Chapter Thirty Five #2
“Kinda seems like the least I could do. Mother tells me if I’ve ‘blown my chances with the Waversea boy’,” Klara air quotes, “that I’d best start looking for a replacement.
They’ve invited the most dreadfully boring investors and their grandsons to this event.
Yippee for me,” Klara rolls her eyes and lifts her flute in a mockery.
I don’t think she intended for Harper to lift her own glass and clink it, the pair of them downing its contents.
“We’ll find you someone better than Rhys,” Harper states.
“Hey,” I scowl over my shoulder. “I can hear you.” Nudging my shoulder, Harper giggles.
“I mean, better for her. Everyone has a person. It just takes some searching sometimes.” Turning away before she can see my smirk, I settle into the chair as her hand remains on my shoulder and kneads gently.
Across the room, Arthur has made his way towards the stage. The orchestra softens until it finds silence, his rigid posture stepping onto the plinth with a whiskey glass in one hand and flash cards in the other.
Gaining everyone’s attention without needing to ask for it, his shrewd eyes scan the crowd and land directly on me.
The contact is brief, just enough to let me know he’s noticed me, then sweeps away as if he has discarded me like the trash he thinks I am.
Up until a few months ago, I may have been inclined to agree, but not now there’s a small hand gripping my shoulder in solidarity.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Arthur begins, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall.
“Thank you for joining us this evening in support of Waversea Academy’s continued expansion and philanthropic initiatives.
” He lifts his glass a fraction, not quite a toast, more an acknowledgement of obligation.
“Your generosity, as always, does not go unnoticed.” Polite laughter ripples through the room.
His tone is clipped and perfectly articulated, the sound of a man who has never doubted he would be listened to.
A man who would never have been content stuck in his brother’s shadow.
It slams into me that this is the first time I’m confronted with the man who raised me, in a sense, since learning the truth.
I lean forward, elbows on the table and chin in my hands.
Hunting for differences between him and the man I now know to be the real Phillip Waversea, I don’t find as many as I like. Aside from the fact that age favors the rich, ensuring that his hair plugs are dark and his face is protected by Botox fillers, Arthur’s outward appearance is eerily similar.
The guilt I’ve grappled with since staying at my parents’ rundown house the other night returns.
I know I was a child, but surely I should have noticed that something was terribly wrong.
I should have sensed that this man, the one who beat me into submission and then called me weak for it, couldn’t possibly have been my father.
The rest of his speech is the usual garbage, listing the honorary students invited for their achievements.
Prime examples of the excellence Waversea expects, he says, glaring at me while the words fill the space between us.
My brows jump in challenge, my glass raising and tipping in his direction.
Arthur barely manages to hide his sneer as he looks away.
I drink, twisting back to sneak out Harper’s thigh beneath the table.
Squeezing firm, her hand grips mine and holds on with the same vigor while his voice fills my ears.
This whole event is a farce, a way to keep himself in good standing with the press.
Arthur’s reputation is of the utmost importance, and now I know why.
He’s carrying a legacy that wasn’t his to bear, and he intends to keep it.
Over my dead body. Arthur may think he’s holding the best hand that he’s won before the final draw, but I’ve always been a wildcard. I intend to stay that way.
“I’ll allow you all to enjoy the music and champagne," he says at long last. The tension in my shoulders loosens slightly.
Arthur pockets his flashcards and passes his glass to a waiter.
“Unfortunately, I must apologize for the brevity of my appearance tonight. A matter of business requires my immediate attention nearby. I regret missing the remainder of what promises to be a memorable evening, but I trust you are all in capable hands.”
Harper’s hand tightens to the point of breaking my fingers, her wide eyes meeting mine before Clayton looks up from where he was twiddling his thumbs.
Nearby. The word lodges itself in my chest, dread spiraling in my gut.
There’s nothing for Arthur near the academy unless…
he knows. Catching his eye, he inclines his head, a king dismissing his court as he steps down from the plinth.
My heart stutters, a sickening lurch as every careful step of my plan suddenly compresses into a single, terrifying point.
He’s leaving. This isn’t how it’s meant to go.
I’m supposed to corner him, needle him, let old wounds fester until he can’t help but open his mouth and spill everything.
Every lie, every account, every hand he’s ever raised in private, he owes me those truths.
It’s the least I deserve, and they’re supposed to be delivered directly into the wire, pressed flat against my skin and hidden beneath Harper’s mic.
I’m on my feet before I consciously decide to be, the chair legs scraping faintly against the wood floor. Clayton moves at the same time, instinctively flanking me. Standing shoulder to shoulder, I reach back for Harper’s hand, but my fingers skim the air.
