CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
A TLAS HAD HATED his father’s boxy, institutional brick manor house from the moment he’d arrived here at fourteen.
The country estate was an hour from London and Atlas had felt every minute of that rainy drive today, exactly as he had seventeen years ago. On that first day, he had left his mother behind in Greece. Today, he left Stella in his penthouse in London, but the knowledge she was there, not next to him, pulled at him like a barbed hook in his skin.
She was busy choosing a gown for the party Saturday night, the one where he would steal focus from his father’s celebration of his sixty-fifth birthday. As a courtesy, Atlas was warning him, face-to-face. Man-to-man.
“The prodigal son returns,” Carmel said when he entered the parlor where she lounged in her silk pajamas, legs draped over the arm of the chair, hair spilling off the other side as she tilted her head back to look up at him with a smirk. “Shame about Iris.”
“It all worked out in the end.” He kept his left hand in his pocket. “Where’s Oliver?”
“In his library, writing you out of his will if there’s a god. What do you mean it worked out? How?” She gathered herself to sit up and tucked her legs under her.
“I’ll tell you after I talk to him.”
“Sounds ominous. Do I need to call my sponsor?”
“Perhaps.” He had legitimate concerns about her reaction to his marriage.
Carmel had celebrated a year of sobriety last month and had begun taking her position with Davenwear more seriously. She was in a good place, but she was a mercurial person and she’d always felt threatened by him.
“Your life won’t change, though,” he assured her. “No matter what happens, I’ll always look after you. I hope you believe that.”
“Said the scorpion to the frog. ‘It’ll be fine. Just get me across the river,’” she mocked.
“I’m not the scorpion.” He chinned toward the stairs.
“And I’m the frog? What are you? The river that drowns us both?” She dropped her gaze to his trousers. “Why are you acting like you’re twelve and found a hole in your pocket?”
To hell with it. He showed her the band on his finger.
“Who?” she demanded, eyes brightening with alarm.
“Stella. The woman from the photos.”
“That hotel maid?” She cackled. “Who made her wedding gown? Mice? ” She rolled back into the cradle of the chair and picked up her phone. “Good luck with Daddy. I’d say it’s been nice knowing you, but we both know it hasn’t.”
“Charming as always.” He didn’t bother pointing out that Stella had worked her way to managing the front desk and walked out. He found Oliver in his suite, having his final fitting for the tuxedo he would wear tomorrow night.
“You,” he sneered when Atlas strode in after a brief knock.
“I need a moment with my father, Enzo. Per favore ,” Atlas said to the tailor.
The man who had had his hand on Atlas’s inseam for more than a decade helped Oliver remove his jacket and left with it, closing the door behind him.
Oliver stepped off the riser and moved into the sitting room, where he pulled the stopper off a decanter of brandy. “How the hell did you let yourself get caught?”
Not “Who is she?” or “What happened?” but “How dare you get caught?”
“You’ve put me in a terrible position with Makepeace,” Oliver continued with crisp annoyance. “He’s already putting the thumbscrews to me, demanding a placement for his nephew. The boy is an absolute disaster, but I don’t have a choice now, do I?”
Oliver only understood the world in terms of power and manipulation, backstabbing and back-scratching, which was why Atlas had decided to play his game and win it.
“I met Stella the first time we went to Zermatt, for that winter shoot when Carmel was nearly arrested.” That was an exaggeration, but Atlas enjoyed reminding his father that police had come to the chalet. “You met her, too. Briefly. Then you had her fired.”
Atlas had debated whether to tell his father that. God knew Oliver wouldn’t remember her and likely didn’t remember the incident beyond a scandal he’d had to clean up. Atlas didn’t want Stella’s position as a chalet girl to come out later, though, when Oliver might think he could embarrass her with it.
“You’ve been poking her all this time?” Oliver made a face of distaste as he handed Atlas one of the glasses of brandy. “Tell me it’s finally over. I don’t care what it cost, but why haven’t you made a statement yet? What the hell have you been doing for two days?”
“Getting married. The announcement will go out shortly.”
“ Married . Not to her? That had better be a joke. Good God, she’s pregnant?” His lip curled in distaste. “Not so high on your horse now, are you?”
“She’s not pregnant,” Atlas said with malicious cheer. “I married her because I wanted to.”
“You’re not that stupid, Atlas.” Oliver hitched his trousers as he sat in his favorite throne-like armchair. “What could she possibly bring to a marriage? Is she secretly sitting on a fortune?”
“No, but neither was Iris.”
“Iris was a valuable alliance. The Makepeace-Reids offer credibility and lineage. Esteem.”
“You keep trying to polish me into legitimacy,” Atlas noted with a humorless shake of his head. “I’m never going to be anything but your bastard son, Oliver. It’s time to accept that.”
“I will not,” he said with great indignation. “Are you seriously asking me to condone your marriage to a chambermaid? Dragging my name down as you do?”
“I don’t use your name, do I?” Atlas taunted.
“Quit being a child. I was already married.” Oliver put on his testy voice, as though his marital status would have made a difference when they both knew he would never have married Oliver’s mother. A taverna waitress? No. His contempt for Atlas’s mother was as plain as his derision of Stella. “I refuse to accept this,” Oliver declared. “Annul it or I’ll strike you from my will.”
