at the bright sunlight. He lifts his head off of the reddish-orange tiled patio—it’s very desert-looking, fitting for Arizona. His glazed over, bloodshot eyes don’t seem to be able to focus on Spencer. Instead, they look rather cross-eyed. Spencer holds as still as he can, not knowing what this ex-hired gunman will do if he thinks he’s an intruder or a threat.

Are you Mister Deacon Shaw?

Mister? he mocks wryly, his voice thick with gruff. He rests his head back onto the tile and closes his eyes again. I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, Mac, he says acidly. Get lost.

I am not a salesman, Mr. Shaw, Spencer says with authentic professionalism, though his patience is running dangerously low.

Then what are you doing trespassing on my property?

I am Doctor Spencer R. Benchley, he recites proudly, as he’s been doing ever since he graduated from Harvard University AND the University of Oxford in Europe. President, chairman, and owner of Benchley International Incorporation.

No shit? The man rubs the moisture away from his soaked forehead with the back of his tanned hand. Spencer isn’t sure if it’s from the unbearable heat of Arizona or from his weeklong bash of whiskey and beer.

I wish to pay you—

Not for sale.

Hire your services, Mr. Shaw.

Not interested.

You haven’t heard my offer.

Don’t care. Don’t want it. Now, you can show yourself out the way you showed yourself in before I reach for my twelve gauge. Goodbye.

I…I need your help.

Lookit, doc, I’ve had my share of experimentations, but regrettably, don’t root for the same team. I am, however, still flattered.

That’s…not… Spencer blinks at the man, clearly speechless by his candor. That’s not what I was meaning, Mr. Shaw.

A heavy eyelid slits open. Don’t pretend this hasn’t crossed your mind, doc, he says acerbically, gesturing to his stripped torso. His husky voice is thick with sardonicism.

Spencer closes his eyes, irritated, irascibility growing profusely inside of him. I need you to protect someone close to me.

Go away, the man groans irritably and suddenly sits up, startling Spencer. He sways slightly and massages his temples, as if it will rub his pounding headache away.

It’s a woman. She needs you. She needs—

A good fuck? He smirks arrogantly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Is the ole cock-a-doodle unable to get a hard-on in old age, and so you need to hire a stud like me to take care of your ball-and-chain’s troubled eager beaver?

Spencer’s jaw slides to the side, shock-stilled by the half-naked man’s crude arrogance. The tousled man has a brazen smirk on his scruffy, unkempt face as he looks up at Spencer through hooded eyelids against the blazing sun. He slowly pulls himself to his feet, almost falling back down. Spencer doesn’t flinch to catch him. The man is a good two to three inches taller than Spencer, and he is six foot three. The man is covered with swollen muscles and thick sinew, just how any marine is expected to look.

That’s not—I’ve got money.

Don’t need it.

Everybody needs money, Mr. Shaw.

I don’t.

It’s good business.

Don’t need that either.

I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.

I’m not that cheap, doc. I’m sure the wifey would want her paramour to be much more lucrative.

Three hundred thousand dollars and you aren’t to lay a finger on her.

Pass. The man shrugs nonchalantly. If she’s beautiful, I can’t make any promises. I can’t be trusted around beautiful women. He grins wickedly, flashing straight, pearly white teeth. Spencer almost reacts by punching the drunken bastard in his face.

Five hundred thousand dollars every six months. That’s a million dollars a year, Mr. Shaw, just in case you forgot how to count. Roughly eighty-three thousand dollars a month.

Well, damn. He stretches his arms above his head, his back arching, and belches loudly in Spencer’s face.

Spencer closes his eyes and holds his breath, trying arduously to steady his temper. Caught your interest now?

How long are you expecting me to stay on this broad?

"You are not staying on her, Mr. Shaw, as I have said. You are protecting her and training her in self-defense."

Am I, now? A defined coffee-brown brow lifts. His light blue-gray eyes are cloudy and swollen, staring hard at Spencer. He has no doubt that this man wants to levigate his own face, and he’s sure that the ex-killer could do it, too.

Yes.

And now, just how long are you expecting me to do that, doc?

For as long as it takes, Mr. Shaw, Spencer replies impatiently, glancing down at his seventy-five hundred dollar Rolex watch; 10:12 AM.

Eh, what’s up, doc? You got somewhere you gotta be?

