When We Were Enemies: A Novel
Emily Bleeker
CHAPTER 1
Elise
Present Day
Minskoff Theatre, New York City
It’s funny how moments you’ve dreamed about for a lifetime can feel unexpected. As Hunter gets down on one knee and pulls out the dark blue velvet box from his pocket, I freeze in place, the wind whipping my dress around my knees outside of the Minskoff Theatre where we’ve just watched The Lion King.
“What is going on . . . ,” I start to ask, knowing what a man on one knee means but also knowing this is not what we planned. We agreed the logical next step in our relationship was moving in together, not getting married. But then a singular voice rises from the crowd behind me, singing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” in a rich baritone, and I turn to see we’re surrounded by the cast of the show in full costume and singing in perfect harmony.
“Hunter?” I whisper as I take in the performers and the congregation of onlookers chattering to each other in excitement while they record the moment with their handheld devices.
The lights on the marquee reflect off the tears filling my boyfriend’s eyes. For a moment, I wonder if he’s been put under some magical spell—a love spell that’s making him do something so romantic and unexpected and confusingly beautiful. A cameraman hovers nearby, shooting photographs. The clicking acts as a sort of percussion to the chorus swelling around us. The magic starts its work on me now. The cutting February wind, the stinging tap of icy snow on my cheeks, the burning tightness on the tips of my ears all fade away as I watch the man I’ve fallen in love with over the past six months mouth, “I love you, Elise.”
And with that, he opens the ring box and says the words I know are coming. “Elise Toffee Branson, will you marry me?”
My grandmother’s unmistakable three-carat princess-cut solitaire blinks back at me. My smile falters, and my knees go a bit weak. My mother must’ve given him the ring. Snuck into my apartment, maybe? Used her fame and charm to get my landlord to let her in. How does anyone say no to two-time Oscar winner, box-office blowout hit, second-generation Hollywood royalty, Gracelyn Branson?
The faces start to swirl and blur as the song comes to its harmonic conclusion. Everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting, just waiting endlessly for my answer. Truly, what could my response be at this point other than yes?
But, staring at the ring, I reluctantly recognize how unfair it all feels—being offered a ring I’ve worn before, asked a question I’ve been asked before, by a man I love less than the first, in front of all these people, all these cameras, all these witnesses? This isn’t some movie where the girl can run off without saying anything while the confused boy with a diamond ring in his otherwise empty hands watches her disappear.
“Yes,” I say as he slips the antique ring on my finger. The weight is familiar. If it weren’t for all the lovely chaos going on around me, it might feel too familiar. I don’t look at it, afraid of what it’ll make me remember. I blink; a tear runs down my cheek. No one, including Hunter, needs to know the reason.
“Yes!” I repeat, this time with more feeling and loud enough to be heard over the street sounds. The crowd explodes in cheers and produces from . . . somewhere . . . long tubes with strings attached that explode glitter streamers and confetti into the air. The flurry of colors and sparkles swirls around us as Hunter stands to his full height and with his most brilliant smile, takes me in his arms, staring into my eyes, his warm breath coming out in clouds that surround me. He smells of Creed cologne, and before kissing me, he whispers, “You’re my forever, Elise.”
I nod, and he tips me into a dip and presses his lips against mine in a soft, tender kiss. I slip back in time to six years ago when Dean asked me to marry him and I said yes. When I took off the engagement ring after his funeral, I promised myself I’d never say yes to another man. And I thought I never would, but then I met this man.
Hunter lets me go, and I stand unsteadily, my head whirling from the kiss, the excitement, and the grief that colors it all. Though the proposal itself is perfect and thoughtful, and even though Hunter is generous and successful and gorgeous as all get-out, a part of me wishes I weren’t in this moment. Because the only reason I’m here is because Dean isn’t.
A limo pulls up, and the chauffeur opens the rear door. The decorations have settled into piles on the sidewalk, and Hunter rushes me toward the car with his arm around my waist.
“Shouldn’t we help clean up?” I ask.
“No,” he chuckles, “I’ve lined up someone to do that. So it’s all taken care of.”
“Good, because we’d be crucified on social media if we left all that litter,” I say, sliding into the back seat, the throng having grown so deep, I’m almost afraid someone will get hurt as we drive away.
I settle into the leather seat as Hunter unbuttons his tux jacket and puts his arm around my shoulders. Threading his fingers through mine, he stares at my glittery hand like it’s a new and fascinating creation. Champagne is cooling on ice, and what must be at least three dozen roses are on the opposite side of the car.
“Let’s not worry about image for once, okay? We just got engaged, baby. You’re gonna be my wife.” He kisses the back of my hand, and the sincerity in his voice breaks down my defenses. His wife. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.
“I’m not obsessed with image. But you and I know some people will pick this whole thing apart. It’ll be a minority, but it’ll be a loud one. I’m just running a risk assessment.”
After fifteen years in public relations, I know all too well how some people will take any opportunity to criticize Hunter because he’s one of the richest men in New York City. Add to that the fact that his new fiancée is Gracelyn Branson’s daughter and Vivian Snow’s granddaughter, and it’s easier to just front-load every experience with apology tweets. The amount of love and hate that goes along with fame, especially inherited fame, is staggering. But as is often said about anyone in my situation, “Poor little rich girl has it so hard.”
“Hey, Elise,” he says, squeezing my hand and holding it to his chest, a slight edge to his voice. “Can’t we be happy for a few minutes?” he asks cautiously but sincerely, putting my palm against his cheek.
That’s all it takes. We started dating only six months ago, but there’s one thing I know for sure—this man loves me. The smoothness of his freshly shaven jaw and the security of his arm around my body, holding me tight, shake me out of my negative spiral. Hunter Garrot just proposed to me in the most romantic display I’ve ever witnessed. And he didn’t propose because of who my mom is or who my grandma was or how successful my business is, or anything like that. He proposed because he loves me, and I love him in return.
“Of course we can, handsome,” I agree, stretching my neck to kiss him. When our lips meet, it’s only Hunter and I—no flashbacks, no daydreams, no longing—just the man I love kissing me back. Like at the end of a romance novel, he leans down and pulls me in, and the perfection of his proposal is complete as we race through the streets of Manhattan.