Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
MAGGIE
Wedding mornings are meant to be fun.
That’s the lie everyone tells themselves anyway. That it’s all soft music and clinking champagne flutes and women drifting around in silk robes like serene ghosts.
But I am anything but calm.
And neither is the bride’s room.
Priscilla buzzes with activity. There’s an incredible amount of people flitting in and out from the moment I arrive.
Poking at my face with this and that, curling my hair and tugging it into curlers before I’m passed from one chair to another and charted with makeup until I barely resemble myself.
Another turn in the hair-chair, my poor curls teased and tugged and forced into a sleek ponytail that reminds me of a horse’s backside.
Not that I say anything. I’m a vision of elegance and grace.
Except for when I kicked over the champagne bucket and tripped on a flower girl.
Heaven knows where Priscilla procured the toddler, seeing that none of us have children.
But with Dad’s wealth, you can probably just rent one for the day to up the cute factor.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
Priscilla sits perfectly still in the centre of it all, wearing a robe the colour of whipped cream, her face and hair already flawless.
I’m quite convinced she had a hair stylist and makeup artist see her before everyone arrived, so she’d be picture perfect even before having her official hair and makeup done.
Madness. I can’t deny that she looks radiant.
Which makes me want to scream. This pretender who’s swooping in and poisoning my father while pretending to be the sweet, darling bride.
Well, fuck you, Priscilla. Today’s the day I prove to Dad that you’re not who you say you are.
I hover in the doorway waiting for the perfect window to disappear. Roman will be waiting already, and I need to move before the ceremony guests start arriving.
She’s distracted when the florist arrives with an insanely large, but admittedly stunning, bouquet. I’m not quite sure how she intends to hold the thing all day; it looks as heavy and cumbersome as the hire-a-kid. No one is paying attention to me, which suits me just fine.
I glance down the corridor and spy Roman leaning against the wall.
Jacket off and sleeves rolled up. Damn, he cuts a fine figure looking all brooding.
Anyone else would think he’s relaxed. But I know he’s as apprehensive as I am.
Probably more so, given that I’m at least blood-related to the household of knife enthusiasts.
I give a nod.
Now.
His brows lift slightly, and he pushes off the wall without a word.
I attempt to slip away quietly and nearly plough straight into a staff member holding a steamer like it’s a Faberge Egg. She gasps and apologises to me, despite it very much being my fault.
Then I’m out. Making my way downstairs to the cabinet, where Roman waits.
Right. Maggie Hamilton, you can do this.
You’re the eldest daughter. And assassin-adjacent, at least. And this time I’ve come armed.
I pull the screwdriver from my pocket and shove it in the slight gap in the antique cabinet while Roman keeps watch.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘It would be a better idea if you bloody well helped.’
I twist the screwdriver, but only manage to scratch the wooden door.
I try again, harder.
Still nothing.
‘Open up, you stupid wooden wanker,’ I whisper.
Behind me, Roman laughs.
‘I’m not sure insulting it will help. I still think this is a terrible plan.’
‘I’ve had worse plans.’ The screwdriver slips, and I just forward, narrowly missing spearing myself in the face.
‘Like when you kidnapped me.’
‘Exactly. Awful plan. Although it’s resulted in numerous orgasms so far, so again, I’ll reiterate that I’ve had worse plans.’
The feral noise Roman makes at that statement has me considering abandoning the screwdriver for a screw. But, being that Roman’s not mounted that particular obstacle, I feel he might not want to go there. With me at least. As he has with. Half of the rest of London.
Tempering my jealousy, I ignore my wanton pussy and turn back to the matter at hand.
If I can’t get into the cabinet, I have no proof.
And without proof, Dad will keep brushing me off.
I can’t let the wedding go ahead while Priscilla is trying to kill the bloody groom. No matter how hard-headed he is.
My gaze flicks up to Roman.
To those ridiculous arms. Rolled sleeves. Forearms corded with muscle. Veins standing out a map to follow right up into his shirt. Roman is strong.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ I hiss. ‘You’re the one with muscles. Get your arse over here.’
His mouth curves. ‘Are you hitting on me, Miss Hamilton?’
I roll my eyes and hand him the screwdriver.
‘You’d better be, because I might end up dead for this.’
‘Let’s hope whatever is inside is worth it then,’ I say.
He braces himself and forces the screwdriver between the doors, grunting as his muscles tense. I’m just about to launch into an ‘It’s no use’ spiral when I hear a resounding crack.
My heart leaps into my throat as I wait for someone to find us, to bring me to Priscilla the demon-woman who will probably lock me in a dungeon and tell Dad I’ve fled back to London.
