Chapter 4 #2
Sebastian suddenly clapped his hands together.
“Right! So I thought we could organize by era, with each of us focusing on our area of expertise. Penny, perhaps you could assess the condition and historical significance of the clothing? Leo, there are several trunks of shoes and accessories that would benefit from your professional eye. Victor and I will work on cataloguing those marked for culling and those to keep, respectively.”
It was a reasonable plan that would keep us all productively busy for hours. It was also clearly designed to allow Sebastian to work near Penny, which Victor’s subtle shift in posture suggested he’d noticed.
“Sounds good,” I said, already eyeing a stack of trunks that might contain shoes. “Where should I start?”
“Those along the far wall.” Victor gestured. “Be careful opening them. Some of the hinges might be fragile.”
As we dispersed, I caught Penny shooting me a look that clearly said: This is going to be interesting.
The first trunk I opened contained pristine men’s dress shoes from the 1940s—oxfords and brogues in rich leathers that had held up remarkably well. I carefully lifted each pair, examining the construction and maker’s marks, scribbling notes in my journal.
Behind me, I could hear Penny exclaiming over various garments, his enthusiasm genuine and infectious. “The silk on this is in remarkable condition! The way the draping was constructed—you can see the influence of Parisian couture but adapted for American manufacturing.”
“You have an excellent eye.” Sebastian’s voice was warm, genuinely impressed. “Have you considered working professionally in the industry?”
“You mean in the fashion world?”
“Oui.” Sebastian’s French accent caressed the simple word.
“I’ve thought about it,” Penny admitted. “But Vintage Vogue keeps me pretty busy. Although working with pieces like these…” His voice took on a wistful quality.
“Perhaps we could discuss opportunities for collaboration,” Sebastian suggested, his accent growing more pronounced. “Our newest line is expanding into historical-inspired pieces. Someone with your knowledge and passion would be invaluable.”
“Sebastian.” Victor’s voice was quiet but sharp, carrying an edge of warning. “We should focus on the inventory.”
The temperature in the attic seemed to drop.
I bent back over my trunk, pretending absorption in examining vintage pumps while the tension crackled behind me. The hair on the back of my neck prickled with secondhand discomfort from the territorial undercurrents.
The morning wore on with careful cataloguing punctuated by moments of exuberant discovery and increasing awkwardness.
Sebastian’s natural warmth and Penny’s genuine excitement kept pulling them into conversation despite Victor’s subtle but persistent attempts to redirect Sebastian’s attention elsewhere.
Victor, I noticed, didn’t interrupt directly or make dramatic gestures.
His interference was subtler—a comment about needing Sebastian’s opinion on something across the room, a question about inventory methods that required collaboration, a reminder about timing for the exhibit.
Each interruption was perfectly reasonable on its surface but clearly territorial in intent.
Around eleven, my pregnancy symptoms started making themselves known with more urgency.
The musty attic air combined with physical exertion was creating a perfect storm of nausea and fatigue.
I’d been taking frequent “water breaks” and had halted my rooting through trunks to step over to the dormer windows for fresh air a couple of times.
“Leo?” Penny’s voice cut through my concentration as I stared at a pair of men’s loafers without really seeing them. “You okay?”
I looked up to find him watching me with concern. Sebastian and Victor had moved to the far end of the attic, Victor’s voice was low and tense while Sebastian responded with barely controlled frustration.
Their voices drifted across the attic as indistinct murmurs, too far away for me to catch any actual words.
“Fine,” I said automatically. “Just dusty up here.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last hour.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Your scent is off.”
Before I could answer, my attention snagged on something in the trunk I’d just opened. Nestled among tissue paper were tiny shoes—infant shoes, handmade with delicate stitching and soft leather, probably from the 1940s or early 1950s.
They were beautiful in their simplicity. Clearly made with love and care for someone’s baby.
Something in my chest cracked open.
I was hiding my condition from everyone except Penny, terrified of what it meant. And here were these tiny shoes, made by someone’s loving hands for a baby who had probably grown up and had children of their own by now.
These were probably Richard’s.
They could have just as easily been Adelaide’s, but my brain had immediately summoned Richard.
Had Thomas Wong imagined shoes like these for his baby? Had he wondered what his child would look like, what name they might have?
