Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alicia
Upstairs, I don’t have the energy to call Dorian, so I text.
Me: Know you’re worried, but I’m good.
Dorian: Did you know him? Any connection to your business? Or to a client’s?
I swirl my wine, watching twilight drain from the sky. The window throws my reflection back—tired eyes, pale skin, the outline of someone barely holding on. Outside, the lone tree in my postage-stamp backyard shivers, leaves curling like paper set too close to flame.
Did I know him?
If I say yes, it will sound like a confession. Dorian may read it as heartbreak.
Stick to what’s relevant. No more, no less.
I take another sip—and text again.
Me: You’re looking for connections where there are none.
The phone vibrates. Of course.
“How are you, really?” Dorian’s voice is rough with worry. “And don’t give me fine. You were with a man who died today.”
“I’m still absorbing it.”
“Matthew Delacroix. That name rings a bell. Where do I know him from? Did he work with—”
“Mom! I’m home!” Stella’s voice cuts through.
Dorian exhales with a loud breath. “Tell her hi. Call me tomorrow. I’m digging into—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “It’s—”
“Mom, Dad’s here! Can you come down?”
I close my eyes. Perfect.
“Richard,” Dorian mutters.
“You’re on speaker,” I warn. “I’ve got to go.”
He grumbles and disconnects.
I leave the wine where it sits—caught by the window’s fading light—and square my shoulders before heading downstairs.
Stella stands by the door, backpack sliding from one shoulder, as Richard and Jessica wait in the foyer.
My chest tightens. Still, my smile holds. “Hi,” I say evenly. “Jessica. I don’t think I’ve seen you since—when was it? Spring?”
She’s impeccable: cream blouse, navy skirt suit, heels that shape her calves, hair blown out, makeup fresh. It’s six-thirty on a Monday.
“Things have been busy,” she says brightly. “You have a beautiful home. We’ve dropped Stella off so many times, but this is the first time I’ve been inside.”
Her gaze drifts across the foyer, over the furniture, the light fixtures, resting on the family photos.
“Stella, would you give your mother and me a minute—”
“Sure.” She’s gone in a flash, footsteps drumming upstairs.
“See you tomorrow,” Richard calls.
“Homework,” I remind her, calling after her retreating back.
Silence settles, thick, close, and awkward.
I should offer coffee, maybe wine. But hospitality feels like surrender.
“I’m not the bad guy here,” Richard says, repeating the same line he’s been using for years. “I’m concerned for my daughter.”
Of course he is. Always the martyr.
“The security is precautionary,” I reply. “For Stella’s safety.”
Jessica steps forward, expression soft, gaze roaming. “Where is the security, if you don’t mind me asking? I didn’t notice anyone outside.”
“At the moment, downstairs.” Or in the carport. Or anywhere he chooses. “The night detail stays in the guest suite. The day team checks in with me in my office.”
“Smart,” she says. Her gaze flicks toward the keypad. “Is that new? It blends right in.”
“Yes.”
“Good choice.” Her tone is soft, benign, but that contradicts my read on her. “I told Richard you were smart to act after what happened at your office.”
“It wasn’t my office.”
“Of course.” She touches the console table lightly, her manicure catching the light. “Still, it must have been awful. I can’t imagine walking into something like that.”
I press my palm against my thigh to steady it. “We’re fine.”
“You founded Morgan they keep me grounded.”
“Let’s revisit that closer to break.”
Richard shifts his weight. This was the real reason for coming inside—not just to verify security, but to push for this.
“Of course.” Her agreement is smooth, instant. “We just want what’s best for her.”
The security panel beeps twice—the carport entry.
Richard stiffens. Jessica’s head tilts.
Noah’s voice carries from the hallway. “Evening.”
He steps into view—steady, unreadable, his stature and presence emanating a quiet authority.
Jessica’s smile sharpens the second she takes him in. “You must be with security.”
“That’s right,” Noah says.
“It’s comforting to know Alicia and Stella are in good hands. Richard worries about them.”
Warm words. Cold edges.
Richard exhales. With that one subtle, disciplined sound, I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “We should go.”
Jessica threads her hand through his arm. “Take care of yourself, Alicia. I’m sure things will settle soon.”
“Goodnight,” I say, holding the door.
They step into the night, and Jessica’s perfume lingers—something sweet and youthful.
The latch clicks.
Noah studies the closed door, then me. “Friend of your ex?”
“Girlfriend.” Though wife is probably the goal.
“She asked a lot of questions.”
I meet his gaze. “That’s what she does.”