Chapter 21 #2
“Martine, I was just about to call you to check in about Friday night. You remember? My flat. Bring wine, wear nothing, leave your guilt at home.”
I laugh, adjusting my sunglasses and sipping the coffee the footman just placed on the table next to me. The sunlight hits just right, casting a warm glow over the terrace. The scent of gardenia floats in from the hedges below.
“I can’t make it, and you won’t be attending your own party either.”
I’m a brat to ask her to cancel her soiree, but my party will be worth it.
There’s a pause. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I’m throwing a party Saturday night, and I need your help.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“For Hayden?”
“No, for the Herrons, you know, Hayden and I?” I say, grinning now. “At our estate, to celebrate our marriage.”
At first, she’s silent.
Then, “Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“You’re throwing a wedding party at the estate? Like an actual, real party? Not tea for two in the conservatory with a bodyguard watching us from behind a curtain?”
I laugh. “An actual, real party. Guest list, catering, and champagne towers if we feel it’s appropriate. Whatever you and I can come up with. You’re up to helping me, aren't you?”
Dale lets out a stunned little breath. “Of course! So does this mean your house arrest is over? While I did think the control was a bit sexy, there was a part of me that was worried you were being kept prisoner.” She says as a joke, though I know there's some truth to her tone.
I glance back toward the double doors leading into the bedroom, still cracked open, sunlight spilling through the sliver. The bed is empty. The space is quiet. It doesn’t feel like freedom, but it doesn’t feel like confinement anymore either.
“I’m not so sure,” I admit. “But something’s changed, and Hayden and I are closer than ever.”
“Something clearly has,” she says softly.
I nod even though she can’t see me. “I can feel it. I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s shifting.”
Our footman returns silently beside me and sets down a silver tray with a fresh selection of pastries. I smile in thanks and pour another cup of coffee.
I motion for him to sit on the chair next to me, and notice with appreciation that he's brought a pen and notepad to take notes.
“Are you able to come over this evening to plan?” I ask eagerly, taking a slow sip.
Dale laughs, low and delighted. “You always know how to make a girl feel honored. Of course I can.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Because this party is going to be seriously important.”
Within the hour, Dale is here.
By the time the footman returns with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of those little lemon biscuits I like, Dale is already breezing through the French doors like she owns the place.
She’s wearing oversized black sunglasses, a striped sweater knotted over her shoulders, and the kind of linen pants that only look effortless when they cost something obscene.
She kisses both my cheeks, calls the estate chateau chic, and drops her Chanel tote onto the lounge chair beside me like we’re poolside at Hotel du Cap.
“Darling,” she says, settling in and grabbing a biscuit without waiting for permission. “Tell me everything. Guest count. Theme. Do we want live music or someone depressingly European with a violin?”
I laugh and pour her a cup of coffee. “Something decadent but not obvious. Less ballroom, more open-air indulgence. I want everyone to think we’ve lost our minds a little.”
“You already have,” she says, nodding approvingly. “Perfect. Let’s start with the list.”
We fall into an easy rhythm—names, champagne orders, what kind of flowers look expensive but not bridal.
Dale has a way of making everything feel manageable and fabulous at the same time.
She works fast, edits faster, and within forty minutes, we’ve sketched out a blueprint that feels just wild enough.
But I’m only half-listening now.
She’s sipping her second coffee and typing something into her flip phone when I ask her. Lightly. Casually.
It’s been gnawing at me, and I need to know. She couldn't have shared a connection with my brother that I don’t know about. I need to know anything she shared with him, and who they were to each other. I can’t know they may have been together and not be privy to the details.
“So,” I say, eyes on my notes, “you and Ford?”
She freezes for a beat—just long enough for me to catch it—then sets her cup down gently.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says without looking up.
I smile. “Was it ever real?”
I don’t doubt that it was. But it’s hard to imagine my brother with only one woman.
Dale exhales, leans back in the chair, and tilts her head toward the sky, as if deciding how much truth I’m allowed.
“It wasn’t a game,” she says finally. “Not to me.”
That surprises me. I blink. “But to him?”
She shrugs. “He’s a Huntington-Russell. Everything is a game to you.”
That lands heavier than I expected. I nod slowly, pretending to return to my list, but my brain’s already cataloguing the edge in her voice, the flicker of something real beneath the polished exterior.
