Chapter 9
Ispent half the night braced for another scream. Thankfully, it never came. Somewhere in the darkest hours, I fell into a dreamless sleep, though not long enough to erase the exhaustion.
Morning leaves me gritty-eyed and slow as I pad down the curved hallway in search of coffee. Hugo’s floor has the same bones as every other in this tower. Same circular layout and cold marble, same wall of windows staring out at the ocean.
By now, I could navigate any of these houses blindfolded, but something’s missing in the House of Aquarius, and it nags at me. Every object sits exactly where it belongs, the space spotless and sparse—the type of living quarters that confesses little about the man who resides here.
That changes when I reach the kitchen.
At the breakfast bar, Hugo sits hunched over a bowl of cereal in soft flannel pants and a white T-shirt. Daylight brings out the bronze highlights in his mussed hair, and I wonder if he rolled out of bed and went straight for the sugary cereal.
And he’s wearing glasses.
“Good morning, my queen,” he says without glancing up from the bowl, dead serious over the pink milk. A second bowl waits on the island next to the box advertising fun animal marshmallow shapes. I’m touched he left it out for me.
“Morning.” I take the box and pour.
He points toward the refrigerator. “Milk is in the fridge. Came fresh this morning.”
I fetch it and fill my bowl, and his eyes catch mine for a split second before sliding away to the window.
That’s all I get.
But in daylight, behind those understated wire frames, the green shines surreal, thick and lush as a forest buried in moss.
He has beautiful eyes.
I settle onto a stool, leaving the third standing between us. For someone who woke up screaming and thrashing around on the floor, Hugo seems oddly unbothered by it today.
“How did you sleep?” I ask, then take a bite so I’ll have time to process his answer.
“Like a rock.” He glances up, and a glint of wariness flickers behind his glasses. “Why?”
“No reason.” I wave my spoon. “I thought I heard something last night. Probably just the wind against the tower.”
“Yes, that’s probably what you heard.” His shoulders relax. “You got in late. Did you find inspiration in your studio?”
“It turned out to be a productive evening.” I think of the silk gown I started and the bridal silhouette I ended the night with. “I got to work on your foundation piece. The bodice is done, but the beadwork’s giving me trouble. I’m trying to achieve a raindrops-on-silk look.”
“Raindrops on silk,” he repeats, considering it. “That’s a good instinct. The buyers at last year’s event went for the more creative, flowing pieces.”
The observation surprises me. I expected polite interest, not actual knowledge.
“You pay attention to what sells?”
“It’s my foundation.” He taps the side of his bowl three times. “I pay attention to everything.”
As we finish our cereal in mutual silence, I find myself studying him. He seems fascinated by the cereal box, as if the nutritional facts are more riveting than a novel. How is it there’s no trace of the man who screamed himself out of bed to fight invisible demons on the floor?
He really doesn’t remember.
That, or he’s so practiced at swallowing his own horror that it’s gone by morning. Either way, he doesn’t know I sat on the edge of his bed last night, my hand on his shoulder until his breathing finally steadied.
The marshmallow shapes go soft in the milk, and I let them.
“You always eat this?” I tap the box. “Or is this a special occasion?”
“It’s a Tuesday.” He pushes his glasses up with a knuckle. “Special enough.” Then, he lowers his voice, taking on a conspiratorial cadence. “Don’t tell the foundation. They believe I survive on green smoothies and good intentions.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Well, they’re half right, at least. I promise, your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
The casualness is jarring.
Hugo lives in the little stuff, the mundane moments.
It almost makes the screaming man from last night seem like a false memory.
After we finish, he gathers our empty bowls and carries them to the sink, then nudges the faucet on with the back of his hand. Dishes clean and racked, he returns to the bar, fills two mugs, and aligns the handles just so before he slides one across to me.
For a while we drink our coffee in comfortable quiet. Steam curls off my mug. Gray light pools across the marble. Hugo tries to meet my eyes but fails, and something about that puts me on alert.
