Because of You (Swanson Court Series Book 5) Read online

  Because of You

  Swanson Court Series #5

  Serena Grey

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Past

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Present

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About Serena Grey

  Books by Serena Grey

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

  Copyright © 2020 Serena Grey

  All rights reserved.

  Sweet Acacia Press

  Because of you

  In gardens of blossoming flowers

  I long for the sweet perfumes of spring.

  ~ Pablo Neruda.

  To second chances.

  Because of You

  Sometimes love burns out fastest when it burns bright.

  That was Aidan and me.

  We burned fast.

  We burned bright.

  I shouldn’t have loved him at all.

  I shouldn’t have left him.

  But the call of success, fame, and a dream career, pulled me away from the one man who made me come alive.

  Now he hates me.

  And though I have everything I thought I wanted, success, fame, legions of screaming fans,

  without Aidan, it feels as if I have nothing.

  He hasn’t forgiven me.

  He swears he never will.

  But he’s the only man I’ve ever loved,

  And I can’t give him up.

  Chapter One

  Liz

  In a matter of moments, I’ll be face to face with Aidan Court.

  For the first time in seven years.

  I swallow the tension tightening in my throat and try to dampen the nervousness building in my chest.

  Aidan.

  He hates me.

  He detests me.

  And I don’t blame him.

  Not when I’ve spent years hating myself for what I did to him.

  In front of me, slanting brass script on a white door spells out the number of actress Celeste Granger’s Park Avenue apartment. The lively sounds of a party—music, laughter, and gossip—filter through the doors and walls and into my ears, pulling at my fluttery nerves.

  “You should show up at Celeste Granger’s soiree,” Natalia had suggested yesterday.

  “Why on earth would I?” After abandoning my debut play on Broadway seven years ago to chase Hollywood stardom, hanging out with the theatre crowd wasn’t high on my list of preferred activities to occupy my time in New York city.

  “Aidan will be there,” Natalia replied with a shrug. She’s my father’s longtime assistant, sometime lover, and now manager of McKay Theatre productions, and she always has a solid reason for everything. “The sooner you two get your…reunion out of the way, the better for the new play.”

  The new play. My pretext for being in New York at all.

  Now, with my inevitable confrontation with Aidan only moments away, I take a deep breath and push the door open.

  The hushed whispering starts from the people standing closest to the entrance.

  Liz McKay.

  Liz McKay.

  When you’re a box office sensation and multiple time sexiest woman of the year, you get used to stopping conversation when you walk into a room.

  I ignore the murmurs of my name and look around, searching for the one face I’m here to see.

  Aidan.

  My eyes lock on his, drawn toward him, almost as if I’ve heard him call my name.

  Seeing him knocks the breath out of my lungs.

  He’s standing at the bar, glass in hand. Dressed in an inky black jacket, dark pants and a dark gray shirt, he’s an improbable mixture of a bad-boy and a prep school prince. From across the room, his vivid blue eyes blaze daggers at me from a face that’s perfection personified—A face filled with emotions so intense, they almost knock me off my feet.

  I take a step forward, drawn to him despite the animosity I can feel coming off him in waves. He turns away, tossing back his drink like he’s not aware the whole room is looking at us…waiting for us.

  Someone vaguely familiar comes over to my side and starts to talk to me, and I smile in response, my eyes still on Aidan. He’s facing me again, glass now empty, the fierce burning in his eyes filling me with memories I’ve tried to ignore for seven years.

  No more.

  Cutting across the room, I make straight for him. I feel like he could devour me with his intensity alone, right here, in front of all these people, he would claim me and burn me to ashes, along with every single heartache of the years I’ve spent apart from him.

  He doesn’t move until I’m right in front of him. I open my mouth to say his name, and right then, he strides past me, leaving me standing alone, open-mouthed, staring at his empty, abandoned glass.

  Four days earlier.

  It’s evening when we land in New York. The plane, a sleek jet with plush leather seats and thick carpeting is gliding through gold-hued clouds when the pretty stewardess appears and reminds me to fasten my seatbelt. After we land, she returns to ask for my autograph. I oblige, signing my name on the cover of a glossy fashion magazine adorned with a picture of me wearing bright lipstick and a careless smile.

  Outside, a faint breeze stirs my hair and teases my cheeks. My sunglasses are already in place—black, oversized designer shades. With my high heels and straight-from-the-runway dress, I look every inch the glamorous movie star.

