Table Of Contents

  Other Books by Quinn Ivins

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  About Quinn Ivins

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  Other Books by Quinn Ivins

  The Love Factor

  Acknowledgements

  I wrote my first book alone, not knowing if my frantic revisions were making it better or worse. This book was a completely different experience thanks to the support I received from my publisher and the FF romance community.

  I love writing for Ylva to a degree that is probably unsettling for everyone involved. Thank you to Astrid Ohletz for giving me the chance to be an author and for putting up with my neuroses ever since.

  Ylva’s senior editor, Sandra Gerth, has been a wonderful teacher and friend to me. She has helped me so much that even if she were to sabotage my future books for some unlikely reason, she would still have my unwavering loyalty for life.

  The cover is the result of a collaboration between Astrid, Jenny Spanier, Glendon from Streetlight Graphics, and an email from me announcing that I found “the perfect models” after spending the duration of The Queen’s Gambit scrolling through thousands of photos. I don’t know if any other publishers accept design suggestions from writers, but I am grateful to Ylva for making it work.

  Good editors are worth their weight in scrunchies, and I was fortunate to work with three of them on this book. Miranda Miller pushed me to improve the story and gave me technical tips I will use forever. Julie Klein brought order to the chaos of my sentence and paragraph structure, while Michelle Aguilar refined the wording. Every one of my editors caught errors that would have tormented me for years.

  My awesome beta readers—Abigail, Angeli, Chris Zett, Lola Keeley, Mary, and Melanie—provided invaluable feedback on everything from Filipino grammar to life after prison. Thanks also to the federal probation officer I met on Reddit, known to me only as Super Ballz, who answered my questions about supervised release.

  Thank you to Lee Winter for writing a blurb that condensed my convoluted story into a few enticing paragraphs. Thanks also to Glendon for formatting the book and to Daniela Hüge for overseeing the final production and, crucially, for reminding me to submit these acknowledgments.

  Finally, this book would not exist without my wife. Intrigued by my first novel, she began to pester me to write a romance about a “hot Filipino lesbian” who coincidentally looked like her. She got her wish…sort of. The character Nadine came to the United States from the Philippines, just like my wife. However, Nadine’s story is fiction. My wife inspired some of the Filipino food and language in the book, but she has never gone to prison for campaign finance crimes (or anything else).

  The scandal in the story was loosely inspired by Michael Cohen, the former president’s personal lawyer. As of this writing, he remains the only person indicted for illegal hush money payments made on behalf of “Individual-1.”

  Dedication

  For my wife. Mahal kita.

  Chapter 1

  “I see that you checked the box.”

  He didn’t need to say which one. Nadine clenched her fingers under the table.

  The franchise owner stuffed his face with French fries while he interviewed her at a plastic table in the dining area. “Now, it’s not automatically disqualifying. I get a nice tax break for hiring felons. So if you’re committed to turning your life around, I’ll consider you like any other candidate. But I need you to tell me what you did.” He slurped his soda and peered at her.

  Nadine glanced out at the arches towering over the parking lot. Fucking hell. Third in her class at Yale, a top corporate attorney, senior advisor to a presidential nominee—and now she wasn’t good enough to flip burgers.

  No point in stalling. “I coordinated illegal campaign contributions to a presidential candidate.”

  The man’s mouth fell open, revealing a half-chewed fry. “Wait. You’re—”

  “Yes. I’m that Nadine Bayani.”

  Nadine steeled herself. Whatever his politics, the reaction would be bad. Republicans hated her because they viewed her as the mastermind of a corrupt—if ultimately unsuccessful—scheme to elect a liberal Democrat to the White House. Meanwhile, Democrats blamed her for the election scandal that led to their defeat.

  The disgust in his beady glare suggested the Republican variety. “I didn’t recognize you with short hair.”

  That’s the idea.

  “I watched you testify on TV. You said Alyssa Jackson didn’t know anything about your little scheme. Is that true?”

  She met his gaze. “That’s what I said.”

  Red splotches appeared on his pockmarked cheeks. “That damn socialist almost became president because of you. We let you come to this country from—where was it, Vietnam?”

  “The Philippines.”

  “Whatever. Same thing. We let you come here, and you crapped all over our democracy.” He smashed a fry between his fingers. “Why?”

  I did it for you, jackass. “I wanted to win.”

  He snorted. “Well, that didn’t work out, did it?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “You know, when you came in here, I figured drugs, maybe vehicular manslaughter. Something like that. But what you did…” His nostrils flared. “Honestly, I can’t believe they let you out of prison already.”

  Already? She’d like to see him last two years in a cage, subjected to daily humiliations—as if losing one’s entire life weren’t punishment enough.

