Chapter 34 Sullivan
SULLIVAN
The room is dimly lit when I wake. But it’s light enough for me to realize that I didn’t set my alarm and overslept.
“Shit,” I whisper-curse, my thoughts immediately flying to Molly.
I scoot out from beneath the covers and swipe my underwear from the floor, pulling it on in a frenzy. I’m out of the door, pulling it closed behind me, and heading to Molly’s bedroom within a matter of seconds.
It’s fine. She must have slept later, too. Yesterday was a long and emotional day. But despite my self-reassurance, my heart is thundering as I approach her room and find her door open, despite closing it when I put her to bed last night.
“Molly?” I say, stepping into the room.
Her bed’s empty.
“Molly?”
I check her bathroom, but that’s deserted too. She’ll be playing with her dolls in the living area.
I stride down the hallway.
The living area is silent.
A cold slither inches up my spine and pins me by the throat.
“Molly?”
I race over to the kitchen, checking all of the places she could be where she’d be hidden from view.
Nothing.
My head grows light, my pulse an erratic pounding in my skull. I run from room to room, my home office, gym, guest rooms, bathrooms.
Every room, every closet. Even beneath the couch.
She’s gone.
“Jesus!” I choke, fear gripping and making me gasp for air.
I’ve only ever felt like this once in my life.
The day that death showed my family no mercy.
I stumble over my own feet, sprinting to the bedroom to wake Tate. I need to call the cops, call Dad. Call the fucking president.
Molly’s gone.
“Tate!” I wheeze, opening my bedroom door and practically collapsing through it. Every nerve in my body is sparking with adrenaline. It’s the only thing keeping me standing as terror slices through my veins like a lethal injection.
I round her side of the bed and slam to a halt.
She’s lying on her side, sleeping. Her lips are parted, and each soft exhale spills out over her pillow… gently ruffling the delicate dark curls lying beside her.
I fall to my knees beside the bed, a silent, relieved sob caught in my throat.
They both look so peaceful. Molly must have climbed in during the night, the way she used to before I linked the monitor to her door, so I’d know if she left her room.
I didn’t set it last night. The silence from Tate’s lack of playing as I took Molly to bed distracted me. I wanted to get back to her. To make sure she was okay. I hated seeing her so obviously torn up from hearing her song on the radio. I needed to take care of her, for my own sanity.
I needed Tate to be okay.
For a brief moment, my subconscious was focused on my needs. Not those of my daughter.
Guilt weaves its way up my windpipe, replacing the fear. But it still chokes me up, lashing at me without restraint.
Molly comes first. Always.
As my daughter’s eyelashes flutter sleepily over her chubby little cheeks, dancing in time to a dream, a glimmer of hope unearths from a dark place inside me that I thought was long buried, if not snuffed out altogether.
But hope can be destructive.
I hoped my brother and mother could survive an explosion that blew out one side of my father’s yacht in the marina that day.
I hoped that if they did, then they’d also survive the fire that spread in front of my eyes as we all raced down the jetty toward them.
I hoped that my father would find them alive when he ran onboard through the flames to try and reach them.
All of that hope was for nothing.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and stand on weak legs.
Leaning down, I press a kiss to first Molly’s, then Tate’s forehead.
“Look after her for me,” I whisper.
“You’d like her, Brother. She adores Molly.”
The gray headstone stares back at me, silent and still. A complete contrast to what he was like when he was alive.
We called him the ‘Risk Taker’. It was a joke, of course. He assured us that the skydives and the base jumps, and all the other crazy shit he called fun were completely safe. And I guess they were.
It was an accident that killed him.
A pointless, tragic accident.
“And she plays piano,” I say to the matching headstone on the left. “Not just plays, composes her own songs.”
Elaina Marigold Beaufort.
The deep chiseled letters of my mother’s name remain lifeless and empty. A shell devoid of emotion, when I know had she been here to hear those words, they’d have made her eyes light up with joy, and she’d have asked me a barrage of questions about Tate’s music.
That was Mom’s love. Music. It’s why I was given lessons from a young age. My brother wouldn’t sit still long enough to practice, and Sinclair lacked the coordination, her body too intent on growing at an alarming rate in order to give her career-making supermodel height.
We would sit beside one another at the piano, learning new songs together. Perfecting them.
She couldn’t love my father enough not to cheat on him, but her heart loved music so much that she could play a piece by Mozart in her sleep.