Looking back, I glare at Klara, who shrinks in her seat and points off to the side. My head snaps in the direction, frantically searching for Harper, and when I spot her, I let out an animalistic snarl.
“Shit,” I hiss, jolting after the lithe woman snaking through the tuxedos and gowns, her body lithe enough to fit through minuscule gaps.
Directly ahead of her, Arthur leaves through a rear fire exit, now flanked by a guard with hands larger than my head.
“Harper—” I start, but the orchestra strikes back up, swallowing the word whole.
Pushing forward, I don’t bother with apologies, shoving my way through the crowd blocking my access to her.
Clayton joins me, using his large arms like battering rams, although he does mutter sorry’s and excuse me’s as he goes.
Chasing the bare shoulders, weaving past the plinth and slipping out the back door, I holler after Harper as a wall of paparazzi surges forward, cameras flashing in violent bursts of white light, voices overlapping, shouting questions that blur into one continuous noise.
“Rhys! Over here!”
“Is it true you’ve reconciled with your father?”
“Who’s the woman you arrived with?”
“Are the rumors about Waversea Group under investigation—”
“Move,” I snap uselessly, my shoulder slamming into a photographer who barely stumbles.
Clayton is right beside me, cursing under his breath as he tries to push against the barricade they’ve created, but there are too many of them.
Hands grab at my jacket, microphones are shoved into my face, lenses inches from my eyes.
I shove back harder, panic clawing up my throat now, because I can’t see her. I can’t see Harper anywhere.
By the time I break free of the press, lungs burning, the exit is in view.
I burst through it, panting in short bursts, my eyes darting around the night in a frenzy.
A Bentley sits on the side of the main road, the guard standing by the rear.
At the front, Arthur has one hand clamped around Harper’s arm, his grip unmistakably possessive, his face a mask of cold hatred.
I can tell, even from here, that she’s fighting against him, her body twisted away and heels skidding slightly on the stone.
Unfortunately for her, he’s used to a punching bag that is heavier and stronger.
“Harper!” I shout too loudly for her implants, unable to help the sound tearing out of me, raw and broken.
Her head snaps up at my voice. For a split second, our eyes lock across the distance.
There’s fear there, but also resolve. That stubborn, infuriating bravery she can’t shake.
She mouths something I can’t hear, then Arthur shoves her inside the driver's seat.
He follows, nudging her over into the passenger side, not sparing me a glance this time.
My feet are moving before the door slams, uselessly running after the Bentley that peels away with a snarl from the wheels and engine, disappearing down the drive.
Even without the guard striding towards me, I stop dead, the world tilting violently on its axis.
No. Not again. Of all the things I should have protected her from, Arthur was supposed to be at the top of the list.
Clayton skids to a halt beside me, his face pale with fury, his hands clenched so tightly I can see the tendons standing out.
“Fuck,” he breathes, kicking his foot out at the nearest lamppost. “What the hell is she thinking?!” Another skid comes up behind us, banishing the guard’s presence as he returns to the hall.
I turn to see that the covert police van has come to a stop just inches from my chest. Dully, I wish it hadn’t stopped at all, since my chest already feels like it’s been caved in.
“You two stay here, we’ll take chase,” the undercover cop in the passenger seat barks.
Clay grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me out of their way.
Whether intentionally or not, his grip sends me flying into a patch of grass, and I barely feel the fall.
Something vital has been ripped out of my soul and taken away with Harper, leaving behind nothing but panic and white-hot rage.
This was supposed to be simple, a planned confession that would free us all.
I was supposed to be the one pulling the strings.
Instead, she’s gone. And she’s gone with him.
Slowly, I come back to myself. The gala lights blaze behind us, laughter and music spilling thoughtlessly into the night.
A sharp stabbing in my neck reminds me of the mic clip, my fingers shaking as I tear it free and hold it with as much care as I’m able.
I still have this, a singular connection to her.
Clayton spots me, hunched over and trembling.
In an instant, his jacket is around my shoulders, and he’s dropped down beside me.
I don’t have the words to tell him that I’m not shaking from the cold, my entire focus on the mic clip between my fingers.
“Harper. You stupid, beautiful woman. Forget the plan, don’t try to be a hero.
Just get the fuck out of that car and come back to me.
You can’t…I won’t let you leave me again.
Come back to Clayton and I. We’ll leave, we’ll move away and start fresh.
No Waverseas, no power plays. Just please. Please come back and let us love you.”