Spencer glances back up to the cantankerous man, unable to hide his impatience any longer. I was hoping to be on my jet back to New York by ten thirty, yes. It looks like I won’t be making it, now, will I, Mr. Shaw.

How could anyone bear this heat? Spencer is already sweating in his personally tailored and designed gray Versace business suit and it’s only ten in the morning. He doesn’t want to be here another minute longer. This bastard needs to hurry up and agree to do business for him.

The uncouth man shrugs his broad shoulders, running his hands through his short dark-russet hair. Lookit, doc, I don’t know how you found me. Frankly, I don’t give two shits. But you—

Lieutenant Carl Beck says you are highly recommended. The best money can buy.

Son of a bitch. He puts his long-fingered hands on his suntanned, narrow hips. No more Christmas cards for that rat-bastard. He picks up an unopened Corona bottle and easily pops off the cap with his teeth, taking a large swig down his gullet. I’m retired, doc, and the lieutenant knows that. I don’t do that anymore.

"I’m not asking you to execute anyone. I am asking you to help me. I can’t keep tabs on her because I am a very busy man—"

I’d love to save a damsel-in-distress from danger just as much as the next superman, but I do population control, intelligence gathering, counter intelligence. Ambushing and counter ambushing. Sniping and counter sniping. Evacuation and evade, infiltration, exfiltration. Penetration, he winks with another egotistical smirk, air assault, and airborne rappelling. I do strike and surveillance, that sort of stuff. I don’t do babysitting, man.

Someone is targeting us, Mr. Shaw, and until I find out whom, and stop it, I need your help protecting them, protecting important people.

Tough break.

Spencer exhales impatiently, arduously fighting the urge to wrap his hands around this little twat’s throat. "Now, you lookit, Mr. Shaw. You’ve wasted enough of my time with your wise ass remarks and your narcissistic and egotistic behavior—"

Big words for the big man. He laughs tartly, almost choking on his beer.

—but my family is in danger. And the longer you stand here feeling nothing but self-pity for yourself, the more chances I have of going home to another family member brutalized.

Go to the police. You have high friends in high places, I’m sure.

They don’t know Jack.

His cocksure grin reappears. And I do?

Spencer grits his teeth. I just happen to know that you are in need of cash, a new job that doesn’t require your morality to lower any further than it already is or to kill mercilessly, unless necessary, and in dire need of a change of relocation from this hellhole. A shower, a few AA meetings, and a shave wouldn’t hurt you either…a change of clothes would be nice, too. Spencer took a breath.

Now, I will give you one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars every month we are in need of your combat and training services, and to train this woman that you will be protecting. Get your name in the good lights for once. Cash, job, place to live, all expenses paid. I will explain everything else or answer any of your questions once we’ve landed back in New York. Do we have a deal, Mr. Shaw? Yes or no?

Deacon Shaw stares at the grandiosely decorated doctor. He didn’t question the good doctor further on how he found Deacon, because he’s been under the radar for the last three years. Who’s after the doc and his important people? Deacon’s sure Mr. Ritchie McRich is used to getting his way. All he has to do is huff and puff, threaten this and that, and Presto! he gets exactly what he wants.

Why would he have to go so far as to hire a marine turned mercenary turned drunk to protect this certain woman? Is she really that important? Unless she’s Oprah Winfrey or Jennifer Connelly—his all-time favorite actress to look at and watch on the big screen—he highly doubts it. But the only question that sticks out in Deacon’s fuzzy hungover brain is: what would Jesus do?

Ha! Oh, damn. Deacon bursts out in a laughing fit, slowly shaking his head at himself. Watch out Jerry Seinfeld, there’s a new comic coming to town. Damn, how he misses that show. It’s one of the only shows he would watch on television. He wonders whatever happened to that funny son of a bitch.

You have five seconds to give me an answer, Mr. Shaw, or I am going to walk away with my offer and leave you here to rot in this godforsaken place. Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit, but enough of my time has been wasted standing here and, so far, I am not impressed. I don’t think you’d want to save even your own life if someone was holding a gun to your head. Four seconds.

