CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #3
I put my phone back in my pocket and saunter upstairs to find Ty perched at the island, eating a bowl of cereal. I scooch in next to him. “You like Rena, don’t you? I saw you checking her out at La Lune Noire.”
His eyes brighten for a half second before he masks his interest. “Off-limits.”
“Who says?” I shrug, scrunching my lips.
He barks a laugh, sharper than his customarily light one, while sliding off his stool, rounding the island to rinse his bowl, and sticking it in the dishwasher. “Five raging Noire brothers whom I consider close friends. Not happening.”
Ignoring his reasoning, I press. “She was checking you out too, and she needs a good man.” He chuckles, the sound holding the slightest hint of longing, so I push further. “She keeps going on dates with these losers and—”
“Does Axel know?” His brow creases.
Jealous?
“Yes, but—”
“Then, it’s handled, Freckles. Off-limits is off-limits. End of discussion.”
I smack the counter, irritated by his obstinacy. End of discussion. Who does he think he is? Wells? “Ty, you never date. None of you do.”
He tilts his head, mouth in a cocky scowl. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not happening. We don’t bring women to the house, and I have no interest in anything serious.”
Liam ambles in with an odd expression, gaze heavy on me like wet cement. And Gage strides along behind him, equally as off. I’d be annoyed they interrupted our conversation, but they seem as though they’ve both swallowed a secret.
“What’s wrong with the two of you?” I chirp.
Liam’s eyes widen as if I caught him with his dick out. He adjusts himself—not his dick, his face—usual smirk in place. “Nothing. Morning to you too, High Society.”
I glance at Ty, who I assumed would be laughing with me, but he’s scrolling on his phone, unaware of the bizarre vibe floating through the kitchen .
“Tell me what the hell is wrong with you,” I snap at all of them. “You’re freaking me out.”
Gage ruffles the plastic wrap on the cookies, glowering at Liam and then peering back at me. “Wells was looking for you, Ivy.” He stuffs a snickerdoodle in his mouth without any further explanation.
The three stand silently, staring at me, concern on their faces. Or maybe confusion?
I do need to find Wells because my stomach is suddenly knotted with that foreboding twinge from yesterday.
Strutting into his office, I find him chomping on a Tootsie Pop as though it’s public enemy number one. He squints one eye like a pirate upon my entrance, and now, I’m completely weirded out.
“What the hell is going on?” I bite out. “You’re all being freakishly bizarre.”
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, popping out his mutilated sucker. “What did the morons do?”
I laugh, entertained by his exasperation. “Rough morning meeting?”
“Yes,” he sighs. Whatever stress he’s dealing with is evident in his gloomy features. My carefree man from yesterday is pained. He forces a smile. “I’m glad you’re here. Have a seat.”
“You’re scaring me,” I whisper, my gut screaming in apprehension.
“Don’t be nervous. I want to discuss some things. No sense in waiting until after Thanksgiving.”
My heart races; my throat dries. This is it.
I roll my lips in anticipation as he leans forward, studying my movements.
“Ivy, it’s you and me. No matter what you’re feeling, I’ve got you. Okay, baby?”
I nod. “Okay.”
He reclines back into his chair, tossing his chewed lollipop stick into the trash. “It’s hard to know where to begin, so let’s start with what we spoke about at the fire the other night. Do you remember that one of the five groups in KORT is The Order?”
“Yes.” I swallow, rubbing my sweaty palms over my pants to dry them and let the texture ground me.
“Your father was— is —a member of The Order, intimately familiar with KORT.” His fingers dive into his superbly styled hair, mussing it.
“He had the means and connections necessary to protect you. Doing so was an act of treason against KORT, but he didn’t care.
He gave everything he had to keep you safe. That was his greatest life purpose.”
So many questions flicker through me. I spew them all so I don’t lose them. “Why do I need protected? From what? And how do you know this? Did you know my father before his stroke?”