“We’ve been summoned to the penthouse,” he says.
The mug stalls at my lips.
Summoned.
The last time that word found me at a breakfast table, Oliver was dabbing yogurt from the corner of my mouth. An hour later, I stood in the dungeon.
No, this is different.
Hugo didn’t say the dungeon.
“When?” I set the mug down before my hand betrays me.
“As soon as you’re ready to go.”
It’s all I can do to keep from scoffing. “Do you know why?”
“I imagine it has something to do with the auction.”
Allies in a penthouse, not wolves in a dungeon.
I finish my coffee while Hugo wipes down a counter that doesn’t need it, and the easy spell of the morning thins by the second.
“I’ll go get ready.” I slide off the stool.
“Take your time.”
Nervous energy buzzes through my veins as I head back to my suite. The strong coffee would be easy to blame, but this is more than over-caffeinated jitters. A private meeting with the men who know me best waits at the top of the tower, with no large dinner or polite small talk to hide behind.
Out of all of them, Liam and I share the deepest bond, and it’s a miracle he didn’t catch on yesterday in the library. Landon and I aren’t close, but he still shares my DNA. Vance, I count as a friend. And then there’s Ford…
Pain pricks at my eyes. The last time I saw him, he was just as much a mess as I was…right before I tried to jump off a cliff.
Unbreakable connections, every one of them—and I’m about to walk into a room to talk secret plans while keeping the biggest secret of all.
In the wardrobe, I reach for a blue dress suitable for winter, a modest cut buttoned high to the throat with a hem that swishes around my ankles. My style has always leaned feminine, but today, I use those buttons as armor.
Squaring my shoulders, I leave my quarters and find Hugo in the sitting room.
The sight of him brings me up short, because he looks nothing like the man I shared sugary cereal with for breakfast. The flannel and glasses are gone, his messy hair combed into order, lounging clothes traded for a severe suit the color of midnight.
“Ready to go?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“As ready as I can be.”
We ride up to the penthouse in companionable silence, something I wouldn’t have thought possible before his nightmare or our shared breakfast. For some reason, his presence calms me.
Once we reach Liam’s double-doored entrance, Hugo raps his knuckles three times on the heavy wood. A full minute passes with no answer.
I glance at Hugo.
He only shrugs, eyes focused straight ahead.
Tamping down impatience, I reach for the handle and turn.
Unlocked.
We slip inside to a murmur of voices coming from the direction of Liam’s office. A short trip down the hall, and they grow louder, filtering through the door left ajar.
Hugo says nothing as I blatantly eavesdrop.
“I’ve made myself invaluable to Jerome. I’ve got the files you need.”
That’s Oliver.
Panic grabs me until Jerome’s name sinks in, because this isn’t about the auction.
Landon’s keeping his word, dismantling the man who hurt Elise, piece by piece. After everything she’s survived, she’s finally getting justice.
Then Oliver speaks again, and the hope drains out of me.
“And if you want my vote and my help, then I want this.” A pause that seems to drag on endlessly, and then, “I understand your feelings for the queen, Chancellor, but Landon’s already agreed.”
The more they say, the more the floor tilts under me. They’re discussing the plan to rig the auction…
And Oliver knows.
They brought him in.
The plan Landon swore he’d keep buried, handed over without a second thought. If only he had come to me first, I could have told—
I wouldn’t have told Landon a damn thing.
Sebastian trusts me. His life depends on me staying quiet about this, even though my instincts want me to scream the truth into that room.
Sebastian’s alive, and I’m marrying him!
But here I am, forced into another corner, hands tied.
My hands are tired of being tied.
I barge in, door banging against the wall to announce my arrival. Two brown gazes and my brother’s green stare back at me.
“And what is it, exactly, that Oliver wants?” Planting my hands on my hips, I scowl at all three of them before zeroing in on the man in question. “Someone better start talking.”