“I think the two of you would have made a terrifying couple,” I say breezily.
Dale smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Let’s not talk of him. It’s too painful.”
Hayden Herron
The engine hums beneath me as I pull up to the curb. Archie’s already waiting on the steps, cigarette between his lips, wool coat slung over one shoulder like he thinks we’re still at school and the world is some kind of game.
He climbs in without asking questions, flicks the cigarette out the window, and settles into the passenger seat with a sigh that smells like tobacco and apathy.
“You’re late,” he says, glancing over at me.
“I’m never late,” I reply, pulling away from the curb. “You’re just impatient.”
He smirks, but it fades quickly as the city rolls past us in streaks of steel and shadow. We don’t speak for a minute or two. Brotherhood nights require a particular kind of silence beforehand. Something close to reverence. Or dread.
Then I say it, casually. “Be at the estate Saturday night.”
Archie looks over at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Your estate?”
“Yes.”
“For what, exactly? Exorcism? Execution? A cult initiation, maybe?”
“A party,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
That gets him. He turns fully in his seat. “You’re throwing a party?”
I nod once.
His laugh is loud and sudden. “You? Hosting? With people? God, I hope it’s not themed.”
“It’s for Martine,” I say.
That shuts him up. He blinks, lips parting slightly. “So this is what we’re doing now? Social hour with the wife? Is she still under surveillance, or will she be confined like a prisoner for her protection? I assume. Emerald-studded.”
I don’t answer right away. His fucking jabs are a waste of my acknowledgment.
But finally, I focus on telling him, “I found Douglass.”
Archie stiffens. His voice drops. “Where?”
“In plain sight,” I say, grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “At the Huntington-Russell Estate.”
He goes quiet again, slower this time. Processing. Calculating.
“You’re telling me the man we've been chasing across three countries was under his own roof.”
“Not technically his roof.”
“Whatever,” Archie says. “And Martine?”
“She doesn’t know.”
He exhales. “Jesus, Herron.”
I finally glance at him. “Saturday isn’t just a celebration. It’s a distraction.”
His smile returns, slow and sharp. “You really know how to ruin a party.”
Archie leans back in the seat, stretching out like we’re on some casual drive to the countryside. But I can see it in the way his fingers drum against his knee. He’s alert now. Listening. Which means he knows this isn’t about cocktails and conversation.
“You really know how to ruin a party,” he repeats, but this time softer. Testing.
“It’s not ruined,” I say. “It’s repurposed.”
He raises a brow. “Go on.”
I take the next turn too fast. The tires bite the road, but I don’t slow down.
“Martine thinks it’s to celebrate our marriage. Let her. The staff will be busy with the prep. Security will be distracted by guests. People coming in, going out. No one will notice if someone else enters or exits the house. Especially not someone they aren’t supposed to know is there.”
Archie whistles low. “You’re planning on hiding him in the house.”
“Beneath it,” I correct.
He looks over at me, the humor gone. “And Martine?”
“She thinks she’s finally being trusted. I’m getting her closer to finally being safe.”
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re using your wife as a decoy.”
I finally glance at him, expression flat. “I’m using the opportunity of allowing people into my home to hopefully lure someone who isn’t invited.”
He watches me for a long beat, then huffs out a laugh with no absolute amusement in it. “And here I thought you’d gone soft.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Archie shakes his head. “So while the champagne flows and Martine plays hostess, we slip underground and question the man who started all of this.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“And if he talks?”
“He will,” I reply. “One way or another.”
We fall into silence again, but it’s heavier this time. The kind of quiet that carries consequence.
Then Archie chuckles under his breath. “You know, if she finds out you used her as bait, she’s going to kill you.”
I almost smile. “She can try.”
I see the realization hasn’t hit Archie yet.
“How are we getting him to the estate exactly?”
So I give it to him straight.
“We’re not pulling Douglass out,” I say, eyes on the road. “We’re drawing him in.”
Archie turns his head slowly, brows raised. “What?”
“He’s not invited, but he won’t be able to stay away. Not once he hears about it.”
“You’re setting a trap,” Archie says, voice flat. “At your estate. With your wife. While entertaining half the inner circle.”
I nod once.
He lets out a short laugh, utterly devoid of humor. “That’s ambitious. Even for you.”