  Two cars are waiting on the tarmac—one to transport my luggage to my rarely used apartment in the village, and a black SUV with tinted windows, to take me to my father’s home.

  My gaze sweeps across the Manhattan skyscape visible across the river and longing fills my chest.

  Home.

  I’ve missed this place.

  The sudden burst of music from my phone snaps me out of my nostalgia.

  It’s Jenny, my assistant. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she replies, her voice bright and chirpy, as usual. “Just checking to see you’ve landed. Marvin’s been blowing up my phone all day. He’s trying to reach you.”

  I groan at the thought of my manager. “He’s the last person I want to talk to. He’s determined to make me change my mind about the movie.”

  “Well…” Jenny draws out the word. “A guaranteed box office hit with one of Hollyw
ood’s biggest stars who also happens to be your ex? Think of the free publicity. He’d be a horrible manager if he didn’t try to change your mind.”

  “Well, I’m not going to, Jenny, and you know why.”

  She sighs. “Maybe if you told him why you had to leave, about your father… he’d understand…”

  “No.” My voice is sharp. I trust Marvin Steeps with my career, but privacy in my personal issues is something I need to work harder than most people to attain and it’s something I guard closely. “Marvin might reveal something to the press,” I continue, my tone softer. “The Liz McKay brand is more important to him than discretion about my father’s condition.”

  “You’re right,” Jenny sighs. “I’m sorry, Liz.”

  “It’s fine.” At this point I just want to see my father. His illness is a shocking surprise. I didn’t know he was sick until his former assistant Natalia Barrow called me a week ago.

  “You need to come down and spend some time with your father,” she’d said without mincing words. Instantly, I knew something was wrong, that my twice monthly phone calls with my father had not nearly been enough.

  His housekeeper, Gertie, confessed the rest to me. My dad’s health has been failing for a while.

  And I had been oblivious.

  Guilt floods my body once again and I hurry toward Percy, my father’s long-time driver, who is waiting by the SUV. He opens the rear door as I approach.

  I greet him with a smile. “How’s it going Percy?”

  He shrugs powerful shoulders, his face creasing with a fond expression that amplifies my nostalgia. “So, so, Lizzie-bean. How are you?”

  “Hanging on.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  With a chuckle, I slide into the back seat. During the drive, I fiddle with my phone. I don’t tweet anymore, or do Facebook, but I have an Instagram account where I post things that interest and inspire me—books, art, images from the sets where I work and little snippets about my life.

  My last post is a picture I took in an obscure art gallery I found close to my last movie set. “Don’t hesitate to reach for your dreams,” I’d typed under the colorful painting of a figure reaching for the sky. Now, I scroll through the comments, smiling at the sweetest ones.

  If only I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite.

  Once, I thought I knew what it meant to reach for my dreams, but now I know my dreams will remain incomplete until I reach into my past, toward the one person who has haunted me for seven years.

  Aidan Court.

  Just thinking about him fills me with an acute and painful longing. For so long, I’ve buried that longing under a pile of work and events, but something about my father’s illness has hollowed me out, and now, I’m swiftly succumbing to the tender ache that has never gone away.

  Once again, I’m in the same city, breathing the same air as him. But this will not be like all the other times. This time, I will see him. I will talk to him.

  “Aidan,” I whisper his name under my breath.

  “Did you want something?” Percy asks.

  “No.” I shake my head and turn my gaze outside the window. Soon, we’re in Manhattan, and I drink in the familiar sights and the memories that jump out at me like fireworks. No matter how long I stay away or how far I go, this city is where I feel like I am home. Not my much-too-large house in the Hollywood hills with the pool, the magnificent patio and the private cinema. This place, with the noise, the people, and the traffic—it’s where my spirit lives.

  The car stops at the entrance to a classic art deco building. It’s very old New York—home to at least two billionaires and other wealthy people. Outside, there’s no mob of paparazzi, no cameras, only a doorman dressed in uniform standing under the ancient awning at the entrance. He approaches the car and opens the door, inclining his head as I step out.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. McKay.”

  “Thank you…” I try to remember his name. I met him a year ago, the last time I visited my father.

  “Jeffrey,” he reminds me, still smiling.

  “Thank you, Jeffrey.” There’s an apologetic note in my voice, and I hope he’s not offended enough to write an anonymous post trashing me on the internet. Sighing, I adjust my shades and hurry into the building.

  On my way to the elevators, my heels click on polished marble. An elegant woman in a faux-fur coat glides past me, leading two beautiful terriers on gold threaded leashes. She neither looks in my direction or registers recognition of my face.