  “If you ask me, you’re not fit to scrape shit off the bathroom floor.”

  His haughty sneer was too much. Another minute and she’d shove fries down his throat till he choked.

  Nadine pushed herself to her feet. “I think we’re done.”

  “Yeah, don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

  She strode to the exit. When she glanced back, he crumpled her application and tossed it onto the tray with the rest of his trash.

  Shit. What the hell am I going to do?

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Nadine returned to Renn House, the transitional housing facility she shared with about twenty ex-offenders. Her two suitemates, Jenna and Jodie, were exactly where she’d left them—lounging on the beat-up couch in front of the television. The judge on Divorce Court rapped her glossy nails on the bench while a schlubby husband complained that his soon-to-be ex had failed to lose the baby weight.

  “He did not just say that!” Jenna slapped her leg. “Oh my God.”

  Jodie looked up as Nadine walked past them. “Hey, how did it go? You get the job?”

  She stopped and faced them. “No.”

  Jodie frowned. “Was it because you’re a felon?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, fuck them!” Jodie raised her middle finger. “You’re too smart for fast food anyway. I mean, you’re a damn lawyer. So you fucked up once. So what? You’re still too good to work there.”

  “Yeah, fuck ’em all,” Jenna said.

  Touched by the genuine support, Nadine calmed down a little. “Thanks.” She trudged upstairs to her closet-sized bedroom and sat on the lumpy twin bed. The cramped, colorless room was like a five-star hotel compared to prison, and she’d been lucky to secure three months of free housing. But where would she go when her time ran out? Landlords would never accept a felon with no source of income. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her contacts, looking for her probation officer.

  Nadine had imagined that supervised release would involve frequent meetings in person with her assigned officer, but Michaela had simply told her to text with any problems. Nadine tapped out her message: I’m having trouble finding a job.

  She set the phone down, expecting to wait for a reply, but it rang almost immediately.

  “What’s going on?” Michaela’s deep voice boomed over the rumbling of an engine.

  “No one wants to hire me. I hardly get any interviews, and the one I just had was over when he realized who I am. I’m running out of money, and I’m getting worried.”

  “I know it’s—shit!” A car horn blared. “Sorry. I know it’s hard when you have a record. How many applications have you
filled out?”

  “God, it feels like a hundred.” She massaged a knot in her shoulder. “I promise I’ve been applying all over central Virginia. I have another interview on Monday for a retail job outside of Richmond. Some tiny town called Cheriville.”

  “Retail?” Michaela sounded skeptical. “You need at least thirty hours to satisfy probation. Most retail is part-time—so they don’t have to offer health insurance.”

  “The ad said it’s forty hours per week. And I’m sure the health plan is abysmal.”

  “Okay. I hope it works out. If not, you gotta keep trying.”

  “I will.” As if she had a choice. “Listen, I need to talk to you about my housing situation. I’m halfway through my stay, and my caseworker said I have to leave when it ends no matter what—even if I don’t have anywhere to go. They already promised the bed to someone else.”

  “That’s right. Renn House is ninety days max. No exceptions.”

  “But how will I find an apartment with no income?” Even in prison, Nadine had never imagined she would struggle to find a place to live.

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. Fuck!” Brakes screeched. “Not you… Look, I know it’s hard with your notoriety. But you’ve got a lot of advantages even as an ex-offender. You’re educated. You’re not on drugs. And you have all your old friends and contacts. Something will turn up.”

  At least the first two were true. She hadn’t heard from her so-called friends in years. “Okay.”

  “I gotta go. Hang in there, okay? Keep me posted.”

  Nadine flopped back on the mattress. Grimy mini blinds split the sunlight into bright diagonal lines on the ceiling. The familiar antiseptic scent stung her nose, and the bass from the TV boomed through the floor. Taking slow breaths, she tried to process the possibility that in six weeks she would be evicted with nowhere to go.

  * * *

  Nadine tilted the rearview mirror until she could see her face. She smoothed her short black hair and checked her teeth for visible food. That’s what passed for getting ready these days, now that it no longer mattered.

  She donned her oversized sunglasses and exited the car, taking in the prosaic strip mall before her. The Overstock Oasis sat sandwiched between a liquor store and a Food Lion, and—judging from the distribution of cars in the parking lot—it was significantly less popular than its neighbors.

  The glass doors whooshed open. Four checkout registers sat at the front of the store; only one was occupied. A fair-skinned, curvy woman leaned over the counter, her honey-blonde hair falling forward in loose strands. At first, she appeared to be writing, but when Nadine moved closer, she realized the woman was doodling on receipt tape.

  Nadine tapped on the counter. “Excuse me.”

