CHAPTER 3 – FINDING SANCTUARY #2
“Something like that,” I say. “Private, but not for golf or bridge. It’s known for its discretion.”
She frowns, puzzled.
I try again. “It’s a place for people who value their privacy, Daisy. They pay a fortune to belong.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Do you have a lot of secrets, Hunter?”
More than you could imagine. Instead, I just smile and sip my coffee. “A few.”
She smiles back, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear.
Her nails are short, and polished a light pink.
She picks up her water glass with both hands and stares out the window at the city.
After a beat, she says, “Thank you for not leaving me last night. I mean, I can tell I wasn’t your problem, but you didn’t just dump me at the ER or—”
I cut her off, gentle. “You’re not a problem. Not to me.”
Her cheeks flush. I see a little of the old Tara in that look, the one that drove me crazy in the first place.
I watch her eyes trace the chandeliers, the impossible bouquet in the middle of the room, the staff waiting attentively. She’s noticing everything. She always did.
After a silence, she says, “I keep thinking if I look hard enough, something will click. Like, a table, or a flower, or your face—” She stops, embarrassed, like she’s said too much.
“Maybe you’re not supposed to remember yet,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re meant to experience things fresh.”
She laughs, bright but a little shaky. “That’s a very optimistic way of looking at a brain injury.”
I shrug. “It’s the only way I get through my days.”
She giggles, and I feel it low in my gut.
The food comes. Daisy eats slow, methodical, like she’s trying to teach herself how to use a fork.
Her posture is rigid at first, but halfway through she slouches a little, picks at her omelet with her fingers.
I watch the way her mouth moves, how she licks a spot of hollandaise from her wrist. She catches me staring and gives a tiny, flustered smile.
I’m hard again under the table. I’m never not hard around her.
“Sorry,” she says, setting her fork down. “I keep feeling like I’m supposed to say something. Maybe that I’m grateful? Or scared? Or that I want to run away, but I don’t know where I’d go.”
I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “You don’t owe me anything, Daisy. I just want you safe. That’s all.”
She nods, and I can see the trust start to solidify behind her eyes. That’s what terrifies me most. She believes me. She always did.
We talk about the weather, the city, how she likes her coffee. I throw out little clues, just to see if she’ll take the bait: I mention a band I know she loved, a beach we visited once, the name of her high school. Each time, her brow furrows, but nothing lands.
It’s the strangest version of seduction I’ve ever attempted. I feel like I’m wooing a ghost. A very beautiful ghost, but a ghost nonetheless.
The waiter refills her mimosa, and when she sips, I watch a drop cling to her lip. I want to lean over and catch it with my tongue. I want to ruin her in every way. But instead, I sit back, cool and controlled, and ask, “Is it weird, not knowing your real name?”
She shrugs, and the motion is so soft and feminine I almost lose it. “I think I like Daisy,” she says. “It’s pretty, and simple, and it’s mine now. It feels right.”
“Good, I’m glad,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”
She smiles at me, and it’s like the sun shining on my form. I let myself relax for the first time in days. Maybe I don’t have to worry about her remembering. Maybe this is my second chance, my blank page, if I don’t fuck it up.
When we finish, Daisy stands, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, and for the first time, she doesn’t hesitate. She slips her arm through mine, and we leave together.
The wait staff watches us go, but I don’t care. Let them stare. I have what I want.
As we reach the elevator, Daisy squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Hunter. For everything.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stare at her, and the world goes a little blurry at the edges.
She’s not my stepsister right now. She’s just Daisy. And she’s perfect.
“So what next?” she asks, her tone innocent, those big blue eyes looking at me.
I pause.
“I think the club can help you,” is my low growl. “But we should talk to a manager to understand what we can do for you.”
Her small hands squeeze my arm.
“Yes, of course, Hunter. I trust you.”
Those three words cause possession to rage in my chest although I hide my reaction. This girl needs me. Trusts me. Belongs to me.
I press the button for the fifth floor, and when the doors close, I let myself imagine a hundred ways to break the rules.
All of them start with her.
All of them end with me on my knees, begging for forgiveness I’ll never deserve.
Sanctum is a vault of secrets. Most people think it’s just a club, a place for men in suits to drink and debauch themselves, and it is, but there’s also business to be conducted.
When we step out on the fifth floor, we enter a warren of plush corridors and private parlors, silent but for the hush of carpet underfoot.
I walk Daisy to the end of the hall, her arm on mine.
She trembles with each step, trying to be brave, trying to act like she fits.
I could walk these halls blind, but now every detail is sharp, dangerous, like the edges of a straight razor. I’m acutely aware of how close she is, how her perfume—orange blossom and something sweeter—sticks in my lungs and won’t let go.
We stop at a lacquered door: Veronique Bisset, Manager.
I knock, twice.
“Enter,” comes the voice. French, imperious, but velvet-smooth.