  “God, I love this city,” I say under my breath.

  The elevator deposits me in front of my father’s apartment. Inside the entrance foyer, my feet sink into the thick carpet, my eager gaze taking in the familiar room, the framed mirrors, paintings and pieces of baroque furniture. The decor is from a time before it was fashionable to be minimalist, and it fills me with heart-tightening nostalgia.

  The door to the living room opens, revealing a stern face that has softened with age.

  “Darling!” Gertie’s voice is deep, firm and familiar. “My beautiful darling Lizzie-bean.”

  “Hi Gertie,” I murmur, walking into the comfort of her embrace. Gertie has been with my father since I was twelve. She’s family, and I love her dearly.

  She peers at me with sharp gray eyes. “You look tired. Have you been working too hard? Those weeks and weeks on set…” she shudders. “You should slow down.”

  “I will.” I follow her into the living room. It’s decorated like the foyer, with ornate furniture and large windows that frame a spectacular view of the park.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Gertie is saying. “It feels like forever since we last saw you.”

  “Just a little more than a year.”

  “You had that premiere, and you came to visit us for a minute.”

  “A day.”

  “It felt like a minute.” She sighs, watching as I walk over to the grand piano in a corner of the room. “Nobody plays that now.”

  I have a sudden memory of a famous actress playing the instrument at one of my father’s parties and my nostalgia intensifies. “How bad is he?” My voice is strained. My father was diagnosed with cancer. For a year, he underwent the treatments without telling me anything about it.

  Days ago, after I’d spoken to Natalia and Gertie, he confessed everything to me, leaving me heartbroken for a whole number of reasons—the pain he’s going through and the knowledge that he waited so long to confide in me. I’m also afraid, because I don’t want to lose him.

  “He was very sick for a while, what with the chemo and all.” Gertie sniffs. “He’s been better these past few weeks. Stronger. He can’t wait to see you.”

  “And I can’t wait to see him.” I imagine the physical toll this sickness would have taken on him, and a cold hand of fear grips my stomach, but I steel myself. No matter what, I’m determined to be strong. “Where is he?”

  “The patio. He likes to sit out there these days.”

  Outside, there’s a faint breeze stirring the leaves of a few potted plants that line the patio. My father is lying on a recliner, his body covered by a thick blanket. Beside him, there’s a recent bestselling novel with an old tasseled bookmark sticking out of the pages. His eyes are closed, so he can’t see me, but I see him. I see his drawn face and his thin hair. I see the hollows that were once his cheeks and I choke back a sob.

  His eyes flutter open and come alive when they land on me. His face brightens, and he starts to rise from the recliner.

  “Dad!” I rush over to him, “You don’t have to get up.”

  He ignores me and pushes his blanket away, rising to his feet with some effort. “Nonsense.” His voice is firm, and he pulls me into his arms for a hug. “As if I would lie here like an invalid instead of giving my princess a proper welcome.”

  He’s thinner than I remember, and even his voice has changed. How did I never notice on the phone that his commanding baritone had given way to something weaker and more straine
d? My eyes water, and I relax into the warm comfort of his hug. There’s a faint odor of medications, but I don’t care. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”

  “Missed you too, sweet-pea.” He cradles my face in his hands. “You look good.” There’s a note of approval and satisfaction in his voice. “How was your flight?”

  I shrug. “Smooth.”

  He nods, then glances at the recliner with distaste. “Let’s go inside. We can sit in my study and drink tea while you tell me everything that’s been going on. This old man has no idea what’s happening outside this apartment.”

  “You’re not old,” I protest, taking his arm so he can lean on me as we walk. It hurts to see how fragile he is. He’s only sixty-five and has always looked young for his age. Now, he looks at least ten years older.

  The study is warm, cozy, and still furnished with the thick carpet, dark mahogany bookshelves, solid desk, and the plush settee where, as a teenager, I’d often curled up to read. Battling another wave of longing for days gone by, I wait until my dad settles into his favorite stuffed-leather winged armchair, then I curl up on a corner of the settee. Gertie appears with tea, green for my father, and Earl Grey with a splash of lemon for me.

  “I read somewhere that you were planning to film an action flick in Spain,” my father says, raising his cup to his lips. There’s no disapproval in his voice, but I’ve always known, somehow, that he’s not very impressed with the movies I’ve done in the last seven years. Movies that have done little to showcase my dramatic talent but have made my face and name recognizable everywhere in the world.