Damn, this doc doesn’t have a single funny bone in his brawny, sumptuous body. The doc would be proud of Deacon’s big word, too. Should he do it? He does need money. To this day his bank account only holds fifty dollars. He will lose his house if he doesn’t get a job…and soon. He will lose everything. He promised Odette that he would never go back into the business again, but Dr. Iceman isn’t hiring him to kill anyone, unless it was necessary, to quote the doc. He’s hiring him to babysit. Likely to babysit some stuck-up teenage brat or wild adolescent who doesn’t know left from right or right from wrong. He’s going be the cleanup crew when the dumb tramp can’t hold her liquor or keep her damn legs closed.

Is that what Deacon Shaw’s life has turned into? Is this what he has become? A babysitter?

Answer?

Uh...

Chapter One

MADISON BENCHLEY-LAWRENCE IS one of the most famous heiresses, right behind Ivanka Trump in net worth, and very well-known throughout the world. Everyone wants a piece of her, from modeling in designer clothes and fragrances, to acting small parts in movies and television shows, to appearances on talk shows and commercials, to posing in men’s magazines—tastefully covered, of course. She is, in spite of everything, a principled, decent married woman to the voted number-one sexiest business-man.

Yes, Madison Benchley-Lawrence has the life all women crave and dream of. She has riches pouring out of the ole wazoo and a professionally decorated enormous flat right smack dab in the heart of Manhattan. She has a very attractive looking husband who is caring and compassionate, and she herself has looks that go along with a drop-dead, generously curvaceous body that makes every man lust after her and every woman hot with envy. What more could a girl want?

She met her husband, Ian Lawrence, through her oldest brother. They went to college together and the pair became good friends. Spencer started bringing Ian around and bam!, he knew that he was going to make Madison Benchley his wife. He married her on May 10, 2007, just one month before Madison’s twenty-first birthday. Even though there is a nine year age difference between her and Ian, she still fell head-over-heels for him. It was the perfect fairytale romance, magical wedding, and now happily-ever-after story.

Ian Lawrence has been blessed with luscious, shaggy golden blonde strands of hair, creamy-brown riveting eyes, and smooth, deliciously golden-hued skin. His lips are succulent and tasty. His tall six-foot-one frame is generously covered with muscle and strength; not an ounce of fat or flab. He sure is handsome, and he’s got the lure, magnetism, and charm to knock anyone’s britches off.

But Madison’s life wasn’t always full of sunshine and rainbows. Her famed parents, Dr. Aaron and Farrah Benchley were brutally murdered while away on their twentieth anniversary; she was only seven years old. Her four older brothers, Spencer, Eric, Rob, and Chris, ended up raising her for the rest of her adolescent years. They still look after her, even though she is now twenty-seven years old and has been married to Ian for six years.

The Benchley’s are renowned for their twelve point six billion dollar healthcare company, Benchley International Inc., which was founded by Madison’s grandfather, Dr. Donald J. Benchley, in 1932. Once Madison turned twenty-seven, her brothers agreed to let her become an equity partner, though they’ve never offered her an actual job at the family owned company. But that’s of no matter. She’s too busy putting on the perfect façade that her life is like a storybook fairytale.

The Benchley H.Q. is a huge sixty-four story office building in downtown New York City, New York. It is composed of an alternating series of two and four vertical atriums that shoots up the building from the ground floor to the top. It’s nothing but curved glass and steel with BENCHLEY INTERNATIONAL WORLD HEADQUARTERS written cleverly in steel over the lineup of glass front doors. The enormous and intimidating lobby is solely glass, stainless steel, and white sandstone flooring with dark gray, black, white and a hint of red adornments, portraits, and furnishings. It is absolutely breathtaking.

Have a good day, Miss Benchley.

Thank you, George.

Madison walks with her head held high through the busy halls of the Benchley business with her personal assistant and good friend, Marie Williams. She has her first meeting as an equity partner with her four older brothers, husband, and three other equity partners she can’t seem to recall the names of.

What are the names of the other three equity partners, Marie?

Uh, the fat bald one is James Brown. The only other woman is Bianca Davis. And the cowboy looking one is Barrett Miller.

Oh, right. She shakes her head as if it’d help her to remember. I’ve got to remember that. But while I’m here, I don’t know how long that’ll be, will you call Calvin and have him send you the details of that photo shoot he hired me to do next week? I can’t find the one—

It’s pinned on top of your calendar. I even used a green highlighter so you can’t miss it.

