Chapter 6
Everly
Connie ushered me out of the kitchen, insisting breakfast would be served in the dining room again.
I didn’t see why I couldn’t just eat in the kitchen with her. She didn’t even offer me a drop of coffee.
I stretched out my back. My muscles still ached from lugging those damn bags across town yesterday.
Then I froze.
Silas was already seated at the table, an enormous newspaper unfolded in front of him like we lived in 1950.
Shouldn’t he be at work?
The paper dropped.
“Everly,” he purred. “Come and sit.”
“Good morning,” I said, keeping it polite.
He nodded. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. I was rather tired.”
“Good, good.” He lifted his paper again. “Me and your mother are divorced.”
I blinked. My mouth parted to speak—
But Connie rolled in a trolley. The smell of fresh coffee hit me, momentarily distracting me.
Because—
What?
They were divorced?
When the hell did that happen?
Connie placed all the dishes on the table and poured our coffee.
“Thanks, Connie,” I murmured, though it made me uncomfortable that she was serving me.
I added a dash of cream and some sugar, then took a sip. The newspaper had been folded and set aside. He took his coffee black—probably needed it, if his drinking habits were anything like my mother’s.
The croissant was still warm as I cut into it. I smeared the berry conserve all over. If my time here was limited, I’d at least enjoy the food.
“What did she do?” I asked as soon as Connie closed the door behind her.
“What makes you think she did something?” he asked, eyeing me with suspicion.
“I’ve known her my whole life,” I said dryly.
“Mmm,” he hummed, cutting into his poached eggs.
The yolk split open and bled across the plate. He added a piece of sausage to the mess. I chewed my pastry and sipped my coffee.
“She cheated on me. Your mother’s in Edinburgh fucking her boss right now,” he said flatly.
Not angry. Not bitter. Just matter of fact.
“You’re not the first,” I said with a shrug. “And you won’t be the last.”
His eyes lifted. He finished chewing, then raised his cup to his lips.
“You realise she cleared out your trust fund?”
“I learned that when I turned twenty-one.”
“And you’re not angry?” he asked, brow raised.
“What can I do about it?” I sighed. “It’s done.”
I’d always known my mother was a greedy, toxic bitch. When she got married, she told me to keep my mouth shut. He didn’t know this was her third marriage. I learned to stay out of her fucked-up orbit when I was still a child. Honestly, sending me away had been the best thing she ever did for me.
“We could join forces,” he said so softly I thought I’d misheard him.
I waited for him to elaborate, watching as he raised his fork again.
“If you really want to stick it to your mum…” he said, trailing off as he took another bite, “Imagine how pissed she’d be if we were together.”
“Together?” I asked, even though some awful part of me already understood.
He couldn’t possibly mean—
His pale blue eyes darkened. The black of his pupils spread, swallowing the ice. Suddenly, the space between us felt… dangerous.
“She doesn’t know the divorce has been finalised,” he murmured. “She gets nothing. airtight prenup.”
His hand slid across the table and covered mine. I nearly jolted when the heat and weight settled—then his thumb brushed the side. Gentle. Nerve-racking.
“But what do you think she’d feel,” he went on quietly, “knowing you took her place?”
My spine tingled.
I had seen glimpses of this man before—brief flashes of something cold, controlled, and lethal. Even as a teenager, returning home on term breaks, I’d known there was something coiled behind his restraint.
Had I dreamed about him?
Maybe—once or twice.
When I was young enough to still believe fantasy meant something.
But the fantasies never survived my mother.
All those years she’d sneered at my dark hair and darker eyes. Picked me apart like I was defective. Sometimes I’d think—if I looked more European, less like him, maybe she would’ve loved me.
Then I grew up.
She was never going to love me—only what I could be used for.
And now?
She was about to lose her prize pig. Her retirement plan.
Her glossy, coveted husband—to me.
His hand tightened over mine, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
He could break me.
No—I was already broken.
I lifted my gaze and met his eyes. Then nodded.
His smile was slow to bloom, but when it spread, I caught something unexpected beneath the stubble. A dimple.
He lifted my hand to his lips.
“You won’t regret our alliance,” he murmured.
The kiss wasn’t romantic. It was transactional.
The seal on a dangerous deal with the devil.
He released my hand with a smirk.
“You’ll need a new wardrobe. Accessories. We want it to cut her deep,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He flipped open his leather wallet and pulled out a black card, holding it between two fingers.
“There’s no limit.”
“I doubt I’ll bankrupt you,” I drawled. “The dress I wore last night cost me thirteen quid.”
Still, I took the card and placed it on the table between us.
He frowned.
“Ask Connie. She’ll connect you to a personal shopper.”
I nodded, still uncertain about what had just happened.
“Come to my office after breakfast,” he said, raising his newspaper—like he hadn’t just propositioned me.
?? ?? ??
His office was full of books and colour-coded folders. The large, polished table didn’t surprise me. The décor was a mix of gold with hints of burgundy—a bold choice for a man like him, but somehow it worked. Rich. Intimidating.
He moved fluidly for someone his size, crossing to the desk and unlocking a drawer. When he turned back, he held a stack of papers.
“Read and sign,” he said, handing them over.
I took them, scanning line by line.
An agreement. Plain and simple. A legal exchange of goods and services for cold, hard cash.
My eyes paused over the figure.
The provision of an heir.
Marriage after confirmed conception.
The second half detailed a generous prenuptial agreement. Ironclad. Nothing like what my mother had.
I swallowed and lifted my gaze.
This was his world. Cold, contractual and calculated.
“I’m a virgin,” I said quietly, placing the papers on the table between us.
His reaction wasn’t what I expected.
He stilled.
Then the shift.
His face darkened—storm clouds behind his eyes—and colour surged up his neck.
“You dare try to negotiate with me by lying?” he hissed.
His voice was low. Lethal.
“I’m not lying,” I snapped, heat crawling up my own neck. “This is more than generous, but who said I was for sale?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning over me—slow, calculating. Then he spoke.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Do you want a doctor’s note?” I said dryly, rolling my eyes and folding my arms across my chest.
“No.”
His voice was silk-wrapped steel.
“I want you to come over here. Sit on my lap—and let me check for myself.”
I gasped, but my insides rebelled.
The thought of him touching me like that… it quickened my breath.
“Or are you scared I’ll prove you’re a liar?”
It hung there.
Heavy.
The insinuation that I was just like her.
My arms dropped to my sides.
I moved around the desk.
I wasn’t fucking lying.