  The woman jumped and lifted her head. “Oh my Lord. I’m sorry. I totally spaced. How can I help you?” Smoky eyeshadow and thick mascara accentuated her golden-brown eyes, and her voice was sugar sweet with a buttery Virginia accent. Aside from her unflattering polo shirt—royal purple with Overstock Oasis embroidered on the lapel—she looked like a stereotypical Southern belle.

  Did this girly small-town cashier watch the news? Nadine removed her sunglasses. “I have an interview with the store manager. Grady Sanders.”

  The woman nodded, then froze as recognition dawned on her face. She stepped back and bumped into the cash register behind her.

  Great. Nadine arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

  “Um…no problem.” Biting her lip, she picked up a telephone next to the register. Metallic-purple fingernails caught the light as she dialed. “It’s Bella. There’s, um, someone here to see you… Yes… Okay.” She hung up. “He’ll just be a minute.”

  “Splendid.”

  Bella stared at Nadine, clasping and unclasping her hands as if she didn’t know where to put them.

  Nadine sighed. “I’ll just wait over there.” She turned away.

  “Are you…? Do you mind if I ask you…?”

  Christ, were they really going to do this? Nadine faced her. “Look, you obviously recognize me.” She held Bella’s gaze, challenging her to disagree.

  Bella nodded meekly.

  “That means you have an opinion. Everyone does. But I can assure you, it’s nothing I haven’t heard every day for years. So if you already know who I am, and I already know what you think of me, do we have anything to say to each other?”

  Bella blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean…” She glanced around and seemed to spot something in the distance. “Oh, thank the Lord. I mean, Grady’s coming. He’ll be right with you.”

  A slim older man with frizzy gray hair ambled to the front of the store. “Hi there. Are you Nah-dine?” He regarded her with curiosity, but his blue eyes were free of judgment, confirming Nadine’s guess that he had no idea who she was. That’s why I got the interview.

  Nadine stepped forward to meet him. “Yes, I’m Nadine.”

  “Grady Sanders.” He extended his hand.

  As she accepted the handshake, she snuck a glance at Bella, whose mouth hung open.

  Oblivious, Grady smiled. “Nice to meet you. Come on back.”

  Nadine followed him to the back of the store, passing the bath and housewares sections on the way. She had never been to an Overstock Oasis before and would never have visited one voluntarily in her former life. The store seemed to specialize in tacky clutter. Mismatched merchandise crowded the shelves, and many items were marked with neon clearance stickers.

  When they reached the back, Grady ushered her into a tiny office with a desk and two metal folding chairs. A flat-screen monitor set on a CPU occupied the center of the desk, surrounded by precarious stacks of papers, folders, and binders. One wrong move would topple the piles.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured at the chair across from his desk as he plopped into the one facing the computer. “I have your application around here somewhere.”

  Nadine waited as he shuffled through the mess. He really doesn’t recognize me. She braced herself for the question and the inevitable rejection that would follow. Soon she would be another day closer to losing her housing, with no source of income in sight.

  “Ah, here we go.” Grady held up a set of papers. “Nadine Bayani.” He pronounced her name with twangy drawn-out vowels. “You’re interviewing for the store associate position.”

  “That’s right.” Inside, she cringed at the job title. Associate made it sound as if she were applying to be a business partner rather than a minimum-wage lackey.

  Grady leaned back in his chair. “I’ll tell you a little about the job. You’ll be working the register, stocking shelves, and cleaning up after customers. Is that the sort of thing you’re looking for?”

  Sounds delightful. “Yes.”

  He scanned her application. “Now, it says here you don’t have any retail experience. Where did you work last?”

  Here we go. “I was a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” His head jerked up. “Why the hell do you want to work here?”

  “I lost my license to practice law. If you look at the end of the application, you’ll see—”

  When he found the relevant section, his eyes widened. “I’ll be damned. You checked the box. I didn’t even notice. What’d you do?”

  Nadine considered her answer. “I coordinated the transfer of funds from a large corporation to…a highly regulated entity in violation of federal law.” This, technically, was true. Except that it was completely false.

  “Ah, I see.” He nodded. “White-collar crime.”

  He still didn’t have a clue. Was she going to get away with this? “I suppose.”

  Grady’s face brightened. “You know, we get a tax break for hiring ex-cons. Corporate loves it. But normally, when I see a felony, I think trouble. I don’t want to hire someone who is going to steal and shoot up in the bathroom. But you’re not like that, are you?”

  Nadine thought about Jodie and Jenna, who had both been convicted on drug charges. That’s what he meant by trouble.

  “And you’re Asian.” He smiled. “Asians are good workers. I bet you’re good at math too. Won’t have to worry about your register coming up short.” He steepled his fingers and tapped his chin. “Are you a US citizen?”