Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Lindsay
The security detail is putting me on edge.
They don't hover exactly—but they're there, always half a step behind, eyes scanning, hands near earpieces. I keep glancing over my shoulder, convinced I'm about to do something wrong simply by existing.
One of them—tall, stone-faced, built like he could bench-press a car—opens doors before I reach them. Another trails to my left, keeping perfect distance. A third watches the street like every passing pedestrian is a threat.
"This is normal," Quinn says cheerfully, adjusting the lapel of her plaid jacket like she's immune to the tension radiating off me. "You'll stop noticing them eventually. Or you won't. Either way, they don't bite."
I glance at the nearest guard. He doesn't react.
"That's not reassuring."
Quinn grins. "They're here to protect you, not judge you. Big difference."
We're in an upscale shopping district—glass storefronts, minimalist displays, price tags that look like dares.
This is the kind of place I would've walked past a month ago, pretending I didn't care.
Now I can.
That still feels unreal.
Quinn steers me toward a boutique with floor-to-ceiling windows and lighting that makes everything glow like art. A saleswoman appears instantly, smile practiced, eyes assessing.
"Good afternoon. Can I—"
Quinn cuts her off with a raised hand. "We're browsing. We'll shout if we need something."
The woman's smile tightens, but she retreats.
I exhale, grateful.
Quinn takes one look at a rack of aggressively expensive dresses—silk, sequins, designer labels screaming from the tags—and snorts.
"Nope. That's a markup masquerading as taste," she declares, steering me away with a firm hand. "Money doesn't mean you have to dress like a walking receipt."
I laugh despite myself, following her deeper into the store.
She pauses at a navy blazer, runs her fingers over the fabric, checks the stitching. "This is better. Well-made. Flattering cut. Won't fall apart after three wears."
I glance at the price tag and wince. Still expensive—but not insulting.
"There's a difference between quality and ego," Quinn says, pulling the blazer off the rack and handing it to me. "We aim for quality."
***
Two hours later, we've hit three more boutiques.
Quinn moves through each one like she's conducting reconnaissance—checking materials, dismissing overpriced nonsense, pulling pieces that actually suit me instead of trying to reinvent me.
She finds a leather jacket with clean lines and zero embellishments. A pair of high-waisted trousers that make me look taller. A cashmere sweater in deep green that feels like being hugged.
Nothing feels like a costume.
Nothing feels like I'm trying to audition for someone else's life.
By the time we head back, my arms are full. Security carries most of it without being asked, which still feels surreal.
Quinn chats easily with them, tosses out instructions like she's always done this, and I realize—distantly—that she's very good at moving through privilege without worshipping it.
She treats money like a tool, not a religion.
I want to learn how to do that.
***
When we pull into Arthur's driveway, my chest tightens unexpectedly.
I'm still getting used to the idea that this place is… a place I belong now. Maybe even mine, in some undefined way.
Quinn leans over to me. “I sent you a short list of independent financial advisors. No Dupree connections. You choose.”
“I already started narrowing it down,” I say.
Quinn smiles. “You're not just lucky. You're smart.”
The gates open smoothly. The SUV rolls forward. Security flanks us as we exit, bags transferred to staff who materialize from nowhere.
Quinn claps her hands once. "All right, I'm going to disappear before I accidentally become emotionally invested. Call me if you need anything. Including validation or a murder alibi."
"You think I'm going to need a murder alibi?"
"Not yet," she says brightly. "But we're establishing trust early."
Then she's gone, heels clicking down the walkway, her platinum pixie cut catching the afternoon light.
I stand there for a moment, surrounded by bags and staff and this enormous house that still doesn't quite feel real.
But for the first time since the lottery, the money doesn’t feel like it’s looming over me.
It helps knowing it’s sitting in accounts nobody else can touch.
Then I hear it.
Music. Bright, orchestral, unmistakable.
New Age of Legends.
Henry is already home.
He's on the floor in the living room, controller in hand, backpack abandoned nearby. The television fills the wall with vibrant colors—forests, castles, creatures that glow faintly in the animated dusk.
"Are you playing New Age of Legends?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks up as I drop my bags and sink down beside him without thinking. "You picked the wrong character, though."
He gasps, mock-offended. "No I didn't."
"You absolutely did. Mage builds are slow in Act Two. You want a ranger."
Henry stares at me like I've just revealed classified information. "Wait. Really?"
"Trust me."
Ten minutes later, we're arguing strategy like long-standing teammates.
He tells me about school between levels—how Jenny is annoyingly good at math, how his group project partner never does his share. I tell him about Quinn. About shopping. About how weird it is having people carry your bags.
He laughs at that. "Dad never carries his own bags either."
"That tracks."
