Chapter 32 Chloe
I'd been out of the shower for three hours.
It was now two in the afternoon. I'd spent most of that time standing in front of the closet, touching things just to confirm they were mine.
Mine. I went from rags to a walk-in closet full of expensive things.
It felt obscene, the abundance of it. I was living a fantasy, and I was hungry enough to devour every second of it.
I tried on so many outfits before settling.
I stood watching myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in a satin floral midi-dress that clung to my curves. The emerald green and coral orange looked magical against my skin. The stilettos on my feet looked good enough to be worth the pain Elara had warned me they would cause.
Elara had said I looked expensive dressed up pretty, and here I was—expensive. But I still felt too much of that hollow ache that had lived in my chest for fourteen years.
Thoughts of Olivia arrived without invitation. I'd been jealous when she would flounce around me in clothes and shoes bought with my momma's blood money, leaving me feral in the corner wearing hand-me-downs and rags. How did one get over that? I was still trying to figure that out.
I reached out and touched the cold glass of the mirror, my fingers trembling.
I took one breath, then another, trying hard to settle into the new me without being haunted by my ghost. I smoothed the vibrant silk over my hips, wiped away a single tear before it could ruin my makeup, and headed downstairs. I straightened my shoulders.
Killian was waiting for me in the grand foyer, leaning against the mahogany banister.
I'd picked out the outfit for him the day Elara and I went shopping—olive-green linen button-down and crisp white trousers.
He looked less like a soldier of fortune and more like a Ralph Lauren model.
The earthy green made the gray of his eyes pop, and the way he'd rolled the sleeves up his forearms made my pulse skip.
After leaving the house, we ended up at a small restaurant tucked between two buildings that didn't look like they belonged together. It wasn't fancy. No chandeliers. No crystal. Just soft music, worn wood tables, and people who didn't look at me like I was something to be managed.
I liked it immediately.
We sat near the window. I was trying not to think about how good Killian felt, how good sex felt. My body felt different. I found myself tracing the rim of my water glass, wondering if I looked different.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
I ducked my head, even though my skin was too dark to see the flush.
"My lawyer thinks we have enough to challenge everything," I said. "He wants to move fast. Before they realize how much evidence I have on them. I'll eventually need to return to Florida to speak with him face-to-face."
"Have you thought about what happens if this doesn't work out in your favor, Chloe? Arthur still has friends. He has money."
I looked out the window at the magnolia trees, my reflection ghosting over the glass. My heart suddenly felt like a cold stone. "Then I'll just kill them."
Killian choked on his water.
"Chloe," he said, his voice a low warning. He looked around, making sure he was the only one who heard me in the crowd. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?" I turned to look at him, my throat tight. "They killed my mother. They stole my life. They let a man put his hands on me while I had to pretend I didn't even know my own name. Prison isn't enough to settle that debt, but I'll settle for it. If that doesn't happen, I will kill them."
"I'm saying you can't say it out loud. You have to be the victim or the victor out loud—you can't be the executioner even louder."
"I don't care who hears me. You don't understand," I whispered. A wave of sadness washed over me, cooling my rage. "I hate them that much, Killian. It's a physical thing. It's under my fingernails. It's in my marrow. I don't just want my money back. I want them to stop breathing the same air I do."
I felt the tears prickling, the old emotion trying to pull me back into that attic. Killian must have seen it. He reached over, his thumb grazing my hand. He didn't tell me I was wrong. He didn't try to talk me out of my rage. He just shifted the weight—gave me something else to hold.
"Where are we going after this, little ghost?"
I took a shaky breath and leaned my head back. "It's a place called The Inkwell."