Oh, pfft, Madison giggles absurdly. Duh, Madison. Thanks, Marie. What would I do without you? They both stop around the corner of the conference room holding the meeting. She takes a deep breath and faces Marie. Okay, this is it. Do I have everything?

Wait, put your phone on vibrate. And fix your necklace, it’s crooked. Want a mint for your kiss with Ian?

Ooh yes, thank you. She takes a Mentos "The Freshmaker from Marie and plops it into her mouth. He’ll appreciate that…I hope."

Okay. Marie reaches out and fluffs up Madison’s long tresses, smiling with excitement for her best friends’ first meeting as a partner. You look…very professional, beautiful. You’re going to be awesome! Good luck.

Madison inhales another deep breath through her nose, releasing it out of her mouth like she does in her yoga class. Thanks.

Marie nods her head assuredly and retreats back down the hall. Madison draws in another steadying deep breath, trying to calm her nerves before she marches by the glass walled office where their meeting is going to be held, her heels clackity-clacking on the sandstone floor. She pushes one of the light glass doors open with a wide beam that she had been working on all the way over. She doesn’t want to disappoint her eldest brother.

A vast glass table that seats twenty-six is in the center of the room with a large decorative vase of freshly cut mixed flowers in the center and large black presidential chairs tucked around. The scenic skyline and the busy life of New York is breathtaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite her. A large sixty-four inch flat screen TV is mounted to the right onto the only solid wall in the room. Spencer has his Microsoft PowerPoint up and running, much to her dismay. She never could stay awake during a slideshow presentation, but now she’s determined. She wants to impress him.

Hey ya, lil’ sis.

Madison gasps with shock and hugs her second oldest brother, Eric, the Executive Vice President and CEO of the company. He’s nine years older than she and the same age as her husband, Ian. He has always been the only one of her four brothers to be exceedingly nice and fun towards her. He is a free spirit and likes to travel the world to climb different rock formations of all shapes and sizes. Madison thinks it’s awfully dangerous, but Eric is one helluva good rock climber. He hasn’t found a mountain or cliff yet that he can’t climb.

Eric! I thought you weren’t going to make it. I thought you were supposed to be in China somewhere with what’s-her-name from France.

Jane. He finger-guns her with a wink when he says her name. And yeah, I am, but I thought, ‘You know what, I can climb a mountain any day, but I can’t make the trip back home to see my little sister?’ What kind of brother would that make me?

I’m glad you’re home. I’ve missed you. She pulls him into another embrace. When do you leave again?

His smile turns down into a poignant frown. Tomorrow.

Oh. Madison feels a twinge of disappointment. Well, do I get you for the rest of the day at least?

Of course!

Madison chuckles at his enthusiasm, making Eric smile again.

Uh, Spencer clears his throat loudly, getting Madison and Eric’s atten-tion. I hate to break up the little family reunion, but can we please get on with the meeting? Some of us have other places to go.

Oh, yes of course. She disperses from Eric to take her seat. Sorry, Spence. Hi, honey. She bends down and gives Ian a kiss as she sits in her large leather chair beside him, Eric taking the empty spot next to her. She couldn’t have planned it better.

Hey, babe. He gives her his drop-dead crooked smile that makes all the women swoon. You look good. He leans over and gives her one more kiss and inhales her flirty scent, keeping within inches of her face when he pulls away, his gorgeous smile widening. Smell good, too.

Thank you.

Alright, Spencer starts, so we have been offered the opportunity to expand our business to Paris. I know, I know. It’s hard to even consider since America is in a recession. But they’ve heard all good things about us and are willing to work with us. A lot of the businesses over there want our health insurance. It’s been doing so well in England and Germany that I think we should do it. Yes, it will be expensive, but I think it will be a good opportunity for us to take. I’ve even heard of a French doctor experimenting over there with equipment that is pretty damn close to what we are inventing. Maybe we can get him to come on board with us, and we can work something out with him if he does.

And what if he says no? Eric asks tartly. I mean, if he’s coming up with things on his own that are close to what we do. They’re his own ideas, his own inventions. He gets paid good money just fine without our help. Why would he want to have to share his ideas and inventions with an American company that pretty much is threatening his work by going there?