“You’d both love Tate,” I murmur, sighing deeply as I bend to straighten a wilting flower that’s been planted. But it’s not wilting, it’s broken. The stem has severed and comes away between my fingers.
“Sinclair said you never come here.”
I turn at the familiar voice, meeting Uncle Mal’s saddened gaze as it lifts from the broken stem in my hand.
“As far as she’s aware, I don’t.” I look back at the delicate white rose, running my nail up one of its thorns. One prick and I’d bleed. Just like Tate did that day in my office.
The day I freaked out thinking she was in physical danger.
But physical pain isn’t the only one a person can endure. And sometimes it’s the wounds we don’t see that are the ones that never heal.
And it’s exactly the type of wounds I fear I’m exposing Tate to more with each passing day.
“I’d prefer if Sinclair continues to think that way,” I say, standing and turning to my uncle.
“I promised her when they died that I’d hold things together for us.
.. And now we know about…” I swallow. Something another model said to Sinclair caused her to want her necklace tested.
The necklace I made for her. The one that I thought had my brother inside it.
The one that turned out to have ashes in it that didn’t belong to him.
“Now we know her necklace isn’t… I don’t want her having any more reasons to think about that day.” I grimace.
He nods in understanding, walking to my side and stooping to place a single flower on each of their graves, before gathering up two almost identical ones that can’t be more than a few days old.
“Grief isn’t a weakness, Sullivan,” he says with a deep sigh as he stands and looks at both headstones in turn. “It’s a sign of how much they were loved.”
I press my lips together, every inch of my windpipe burning, all the way from my stomach to my throat as we stand in silence for a few minutes, both prisoners to our own thoughts.
“I’ve met someone,” I say, the words piercing my lips like daggers as I allow them out into the world.
Uncle Mal doesn’t look surprised. He looks sad. Remorseful. Pitying.
“I see.” He inhales slowly, before letting it out.
“Tate…” I wince as I say her name, here of all places, in front of their graves. “She doesn’t know what happened. She can’t ever know.”
The look of grief that pulls at his face, drawing it down and deepening every crease and shadow, matches how I feel inside.
“I’m lying to her.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just jerks his chin in acknowledgment.
What is there to say?
Tate doesn’t know the truth about my family.
We’re The Beauforts.
No one knows the real us.
“I’m sorry, Sull,” Uncle Mal says, patting me on the shoulder.
I press my lips together, not trusting myself to speak.
“I’ll see you before I leave, okay?”
Mal’s stayed in New York longer than usual, knowing Neil was here.
But after some careful surveillance, Neil’s no longer deemed a threat.
Denver and the team have uncovered his plans to move to Chicago to be near his brother.
He’ll be gone in a matter of days, where they’ll still have eyes on him.
But they doubt he’ll be back. And Mal’s needed in Botswana again.
I clear my throat and nod. “Okay.”
Uncle Mal walks away and I stay for a while, staring at the headstones with only my thoughts for company.
Cliff’s sitting in the car, reading the paper as I finally turn and head back in its direction. It’s a Friday, the day of the week he arrives early in case I need to drive here in silence when the sun has barely risen.
No one knew I came here. Until Uncle Mal saw me just now.
Cliff’s brought me here so many times over the last two or so years that the car could probably drive itself.
My old Thursday night routine served a double purpose.
Molly was still on one of her sleepovers with Dad or Sinclair Friday mornings.
I’d usually have spent the evening at The Lanceford before my visit, not awoken to find my daughter asleep in my bed with the woman who’s slotted into our life so perfectly, like she belongs with us, like I did today.
A woman who only sees the version of myself that I portray to her. A version lacking so much that I can never share with her.
I pull out my phone and bring up my home surveillance system that Denver had installed for me after Molly arrived.
My chest tightens as Tate walks into the living area with Molly in her arms. Molly’s rubbing her eyes like she’s still waking up, and Tate’s wearing one of my T-shirts, with her hair tied up in a messy knot on top of her head.
Tate swivels her head side to side and her mouth opens. Even though the sound is off, I know she’s calling for me. She walks over to her purse on the table and pulls her phone out.
Mine rings in my hand.
“Sullivan? Is everything okay?” Her tone is breathy, an edge of concern in it.
I watch the way she balances Molly on one hip, and my daughter rests her head against her, so naturally at ease in her arms.
“Everything’s fine. I just had to go out for something. I’m on my way back now.”