Nothing happens.
Dramatic much?
Roman eases the cabinet open, and we peer inside.
Bottles and boxes all neatly arranged. I recognise some labels, while others are foreign to me. There are painkillers, bloody strong ones too. But other medications, too. I don’t even have my phone at hand to Google the names.
I grab a bottle and read the prescription. My dad’s name is there, clear as day. And the physician is the private one my family has used since I was born. The one who asks no questions.
No poison.
‘Oh,’ I whisper.
Roman leans in close, reading over my shoulder. ‘Not what you were expecting?’
My brain stumbles off into a new maze of possibilities, and I feel a headache at the edge of my vision, like a gathering storm.
No poisoning. No villain. But, what?
‘I need to talk to my dad,’ I say, already making for his office.
Roman follows. ‘Maggie, it’s probably not the best time.’
‘Now. Before I lose my nerve.’
We find Dad in his bedroom, already dressed in his kilt and long socks, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking shattered.
His aftershave clings in the air, melding with the scent of furniture polish amongst the sea of dark wood.
It wasn’t a room I’d entered often. While I was closer with my family than many other families I knew in our arena, there has always been a tiered system.
And parental spaces were off limits to us children.
Rightly so, I guess. The three of us were absolute menaces growing up.
‘Dad. We need to talk. Right now.’ Adrenaline propels me forward.
His eyes snag on the handful of pill bottles I hold. To my surprise, his shoulders sag, and he lets out a weary sigh.
‘The two of you best take a seat.’
Oh god, that’s not something you want to hear from a parent.
I don’t sit. I can’t. I pace the floor, the pills rattling with every step.
‘I broke into the cabinet. Priscilla has been crushing pills and mixing them into your drinks. Then I heard you saying how tired you’ve been, and I put two and two together—’
‘And got a hundred,’ Dad sighs.
‘But I don’t recognise all of these names, so how do you know what she’s really giving you.’
‘Maggie.’ My name is as much of an admonishment as anything else.
‘I thought she was poisoning you so she could marry you and then kill you. To take control of your business.’
‘Maggie,’ he says again, sharp enough to yank me out of my verbal diarrhoea.
Dad rubs his face, his hand dragging over the wrinkles in exasperation.
‘I have bladder cancer,’ he says.
What?
I understand the individual words, but I cannot put them together in the same thought as my dad. My dad is unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with. Larger than life.
A brittle sob breaks free as I turn to face him.
‘No. You don’t.’
‘I do.’
‘No,’ I raise my voice. ‘You don’t get sick. You’re not old enough for this.’
It’s like my brain shuts down at the very idea of it; it has to be some sort of twisted joke.
Roman reaches out and holds my hand, and I tense at his gentle touch. It’s too kind. I don’t want to cry, but it threatens to send me over the edge.
‘It was caught early,’ Dad says. ‘Very early. It’s treatable, and you know my doctor is excellent. I’m not hiding it, I just don’t want to worry anyone before the wedding. There’s no point.’
‘No point?’ My voice cracks. ‘No point in telling me?’
‘Maggie—’
‘You can’t keep treating us like children, Dad. Especially not when you expect us to do the things you’ve raised us to do.’
After a brief glance at Roman, assessing his reaction to my statement, my Dad sighs. ‘I wanted to make sure things were sorted. That the business wouldn’t be destabilised.’
My laugh is harsh and humourless. ‘So this is about the business?’
‘It’s about everything,’ he says. ‘And yes, that includes the business.’
‘It’s always about the fucking business,’ I vent.
‘You’re a good man, I like you.’ Dad directs at Roman.
Roman blinks. ‘Thank you.’
‘But you and Maggie aren’t right for each other.’
The words slice clean through me.
Not right?
Like we’re a mismatched set of furniture rather than a couple. Or at least as far as he’s concerned, being that he doesn’t know we’re faking it.
‘So stay and enjoy the wedding. Have fun together. But understand this relationship can’t be forever.’
Something inside me finally breaks. Not with tears or rage, just a splintering deep down.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I turn and walk out.
Roman follows me until I stop outside my room, leaning heavily against the wall and wanting to tear my stupid, smoothed hair out.
‘I’m sorry about your dad.’
‘I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this.’ I force out a broken laugh. One that says I’m very much not okay. ‘Good thing it’s a fake relationship, right?’
The way Roman flinches makes me regret the words almost as soon as they tumble from my mouth.
‘Yeah,’ he sighs.
But the look on his face is like I’ve just kicked him straight between the legs.