We aren’t threatening him, for God’s sake, Rob laughs wryly, resting his elbows on the glass table. We aren’t holding a gun to his head. We’re just asking if he would like to come on board a very successful, well-known company that can get him double the money for what he is selling. He just can’t sell the equipment in his own name. It would be in ours, but it’s still his equipment. It’s still his inventions and we will be sure that he gets the right acknowledgements that he deserves. I like it. I think we should do it.

Rob is Madison’s third oldest brother, the CFO and the company’s own corporate lawyer. He’s six years older than her and a very mean, strict, hardhearted man. Madison likes to think it’s because all lawyers have to be serious. It’s their job, and it just so happens to be Rob’s persona. It’s a perfect match for him. He doesn’t have to act like he doesn’t give a damn, because he really, honestly does not give a damn.

I agree, Chris chimes in, leaning casually back into his presidential chair. It’ll bring more job openings and opportunities to France as well. We could even get some of our American employees to move over there and provide some openings here in America. Who wouldn’t want to live in Paris? He glances around the table, his eyes passing over Madison. It would be good publicity for the company. We are expanding and giving the American people a better chance at finding a job during this economical hard time.

Chris is Madison’s fourth oldest brother, the Senior Vice President for the company. He is only three years older than her and very opinionated. He repeatedly voices that Madison never should have married Ian and thinks she should get a divorce from him before they have children. He likes to binge drink on the weekends, but is always at work come Monday morning.

I have put together a presentation, Spencer announces, turning on all his gadgets and gizmos. Madison tries her hardest not to groan bitterly or sulk down into her chair. Mr. Miller, will you please turn off the lights?

Madison feels her eyes droop the moment Mr. Cowboy flips the switch to the short neck halogen lights overhead. She tries not to doze off as the partners watch Spencer’s slideshow presentation full of graphs and charts and data she doesn’t understand. They banter back and forth about whether or not they should expand the business to France or keep things as they are.

Madison has never really been interested in this sort of stuff, but she wants to make her oldest brother proud of her. She wants to accomplish something that will make Spencer happy for once, instead of always being a disappoint-ment to her brothers. She really does try. She has gotten pretty good at reading her brothers, except for Spencer, of course. He hides his thoughts and feelings well.

Let’s vote!

Eric slightly elbows Madison’s arm, and she sits up straight in her chair as if she’s been awake the whole time. No one is looking at her, so maybe they didn’t notice she closed her eyes for just a few minutes.

"All in favor to not expand?"

Bianca Davis–the only other woman in the room, James Brown–the plump, bald man, Ian, and Eric raise their hands. They think it’s too risky at a time like this and too far out of the budget boundaries. Madison keeps her hand lowered. She knows Spencer wants to expand and so that is where her vote will be.

"All in favor for the expansion?"

Mr. Cowboy–Barrett Miller, Rob, Chris, and Madison all raise their hands. Five against four, the expansion is going to happen.

"Looks like we have our answer then. Ian and Rob will join me on the trip to Paris to get things in motion. I’ll contact the people over in Paris to set up a time when we can all meet and look at places to build our business. We continue to grow because we are not afraid to take risks each and every day and go with our guts. We must give our all and nothing less than one hundred and ten percent. The important thing is not being afraid to take a chance. The greatest failure is to not try.

A true entrepreneur is a doer, not a dreamer, and that’s exactly what we are. Doers. And we are good. No, we are the best at what we, and our team of forty-eight thousand employees, do. To quote my favorite poet, Mr. Robert Frost, The only way around is through." And we will push through.

"Thank you everyone for coming. Are there any questions? Oh, and don’t forget about the charity auction the state senator is holding two months from now. I expect everyone to be there." He gives Eric a long hard glare. Madison wonders if Eric will actually listen to Spencer this time and’ show up.

You think you’re gonna show? she whispers to him. Everyone stands to their feet and applauds their fearless leader.

When have I ever done anything Spencer wants? Eric tilts his head towards her and gives her a sardonic smirk. I left Jane at the hotel, so let me go check up on her—

She can come with us, Eric. You’re not just going to leave bored, alone, and scared in a hotel room in a country she doesn’t know. Tsk, Eric, she reprimands him, shaking her head.

Okay, okay. I’ll go get her. Meet up with us at The Luxe then, yeah? We’ll meet you in the lobby.

Whatever happened to Gina? I liked her. She was good to you and she was nice. All your other girls are…, she looks around and lowers her voice, snobby.

