Chapter 23: Desperation Wears Perfume:

At the end of her driveway, Scarlet Langston stood with her coat pushed against her small frame by the wind. With one hand she held a pale yellow envelope, its edge wrinkled from the very tightly she had held it. The official wording, "FINAL EVICTION Notice," was emblazoned boldly. Her knuckles ran white. Behind her, the two-story house appeared tired, its once-perfect white shutters cracked, the garden overrun with weeds, the porch swing rusted at the chains. Built on love, laughter, and the aroma of her mother's apple pie, this had been her house, her refuge, her childhood castle. It now was a remnant just ready for deletion.

Scarlet fought back the sting in her eyes as a blast of wind tore through the brittle branches. not now. Not yet. " Scar? Bernard's voice sliced across the silence. She turned to find him at the gate carrying a coffee cup in one hand and a wrinkled look of concern on his face. His brown curls swirled in the breeze, and his knitted sweater seemed two sizes too big, as though it had tried and failed to keep him together. He remarked, going forward, "Got your message." Tell me this is not what I believe it to be. Scarlet stayed silent. She handed him the envelope straight forwardly. His eyes skimming the page, his frown deepened. "They are residing in the house? "' She added, fiercely, "They're not taking it." "I'm losing it". Bernard's jaw closed.

You ought to have told me earlier. One could "could have" " done what? Paid off the bank using profits from a floral business. ''' His silence spoke everything. Scarlet retreated, her heels biting on the gravel. "Three years," I have been clinging desperately with duct tape. But she waved to the paper. "This serves as the last blow." You are not by yourself in this. She laughed humbly and without humor. Are you not? "" Bernard moved forward and lightly touched her arm. There must be still another path. "There is," she murmured gently, staring far ahead at the skyline. I do not want to take it, though. Then refrain.

She turned to look at him. You hardly even know what it is. "I know if it bothers you; it is not worth it." Scarlet turned away, lips drawn in a narrow line. "That's simple to say when you're not the one seeing your life collapse." Once more the wind swept around, and the first raindrop caressed her cheek like a warning. She stayed calm. Bernard stared at her as though she were glass and fire all at once something delicate but too strong to touch. She murmured at last, voice almost above a whisper: "There's someone I can ask." "who?" « She thought twice. Sensing her unwillingness, he said, "Scarlet." “Tucker Beaumont” The name hung like a loaded pistol in the air. Bernard blinked and retreated. "You're not real." "I have nothing to choose from." Indeed you do.

Anyone else but him. Scarlet fixed his gaze. "No. only him. He turned away, hands tightly closed. "After what he accomplished? Following his manner of treating you? ” Scarlet nodded tiredly. “No, Bernard. After what I did.” She did not wait for his objection. She turned, headed back toward the house, and locked the door behind her. She looked at the old mirror atop her dresser upstairs in her room. Her meditation returned pale skin, dark eyes, lips pushed into resolve.

She took off her coat to see the simple yet lovely dress under a rich burgundy sheath. She slid on the heels she hadn't worn in more than a year, put her long black hair into a loose chignon, smeared lipstick in the hue her mother always dubbed "brave wine," and. She little resembled the girl Tucker had known. Perhaps that turned out to be a benefit. Perhaps not. Outside, the rain started to really fall, ticking against the window like a clock. Time Has expired. Scarlet grabbed her phone and dialled a number she had buried in her past's graveyard. It rang only once. Twice: Then the voice becomes detached, slick, threatening. Beaumont.

Her breath seized. She remarked, "Tucker." "It's me." Silent beats. And then "Scarlet." He had not modified his voice. Still deep, fresh, spun with the same leisurely arrogance that used to weaken her knees. Her gut twisted at that now. "I really need to see you." A stop here. That's audacious. "It is urgent." Every thing with you always was. Scarlet let out a subdued cough. "Please.." Still another halt. After that: "Meet me at The Beaumont Tower. Noon.). He put off the call. Scarlet still, phone in hand, as the wind outside whistled. That name The Beaumont Tower felt like the sharp edge of a memory she didn't want to revisit.

She would leave, though. Because occasionally survival seemed like capitulation. And Scarlet Langston was worn out from losing. She had not yet grasped, though, that the cost of atonement was even more cruel than the fall. When the Beaumont Tower was unveiled three years ago, some muttered; it was a monument to conceit. Forty-eight floors of steel, glass, and intimidation, throwing its shadow across downtown St. Louis like a colossus telling the world who held the city in his hand. Scarlet had never set foot in it. Not since it was built. Not since Tucker Beaumont helped to define the skyline. Right now, here she was. The front of the building exuded chilly elegance. Black marble floors shiny enough for a mirror. Columns with gold-veining ascended like giants toward the ceiling. A cascading chandelier spun down in the middle, each tier glistening like a crown over the heads of quiet, fast-moving executives.

The air buzzed with purpose every step a mission, every glance a calculation. Scarlet stood behind the reception counter, clutching her handbag tightly than she wanted to. Her reflection in the glass walls portrayed a composed woman in a sharp trench coat, chin high, eyes steeled. But inside, her nerves danced like flames caught in wind. "Name? The receptionist asked, hardly looking above her screen. "Scarlet Langsten." Mr. Beaumont is looking for me. That attracted a flickering of attention. The woman's eyes narrowed just slightly, as if she were trying to position, judge, classify her. She nodded then touched a few keys.

You're cleared. floor of the penthouse. Heart thumping across her ribs, Scar moved toward the lift. The golden doors silently opened to engulf her whole. The journey was far too silent. Too smooth. Every floor passed in a whisper of breathlessness. Her palms were sweaty when she arrived at the summit. The doors let one enter another universe. Tucker's office was more of a fortress glass wall framing a panoramic view of the city than of a workstation, black oak bookcases rising behind a massive dark walnut desk. A marble coffee table piled with architectural magazines and deal dossiers was shadowed by a softly flickering fireplace on the side. Gray suede sectional was covered in shadows. And he was there as well. Tucker Beaumount. Tower

Presuming. Perfectly attired in a charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders like a custom threat. He turned a page in a leather-bound portfolio, his profile sharp enough to cut glass, but he looked nowhere right away. Breath caught in Scarlet's throat. His dark hair was shorter than it had been, more orderly, but still with that wild wave at the temples. His jawline was more precisely crisp. And those eyes frigid, glacial blue raised and landed on her at last. Something turned about in the air. First he said nothing at all. merely observed. And silence said all the things. It seemed to her like a pulse under her flesh.

He then started to talk. "You're late. "I'm not." He corrected him, closing the folder with surgical accuracy five minutes late. “And five minutes late to a Beaumont meeting is ten years behind.” Scarlet moved forward and spoke steadily. "You still remain the same." And you still make presumptions you cannot afford. He waved across his desk toward the chair. She perched. "I came here not to trade insults," she said. Sitting opposite her with fingers steepled, Tucker answered, "No." You came because you needed something. Scarlet ingested. “I need your help.” His brow arched faintly. “Say that again. slows down. It’s been a while since I heard Scarlet Langston ask for anything.” “I need your help.” He leaned back, eyes flicking over her face like a man inspecting damage on a priceless painting. “Interesting.” “Look, I know we didn’t part on good terms ” He laughed chillyly. “Good terms?