8. Delaney
DELANEY
Next time you come to me.
I can still see the words long after the screen goes dark.
I don’t delete them.
I don’t respond.
I let them linger like a challenge.
He didn’t ask to see me again. He didn’t suggest it. He simply told me what the next move was.
I should ignore it.
That would be the smart thing to do. Continue with what I started—the quiet questions, careful conversations, the people who don’t look at me like they already know I’m hiding something.
People who don’t make my pulse leap with a single touch.
The next day I move through the motions of my morning. Coffee. Toast I don’t finish. Notes spread across the table in neat stacks.
The bartender’s voice loops back through my head.
It happened too fast… It was already going to happen…
I tap my pen once against the page.
It seemed planned, I write. Or at least inevitable.
The Vexley name is written in the margin of my notes, underlined twice. It’s appeared enough times now that I can’t pretend it’s coincidence. Business dealings. Property ties. Quiet mentions from people who don’t like to speak too loudly about certain families.
I glance back at my phone.
Next time you come to me.
I breathe in slowly.
No.
I’m not waiting for him. He challenged me not to, anyway.
If I want answers, I’m not going to get them sitting in my kitchen, circling the same half-formed theories.
And I’m not going to get them by letting Samson Vexley decide when—and if—I’m allowed back into his orbit. He made it clear that the next move is mine.
I grab my purse and walk to the lot a block away where my car is.
Owning a car in New York City is expensive, which is one of the reasons my apartment is so small.
Another reason is that all the apartments in New York are small unless you can afford ten grand or more a month.
I’ve found it useful to have a car when I need to drive upstate for research and interviews.
And today I want to be able to arrive and leave when I want.
The drive out of the city is pleasant. Driving is always pleasant once you’re out of the city proper. The address isn’t difficult to find. Men like Samson Vexley don’t need to hide where they live. They know they’re outside your reach already.
The gates are black iron. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I slow the car. A pattern woven into the design of the gate becomes clear.
A key. One of those old-fashioned skeleton keys that’s long and narrow with uneven teeth.
I roll down the window as I pull up to the call box. A camera sits above it. I expected nothing less from the Vexleys. I press the button.
“Yes?” a voice says.
“Delaney Cross,” I say without hesitation. “I’m here to see Mr. Vexley.”
A pause. Then, “Mr. Arthur Vexley?”
Samson’s father. No. Not him. “Mr. Samson Vexley,” I say.
I don’t fidget. I don’t shift in my seat. If they’re watching me—and they are—they won’t see anything but patience.
“Just a moment please.”
A minute passes. Then another.
Until I hear a soft click.
The gates open and I pull through. The driveway is longer than I expect. Fine gravel crunches under my tires until the house appears.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
It’s not just large.
It’s magnificent.
Gray stone, glass, and iron put together in a way that makes it one of the most beautiful yet frightening residences I’ve ever seen.
I park where the drive curves near the entrance and step out of the car. I inhale. The air is a little cooler here. A little heavier.
I close the door behind me and take a second to steady myself before I walk toward the front entrance.
Up close, the details sharpen.
The ironwork repeats itself in smaller elements—railings, fixtures, accents that echo the same pattern I saw at the gate.
The key.
Again.
I follow it along a section of carved stone near the entryway. Is it some kind of insignia? A signature? A mark?
The door opens before I can reach for the handle.
A man in a dark suit stands just inside, his posture straight, his expression neutral. “Ms. Cross.”
British accent, of course.
“Good morning,” I say.
“If you’ll come this way.”
I step inside.
The space is expansive, but not in a way that feels open. The ceilings are high, the lines clean, the materials expensive without being showy. Light filters in through tall windows.
My heels click softly against the floor as I follow him deeper into the house. I look around, trying to take in as much as I can. Staircases that don’t curve but angle sharply upward. Hallways that narrow slightly before opening into larger spaces.
A strange awareness settles low in my chest.
This place holds power. It’s so thick I almost feel like if I breathe in enough of it, I’ll explode.
The man leading me stops at a set of double doors and turns. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
I nod once. “Thank you.”
He opens the doors and steps aside.
I walk in.
The room is smaller than I expect after the scale of everything else, but it’s no less perfect. Dark wood. A single large window overlooking the grounds.
I move a few steps inside and then stop.
Wait.
I see it again on the far wall.
The key.
It’s carved into the paneling, almost hidden in the grain if you’re not looking for it.
But I’m looking.
I step closer.
I hover my fingers over the design, almost afraid to touch it. It means something. The repetition makes that clear. But what?
I gasp and pivot when I hear footsteps.
Samson Vexley stands in the doorway.
He looks freaking gorgeous in dark jeans and a white shirt, again open at the neck. What did I expect? That twenty-four hours later I’d no longer find him attractive? He’s watching me as if he’s been here longer than I have.
As if this—me, standing in his house, studying his walls—is exactly what he expected.
I lift my chin. “You didn’t invite me here,” I say, “but you did say I should come to you.”
He looks like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. “I did.” He rakes his gaze over me slowly, as if he’s memorizing me. He doesn’t even try to hide it.
“I don’t wait for invitations.”
“Good.” He steps into the room and closes the distance between us.
My pulse betrays me, quickening just enough that I’m aware of it.
He drops his gaze briefly to my throat. Can he see my carotid pounding? Of course he can.
Already I know that Samson Vexley notices everything.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“Have I?”
His eyes flare. “You’re here.”
I hold his gaze. “So are you.”
He chuckles. “I live here. Some of the time, anyway.” He shifts his attention past me, to the wall.
To the carving.
“The key interests you,” he says.
I don’t pretend otherwise. “It’s everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“What does it open?”
“If I thought you were ready for that answer,” he says evenly, “you wouldn’t need to ask.”
A chill slides down my spine.
Not fear.
Something else.
I drop my hand from the wall and face him fully. “Then I suppose I’ll have to find out on my own.”
A faint smile. “Careful, Delaney. You might not like what you discover.”
My lips part before I can stop them. “I didn’t come here to like anything.”
Something in his expression shifts. Again, I’m not sure what.
“Good,” he says quietly.
And for the first time since I drove through the gates, I understand exactly where I am.
This isn’t just a house. The Vexleys aren’t just a family.
Men like Samson Vexley aren’t born.
They’re made. They’re carved just like the key in the wood and honed to perfection into something dangerous.
And I just walked in willingly.