Yeah, that’s such a bad word, he whispers back, mocking her with his smirk. Good thing you lowered your voice. And how about we don’t mention that name in front of Jane tonight, he says in his normal tone. "Gina was…a little too nice, out of the sack and in the sack."

Eric! She slaps his shoulder, scoffing with moral disgust. You’re a pig! Great, that’s all I’m going to be picturing now when I meet Jane. I’ll know she’s not a nice person when she’s in bed with my brother.

It’s a nice picture, huh?

She punches his shoulder again. You’re disgusting.

Hey! He rubs his shoulder and laughs proudly. I’m just kidding, Madders. I’ll see you in about an hour. He shakes his head innocently, waves goodbye to the others, and leaves.

I’ve got to run to another meeting, baby. Ian swiftly kisses her on the side of the head, heading out of the door behind Eric. I’ll see you later at home.

Goodbye, Miss Benchley.

Madison nods her head and smiles at the other three equity partners as they, too, leave.

I thought you were going to take this meeting seriously, Madison. Rob approaches her, looking upset and stern as always. You look the part, but you didn’t participate, he scolds her. In fact, I don’t think I heard you say one word during the entire meeting. You were dozing off the whole time, and you—

Whoa, ease up Rob. Chris puts his hand on her shoulder, holding up his other hand to their big brother in defense. This stuff is pretty boring. And it was her first meeting.

When are you going to stop babying her, Chris? Rob leans on one of the leather chairs, his briefcase clenched tightly in his free hand. "She’s not seven anymore. She’s twenty-seven. She needs to learn how—"

Well, damn, Rob, Chris rebukes. He mimics Rob’s gesture, resting his forearm on the top of a chair. That doesn’t mean you have to be a hard-ass on her. You were always the one with a stick up his ass in the family.

Well, I mean, he does have a point— Madison tries to speak.

God, this is so like you, Chris. You always have to be the one to swoop in and save everyone. You always turn me into the villain. I only want what is best for little Madie. You should, too.

But…guys— she tries again.

I do, Chris says dryly, removing his hands to place them on his narrow hips. But you don’t need to put people down to motivate them to go somewhere in life. I’m surprised Jenna hasn’t left you yet. You are frequently putting her and your own ten year old daughter down, for Christ’s sake. It’s a miracle they’re both still around—

Don’t you dare say another word, Chris! Don’t you tell me how to manage my family! Rob seethes, poking a long index finger at Chris’ chest.

‘Manage?’ Chris smacks his hand away, taking a step closer to Rob. "You don’t manage a family, Rob. You manage your employees, your maid, your cook, your whore. You don’t manage your family."

You’re one to talk. Wasn’t it your wife caught screwing around with the gardener—

That’s enough! Spencer barks from the head of the table, making Madison jump. Now, the both of you shut up and get outta here before I call security, and give the press something new to write about.

Rob and Chris glower at each other, still face to face, but turn and leave, one after the other. Madison picks up the documents Spencer gave her from his presentation, and quietly turns to follow the others out.

Just a minute, Madison.

She halts immediately, slowly turning back to her brother like a chastened child. Spencer raps his papers against the long glass table, filing them back into his black computer bag. He doesn’t look up at her when he speaks, so she can’t tell if he’s angry with her for falling asleep, disappointed by something else she did, or just has something to tell her.

So, what did you think of the meeting? Spencer finally speaks.

It was…good. She twirls a section of her perfectly curled hair around her newly manicured finger. A bad habit combined with nerves. Her brothers keep telling her she’s going to go bald if she doesn’t stop. I think the expansion will be a good thing.

Spencer lifts his pea-green eyes to look at her skeptically, finishing putting his things away in folders and tucking them into his bag. He always gives that look whenever someone or something is not to his liking. Oh, no. He must be upset.

Really?

She sighs, defeated. I’m sorry, Spence. I just don’t think this stuff is cut out for me. Or maybe I’m not cut out for this stuff.

It’s okay. He smiles slightly, zipping up his case and pulling it off the table. It’ll get easier and you’ll get used to it. You’ll do better next time. Just get more sleep so you don’t snore through the next board meeting.

He marches right past her, focusing on his BlackBerry Z10 smartphone as he goes, leaving her all alone in the dark, empty conference room. If those words were coming from Eric, she would have known that his words were meant to encourage her through humor. But, coming from Spencer, it’s a threat. She’s disappointed him yet again. He’s threatening her to do better…or else who knows what he would do. Fire her, maybe? Well, actually, she’s not even hired. She’s only a partner, nothing more.