Henry explains a game mechanic I missed in my last playthrough. I show him a shortcut through the forest level that saves ten minutes. We debate whether the final boss is harder than the secret boss.
It's easy.
And fun.
And I don't realize how much time has passed until I hear the front door open.
Arthur is home.
He stops in the doorway, watching us.
I glance up mid-sentence, controller still in hand, and freeze.
His expression isn't guarded. Or analytical.
It's… soft.
Henry doesn't notice, too focused on the screen. But I do.
I see the way Arthur's gaze moves between us—between his son, relaxed and laughing, and me, sitting cross-legged on the floor like I belong there.
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or relief.
Or something deeper that I don't have a name for yet.
I force myself to look away, heart pounding for no logical reason.
"We're almost done with this level," I say quickly. "Then I'll get out of your way."
Arthur shakes his head. "You're not in my way."
Henry pauses the game, finally noticing his father. "Dad, Lindsay knows Legends. Like, actually knows it."
Arthur's mouth twitches—almost a smile. "I gathered."
Henry beams, then unpauses the game. "Okay, watch this move—"
I refocus on the screen, but my awareness stays locked on Arthur.
On the way he lingers in the doorway, with a slight smile hovering on the edge of his lips.
Twenty minutes later, we finally clear the level.
Henry whoops, throwing his hands up in victory. I laugh, setting the controller down, stretching muscles I didn't realize I'd tensed.
"Okay," I say, standing. "I need water."
"Me too," Henry says immediately, already scrambling to his feet.
We head toward the kitchen together, Henry chattering about the next boss fight, and I realize Arthur has moved.
He's no longer in the doorway.
He's in the kitchen.
Henry grabs a juice box from the fridge and disappears back toward the living room without ceremony, leaving me alone with Arthur.
I reach for a glass from the cabinet, my fingers slightly unsteady as I grasp the smooth surface.
The tap water runs cold as I fill it, each second stretching longer than it should while I become hyperaware of Arthur's presence behind me.
He's moved closer. Close enough that the kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.
I can sense him watching me, the weight of his attention like a physical thing settling across my shoulders.
When I turn slightly, water glass in hand, he's there—closer than I expected, close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes.
"You're good with him," Arthur says quietly, his voice lower than usual, more careful.
I glance at him fully now, surprised by the sincerity threading through his words.
There's something vulnerable in his expression, a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes my chest tight.
"He's easy to be good with," I reply, meaning it completely.
Arthur doesn't respond immediately. His gaze holds mine—steady, searching, like he's trying to solve an equation that keeps shifting variables just when he thinks he's found the answer.
"He doesn't relax like that," Arthur says finally, his voice barely above a murmur. "Not often. Not with..." He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. "Not with anyone, really."
"Maybe he just needed someone who takes video games seriously," I say, attempting lightness even as something deeper settles in my chest at his admission.
The corner of his mouth lifts—barely there, but genuine. "Maybe."
I should step back. Put distance between us.
Reestablish the boundaries that keep this arrangement functional and safe and uncomplicated.
My rational mind is practically shouting the suggestion, reminding me of every reason why this moment is dangerous territory.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
Arthur shifts slightly—closer, just a fraction, as if drawn by some invisible force.
He's close enough now that I can see the individual flecks of lighter brown scattered through his dark eyes, like gold dust caught in shadow.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne. Clean and expensive and utterly him that makes me want to lean closer still.
The water glass in my hand grows slick with condensation, but I barely notice.
I feel the pull to lean in.
The world narrows down to this kitchen, this pause, this realization that whatever we agreed to—whatever careful arrangement we thought we'd established—isn't what's actually happening between us.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat that makes my breath catch.
My pulse stutters, then races.
He leans in just slightly, testing, careful, like he's giving me every opportunity to step away—
Then—
"Lindsay!" Henry calls from the living room, voice bright and urgent. "Come back, I'm losing!"
The spell breaks.
Arthur steps back immediately, control snapping into place like armor.
I do too, exhaling shakily, gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself.
We both smile—small, careful, like nothing happened.
But my pulse doesn't lie.
"You should go," Arthur says, voice even. "Before he accuses you of abandoning him mid-battle."
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
As I turn to leave, I catch the way Arthur watches me go—like he's cataloging something he doesn't know how to name yet.
I head back to the living room, heart still racing, and sink down beside Henry.
He hands me the controller without looking away from the screen. "Okay, this boss is brutal. We need a plan."
I force myself to focus.
But even as we strategize, even as Henry laughs and the game plays out in vibrant color, I can still feel it.
The almost.
The not-yet.
The realization that I'm not just living in Arthur Dupree's house.
I'm falling for him.
And I have no idea what to do about it.