“Okay.” She still sounds unsure, but she smiles at Molly. “Daddy’s coming home now.”
“We make him breakfast?” Molly asks, completely unfazed by the fact that she has never been alone in our home with anyone who isn’t family before.
“That’s a good idea,” Tate tells her.
“I won’t be long,” I say, hanging up.
Tate puts her phone down and wraps Molly inside both of her arms. Molly’s face splits in half with a beaming grin. My heart staccatos in my chest as I stab the sound on, turning it up.
A soft, sweet melody I haven’t heard Tate sing before drifts from my phone. But I only catch the words ‘blue eyes’ before the rest of the words are muffled into Molly’s hair as Tate sinks her face into it and carries her toward the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke.
I shove my phone back in my pocket, reaching out to steady myself on the trunk of a large tree. The back of my neck heats, sweat pricking up along my hairline.
I’m lying to her.
I’m lying to the woman I’ve just watched care for my daughter like she’s her own.
The woman I’ve pictured multiple times in my head doing exactly what she is doing right now.
Cuddling my daughter and singing to her.
Only in the image in my head, she’s wearing my ring on her finger and growing my baby in her belly as well.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and suck in a deep breath, willing myself to get a fucking grip.
This isn’t just about protecting Molly now.
It’s about protecting Tate too. Doing what’s best for her.
No matter what I want. Being a parent means being selfless, putting another before yourself. Molly’s prepared me for this.
I pull my phone out again and fire off a text to Jones. He replies immediately, no doubt surprised by my instructions, but not perturbed. He lives for this kind of shit.
No limit. Just make it happen.
I text in answer to his question concerning the budget he has to work with. He replies with a thumbs up. They should make a shark emoji with a shit-eating grin especially for him.
Scrolling through my recent calls I find Denver and hit call.
“Sullivan?” he grunts, sounding out of breath like I’ve just interrupted his workout.
“Denver? Can you talk?”
There’s a muffle that sounds like a female’s voice, and despite myself, I smirk.
The poor guy’s been assigned to Sinclair for months.
But since the culprit who was sending Sinclair anonymous threats was caught and dealt with by the cops, and Neil was also ruled out as a threat, my father has removed Denver from being her bodyguard.
The guy’s probably making the most of having some of his freedom back.
“Yes,” he clips.
“Okay…” I exhale, tilting my head side to side, making it crack.
“What is it?”
“Tate,” I reply, her name rolling off my tongue with familiar ease. “Listen, can I count on your discretion?”
“You wouldn’t believe how good I am at keeping secrets,” Denver rasps.
I look over at Cliff, who’s folded up his paper, and is waiting patiently. “Good. Because what I need you to help me with isn’t exactly legal.”
“Don’t tell me any more until I get there. I’ll come to you now.”
“Thanks,” I clip, ending our call. I’ll be home before Denver gets there. And Cliff can take Tate to work. This isn’t a conversation I want to have in front of her.
I walk to the car and climb inside, nodding at Cliff. He pulls away without uttering a word. He knows I rarely want to talk after I’ve been here.
Bringing up another number, I hit call again, before realizing it’s the middle of the night in London.
“Beaufort,” he answers, sounding far too alert for me to have woken him up.
“Fairfax,” I greet back. “Am I interrupting something?”
He lets out a rich chuckle. “Nothing more than a guy struggling to sleep. Give me something new to focus on instead of trying to count sheep. You know that shit doesn’t work, right?”
“Try having an almost three-year-old that never stops moving, you’ll learn to fall asleep in five seconds flat if you ever get the chance.”
He chuckles again.
“Can you insure a record label?” I ask, cutting straight to it.
“What have you done now? This about that woman? Molly’s nanny?” Rafe drawls in amusement.
“Have you told Aurora how much you enjoy watching her vlog?” I counter, wishing I’d never mentioned Tate to Rafe. The guy doesn’t miss a thing.
“Fuck off.” Rafe snorts.
“In that case, don’t ask. Just tell me, can you do it? Or do I need to find someone else?”
“Course I can bloody well do it,” he replies with the sharpness in his tone that he only gets when he’s pissed.
My lips lift into a ghost of a smile. He’ll do it twice as fast now, just to prove his point. I know he will, because it’s exactly what I’d do in retaliation to a comment like that.
He knows I’ve played him. I’d never go anywhere else.
But I also know he won’t care.
Because Rafe and I are the same.
When it comes to getting what we want. It’s only the winning that matters.