C:\Users\JessyLew\AppData\Local\Microsoft\Windows\Temporary Internet Files\Content.IE5\OFJ5XSM4\PrL-section_break[1].png

MADISON BENCHLEY-LAWRENCE sends Marie home for the day and has her driver take her back to her flat. They arrived within twenty minutes; a record time. She sprints inside, changes out of her body-hugging outfit, and changes into a white, oversized, long sleeve off the shoulder sweater, her dark denim skinny jeans, and nude high heels. All of her brothers tower over her, even when she has her five inch stiletto heels on. They use to tease her about being adopted because she just didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the family. She was the odd-one-out, so different from her father and brothers.

She was most like her mother, from what she can remember. Similar characteristics, traits, and mannerisms. Her mother would absentmindedly hum to herself when she was bustling about the house, just as Madison finds herself doing from time to time. She, too, used to play with her hair when she was lost in thought, flipping it back and forth over her shoulder as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

Her mother was beautiful, tenacious, but not headstrong. She was kind and gentle, her heart just as beautiful as her soul. What she saw in a hard man like Aaron Benchley, Madison would never understand, but love is love. Her mother found the beauty in others when perhaps no one else could see it. Her mother loved her father, flaws and all, up until the very end.

Madison leaves her loose curls alone, but retouches her makeup. Once she is satisfied with what she sees in the reflection of the mirror, she grabs her wallet, purse, sunglasses, cellphone, and lip balm, locking the door behind her. She doesn’t know what exactly she, her older brother, and his new overseas girlfriend are going to do, but anything with Eric is always something fun. He’s always the life and excitement of the party.

The Luxe Resort is only three blocks away from her flat, so she decides to take the short walk. She is immediately bombarded with paparazzi, flashing and shuttering camera lights, and bizarre questions assaulting her ears. She keeps her lips sealed, her head down, and walks at a steady pace. They’ll eventually give up and move on to their next celebrity victim or they’ll be forced to stay outside while she goes into the elaborate hotel.

Hello, Miss Benchley. What can I do for you?

Hi. She flashes one of her megawatt smiles at the plump African-American concierge woman. Um, I was wondering if you could call up to my brother’s room. He didn’t say which room he was in, but we are supposed to be meeting up in the lobby.

Of course, Miss Benchley. She smiles at Madison. I saw him walk in about an hour ago. Just one moment.

Thank you.

Madison smiles at some of the guests that have recognized her and waved. It’s an outlandish feeling, being recognized by strangers she doesn’t know. People know who she is, but she has no clue as to who most of these people are. She will probably never get used to the feeling, though she’s been living in the spotlight all her life.

He didn’t answer in his room, Miss Benchley.

Oh, okay, thank you. He’s probably on his way down, then.

Madison slowly strides her way towards the section of plush looking couches. She tries not to wince as she plops down onto one of the chairs. They aren’t nearly as soft as she thought they would be. She checks her email on her iPhone 5, her text messages, and even reads a couple of articles from National Broadcasting News’ website. She runs into an article about her and Ian: how they’ve been married for six years and still have not had any children.

"When will this powerful and beautiful couple copulate and conceive? Are they even able to? Is there a problem in their marriage?"

Blah, blah, blah. These people have way too much time on their hands. She learned a long time ago not to let their comments get under her skin.

She finally looks at the time: 5:50 PM. She’s been waiting for twenty minutes. It definitely doesn’t take twenty minutes to ride down an elevator. She dials Eric’s cellphone number, but it rings to voicemail. She tries again, but this time it goes straight to voicemail.

Hi, ma’am. Could you try his room again?

Yes, absolutely.

Madison taps her French manicured fingernails on the counter, patiently waiting for the courteous woman to return, but she slowly starts to lose her patience. What would Eric be doing up there? He’s never late when he tells her that he will be there at a certain time. He’s always late with Spencer just to spite him, but he’s never late with her.

He didn’t answer, Miss Benchley. Would you like me to send someone up to his room?

If you could, please, that would be great. Could I possibly go with them?

Well, we aren’t supposed to allow you to. Hotel policy, she shrugs apologetically. "But since you and