He heaves a breath. “Let me take those one at a time. This is a lot, so if you need me to stop at any point, tell me.” His eyes ping-pong between mine.
“You were born to Daniel O’Reilly and Eleanor Healy.
He loved her but refused to leave KORT for her.
He was head of his family and newly in one of the most powerful seats in the world.
No amount of assuring Eleanor that he would be conducting less dangerous business worked.
At seven months pregnant, she disappeared, never to be seen again.
Most people thought you were both dead. But O’Reilly believed Eleanor would’ve seen to it that you were safe.
He wanted you back, wanted you to be heir to all he was building, and searched tirelessly for you. ”
An eerie calmness washes over me as though I’m detached from the core of my being, like my heart and soul have checked out while my brain sorts through this. Numb. No feelings. Not even in my body. It must be bidding me farewell, exploring lighter days with my inner essence.
He clears his throat. “You ended up being raised by your parents, who took great care to keep you hidden at the request of your birth mother. But your father—Dr. Kingston—understanding the expectations as a member of The Order, believed you were capable of being who KORT needed to fill the O’Reilly seat someday, so he intended to train you for it and have you reveal yourself when the time was right. ”
“This is fucking absurd.” I’ve seen pictures of my mom pregnant, but I also remember overhearing she lost a baby. “My parents aren’t my birth parents? I’m actually some heir? Why does that put me in danger?”
Those words sound angry. He probably thinks I’m raging, but I don’t feel angry. I feel absent.
Vacant.
“It’s complicated, but simply put, not everyone wants you to inherit the seat. We can delve into that in greater detail later.”
“So, the roofie? It was targeted?” Some sort of fight-or-flight response has me flinging questions and responses. I’m not even absorbing his words. They trickle over me and rush for the drain.
A leaky faucet.
“Yes. It was connected.” Wells’s voice is flat, like this is everyday business. That, somehow, a person tracked me down to what, kill me? Because I’m not me.
“What happened to him? The guy who roofied me.” My spine tingles, a chilling cognizance skittering over me with that inquiry. I think I know.
“Dead.” He hedges for a beat before clarifying. “I killed him.”
Right. That’s what I anticipated. He once admitted to hurting not good people. Still shocking yet oddly reassuring.
“And you?” I mutter, half dazed. “When did you first enter the picture?”
“I was hired to find you.” His answer echoes through the room like I’m drunk in a tunnel.
A lump lodges inside my esophagus, dizzying me with the inability to swallow, but there’s so much more to this blind suffocation.
My vision is blurred and spotted by a lifetime of lies.
Pretty ones, wrapped in bows of love and normalcy—game nights and art classes.
Ice cream for breakfast on birthdays and Shirley Temple toasts at celebrations .
I’m crashing into an invisible wall of realization that I’m not who I thought I was—nothing I believed was real. I’m not real. The curtain’s been pulled back to show it was all an illusion. But I’m not sure where that leaves me, other than sawed in half.
And that’s merely my childhood.
What about this? The whispers of a future, the hopes spilled at our picnic, the dreams shared during pillow talk, the touches that tingled of home, prickling my depths with my greatest desires—visions of babies and holidays and exotic getaways.
An unlikely family found in those three winsome yet obstinate guys.
An epic love who would carry me through every rocky step.
I knew a secret was looming. I prepared myself, thinking Wells had an enemy who was targeting me, but this?
I didn’t expect to have my quaint life ripped out from underneath me so I could either be hurled into a sinister position I know nothing about or hunted by those who’d prefer me to be a corpse over assuming it.
My brain shudders in my skull, like we’re enduring an earthquake and I’m left with nothing to provide stability—destined to be jostled until it siphons the blood from my veins.
There’s only one thing I can manage to ask—my deepest fear—frozen to the knowledge that I’m a job to the man I’m hopelessly in love with— my husband .
“Was this … you and me … was any of it real?” And the pain of having to ask that question opens a floodgate I’m afraid might never close.