Veronique is sitting at her desk, stacked with papers and antique pens, a silver laptop humming quietly to her left.
She’s older—late fifties, I’d guess—but her hair is black, sleek, and her cheekbones could cut stone.
The office is intimidating: mahogany everywhere, books bound in leather, a chandelier like a frozen cloud above our heads.
“Ah, Monsieur McCarren. You are early.” She looks at Daisy, eyes narrowing a fraction, then flicks to me with a question unspoken.
“Madame Veronique, may I present Daisy.” I make it sound normal, like I do this every day.
Daisy blushes, bobbing her head. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Veronique’s mouth does a half-smile. “The pleasure is mine. Sit, both of you.” Her voice drops, gentle. “Would you like tea, Daisy?”
Daisy nods, uncertain.
Veronique pours from a glass pot into delicate cups. “You are safe here. No one will harm you.” Her gaze lingers on the bandage at Daisy’s temple. “I understand you suffered an accident.”
Daisy sips the tea, fingers trembling. “I—I don’t remember much. Just waking up in the street. Hunter found me. He saved me.”
Veronique’s eyes flick to me, then back to Daisy. “That is fortunate. He is not always so heroic.” It’s a joke, but the edge is real.
Daisy giggles, nervously, then sobers. “I don’t even know who I am, or how to start over. Everything is blank.”
Veronique leans forward, hands folded. “Memory is a fragile thing. But you are young, and strong. We will help you recover. In the meantime, Sanctum will be your home.” Her smile widens. “If you are amenable, of course.”
Daisy’s shoulders sag, relief softening her. “Thank you. I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she murmurs.
“We’ll figure it out, together. There are rules, of course. Privacy is sacred here. You do not ask about the guests, and they do not ask about you.” She glances at me. “And you will refrain from mischief, Monsieur McCarren.”
I put on my best innocent face. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Madame.”
“Of course not,” Veronique deadpans, and sets her eyes on Daisy again. “You may rest as long as you wish. If you feel up to it, there are opportunities to contribute. Nothing dangerous. But we will discuss this when you are well.”
Daisy nods, grateful. I see it in the way she relaxes, the way her breath comes easier. For the first time in twenty-four hours, she’s not on the verge of collapse.
Madame Veronique turns to her screen, tapping a note to the staff. “I have instructed them to bring you clothes, toiletries, whatever you require. And if you need to speak with me, I am always here. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Daisy says, her voice small but sincere.
Veronique inclines her head, satisfied. “Monsieur McCarren, you have work, non?”
I take the hint. “Yes, that’s right.”
I stand, and Daisy stands with me, unsure. Veronique returns to her emails, already lost in her own world.
In the hallway, Daisy leans into my side. She looks up at me, her blue eyes clear as sky, and my heart beats too fast, too loud.
“Are you really leaving me?” she says. Her lip trembles. I want to bite it.
“I have to get to the office,” I say, not a lie but not the whole truth.
She takes my hand, squeezes hard. “Will you come back?”
“Of course,” I say, even though I’m not sure I should. “Here, take my number,” I say, pressing a card into her hand. “Call any time.”
She nods, then lets go, arms wrapping around herself. I’m about to step away when she speaks, low and scared: “What if I don’t remember anything? What if I’m just this new person, forever?”
I want to pull her into me, bury her face in my shirt, tell her she was always meant to be mine. Instead I put my hands on her shoulders, gentle, and look down at her. Her skin is soft, warm, her big breasts a distraction so close to me.
“You’re going to be okay, Daisy. If you need anything, I’m always here for you.”
She looks at my mouth. For a second, I think she wants me to kiss her. I think I want it more.
I step back before I do something stupid. “I’ll check in on you soon.”
She smiles, not trusting herself to speak.
I turn and walk away, my hands balled into fists.
Downstairs, I step into the men’s room and splash cold water on my face. There are harsh streaks on my cheekbones, and my eyes are too bright. I stare at myself for a long time.
“Monster,” I whisper, but the word tastes good.
I check my phone. No messages from my mother, nothing from the police, not a single soul in the world looking for Daisy except me.
I text the concierge: “Please ensure Daisy’s comfort and safety. Introduce her to the club, but slowly. She doesn’t need another shock.”
The reply is instant: “Understood.”
I leave the club, step out into the cold air, and feel the guilt fade, replaced by something darker, deeper.
I know I should tell my stepsister who she is.
I know I should fix this. But instead, I find myself planning my next visit, the next time I’ll get to sit across from the luscious blonde and watch her eat, watch her laugh, watch her remember me with her body if not her mind.
I imagine her waiting for me, dressed in lingerie, lips stained red with desire.
I tell myself it’s for her own good.
I tell myself a lot of things.
But mostly, I think about the way she looked at me, innocent and trusting, and I know: I’ll be back, no matter how much I want to stay away.
Some appetites never die.
And some mistakes are too delicious to correct.