My vision blurred.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Penny’s hand gripped my elbow, his scent shifting to protective concern.
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t explain that the sight of infant shoes had somehow crystallized everything I’d been trying not to feel—the fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming knowledge that I was pregnant and couldn’t even tell my alpha because I was a coward.
“I need…” My voice came out strangled. “I need some air. I’ll just step outside for a minute.”
“Want me to come with you?” Penny asked, worry clear in his eyes.
“No, I’m fine. Just need to clear my head.” I forced a smile. “Keep working. I’ll be right back.”
Before he could argue, I headed for the attic stairs, needing to escape the dust and the emotions and the tiny shoes that made everything feel too real.
The Fairfax grounds were extensive, the winter-bare trees creating stark silhouettes against the gray sky. I followed a gravel path away from the house, pulling out my phone to text Dominic before realizing I had no signal.
A wave of irrational panic hit me. My heart raced at the sight of my phone screen—no bars, no connection—my fingers hovering uselessly over Dominic’s contact information. The lack of a signal felt like abandonment even though I knew it wasn’t.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, trying to calm myself. The baby didn’t need this stress. Neither did I.
The path curved through landscaped gardens before opening onto a large Victorian greenhouse, its elaborate ironwork and curved glass panels beautiful even in winter. Through the misty glass, I could see lush greenery—a stark contrast to the dormant grounds outside.
The door was unlocked. I stepped inside, immediately enveloped by humid warmth and the rich scent of growing things. Everything was meticulously organized, with brass plaques identifying each plant species.
Richard knelt beside a bed of delicate white flowers, his hands bare despite the cold, completely absorbed in his work. He wore old gardening clothes that had clearly seen better days, and there was dirt on his expensive watch.
“Trillium grandiflorum,” he said without looking up, his voice cultured but distant. “White trillium. Native to eastern North America but increasingly threatened in the wild.”
I swallowed. “They’re beautiful.”
“They are.” He sat back, finally looking at me with ice-blue eyes that reminded me uncomfortably of Victor’s calculating gaze. “You’re Joe and Benji’s grandson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me.” He stood, brushing dirt from his hands with careful precision. “Call me Richard, please.”
“You make a habit of tending flowers on gloomy days?”
“Avoiding the attic work, more accurately.” He gestured to the trilliums. “Ex situ conservation. The populations in the Millwater Gorge have been declining—habitat disruption, too much foot traffic. I’m growing them here, hoping to reestablish viable populations in protected areas.”
“Millwater Gorge? That’s on your family’s land?”
“About two miles south. The gorge has been wild for a century—one of the few things my family has done right, preserving it instead of developing.” His expression turned wry.
“Though it creates complications. The topology and geology create interference with cell signals. You get spotty coverage on the estate, nothing at all in the outer buildings like this greenhouse.”
“I noticed.” I pulled out my phone, confirming the lack of signal with a flutter of anxiety in my stomach.
“Adelaide insists on preserving the gorge’s isolation. No cell towers, no development, no encroachment.” He turned back to his plants. “It’s one of the few things we agree on.”
I watched him work for a moment, the careful way he tended each plant. “The trilliums are lucky to have someone who cares so much about preserving them.”
“They’re fragile things. They need specific conditions to survive—the right soil, the right mycorrhizal fungi, the right amount of light.” His voice grew quieter. “Once you understand what they need… they repay you triple-fold.”
The way he said it made something click. This wasn’t just about flowers.
“This greenhouse is beautiful,” I said carefully. “It must take a lot of work to maintain.”
“It’s worth it.” He moved to another bed, his movements precise and practiced. “Some people appreciate spaces like this.”
“Like Thomas Wong?” I asked. “He had an eye for beautiful spaces like this?”
Richard’s breath caught at the name.
“He did,” he finally said. His tone was carefully neutral, but there was something beneath it—not quite grief, not quite regret. Something more controlled.
“Did he visit often?” I asked, keeping my voice equally neutral.
“Often enough.” Richard’s hands continued their work. “He had questions about the native plants. Restoration ecology. The trilliums particularly interested him.” A pause. “They’re delicate. Easily damaged. He felt they were worth protecting.”