He could try. After a paternity test and all these years of being recognized as his son, contributing to the wealth Oliver continued to enjoy, Atlas had a very good shot at contesting any changes and they both knew it. Atlas also had a fortune in his own right, built on early investments and his work at DVE. He could weather losing the assets Oliver had promised him.
“We can turn this into war if you want to.” Atlas let him see he was completely unbothered by the prospect. “But let me remind you that the board has held off on voting for me to replace you because I was single. Now that I have a wife—”
“You have a pawn you’re trying to turn into a queen. They will see through this mopping of a scandal. You’re no better than me, Atlas. They know it as well as we both do.”
“I cleaned up my scandal in the most honorable way possible.” Yes, that was a dig against his father’s countless conquests who’d been paid to disappear when they became inconvenient. “I’ve spent years demonstrating sound judgment and responsible leadership. One stumble doesn’t erase any of that. Most importantly, if the board decides they can’t support me, they can watch me move to greener pastures. I’m young enough to start over. Are you young enough to continue running DVE without me? To guide it into the future? Are you strong enough to fend off whoever they choose instead of me?”
Oliver lowered his drink, realizing with a choke of astonishment, “This is a coup.”
“It is.” Atlas saluted him with his own glass. “You can decide how bloody it will be.”
* * *
In the fog of getting married and celebrating with nonstop sex, Stella had failed to fully process what marrying Atlas meant for her life .
Everything changed quite literally overnight. She had not only left her home and job behind, but lost the person she had always been. She was no longer the clerk behind the desk or the voice on the phone who assisted others. She was surrounded by people doing that for her, all respectful and cheerful and trying to anticipate her needs. They made her bed and carried her bag and ran her bath and poured her coffee. She was not one of them.
It was a startling shift that was even more apparent when she spoke with her family.
They were shocked and perplexed by her marriage, of course, not knowing how to react, especially since she had run away to avoid the marriage her father had tried to force on her. She didn’t have boyfriends and didn’t talk about wanting a husband so this was completely unexpected.
Elijah was particularly concerned about her. Stella was older and had left home to live on her own terms years ago. She always took lead on standing up to their father, but suddenly he had a lot of questions about how vulnerable she was. Who was this man she’d married? Would he treat her kindly? Had their father driven her to this with his latest selfish actions? Elijah’s concern was sweet, if unnecessary.
Atlas met Elijah over a video call and reassured him that he was very invested in Stella’s peace of mind where their family’s welfare was concerned. He promised to bring her for a visit before they left for Australia, then asked Elijah how he thought their father would best be managed.
After a long discussion among the three of them, they arrived at a plan. The property agent found a house in a solid middle-class neighborhood that was badly in need of updates. Stella told her father the truth, that her husband had purchased it for her and she wanted her father to live in it while he renovated and modernized it.
Pappa grumbled that it would be expensive and a lot of work, but she had a budget for him that included hiring tradespeople as well as covering a meal delivery service so he wouldn’t have to worry about groceries and cooking.
“I can hire a stranger to do it if you’d rather, but they may not do the work as well as you.” She knew how to play to his ego.
Her father’s taste ran to minimalistic and ultrapractical, but he valued quality and his workmanship was always excellent. His perfectionist tendencies were part of his temperament problems, so Stella expected there would be delays around electricians not being considered up to snuff or plumbers balking at his telling them how to do their job. He was very single-minded when he had a goal, though. She hoped the house would consume him enough to take his attention off Grettina and the rest of the family.
Grettina insisted she didn’t need anything, of course. Stella quietly took over the payments on her lease and asked the agent to find a property that would be suitable for Beate when she moved to Austria to continue her music studies.
As the pressure eased where her own family was concerned, the pressure with Atlas’s began to rise.
Returning from his meeting with Oliver, Atlas had said ominously, “He’s weighing up his options.” Atlas then made calls to a number of the board members, advising them of his marriage.
The formal announcement came out overnight, creating a deluge over the next two days of nonstop gift deliveries and countless messages of congratulations with invitations to yachts, summer homes, galas and dinners. People couldn’t wait to meet Atlas’s mystery bride and reporters and paparazzi were clamoring for photos and statements, but his father and sister were noticeably absent in the sea of well-wishes.
Stella would meet them shortly. She and Atlas were arriving early for Oliver’s birthday party at the family estate, planning to stay the night. They drove through a gauntlet of cameras at the gate, but thankfully had privacy once they were inside.
She was so nervous her fingers were pure ice when Atlas helped her from the car.
He frowned in concern. “Don’t worry. Short of challenging me to a duel that I would win, he knows I have the upper hand.”
She wasn’t sure how that was supposed to reassure her, but she found a smile as they climbed the steps and walked through the door that the butler held open for them. Atlas introduced the man as Chester.
Chester bowed his head with deference. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Voudouris. May I take your coat?”
“I’ll take it.” Atlas was very chivalrous that way, Stella was learning. He seemed to enjoy these small excuses to touch her, often adding a caress against her neck or a squeeze of her shoulder while he held her chair or helped her dress. Or undress.
Today, as she skimmed her arms free, there was no sign of affection, though. When he spoke, his voice had chilled. “What are you trying not to tell me?”
“I suggested calling you last night, sir,” Chester said in a somber, barely audible undertone. “Miss Carmel is unwell.”
Atlas swore sharply and looked toward the archway on their left. It seemed to lead into a drawing room of some sort where staff were busily polishing and decorating.
“Where’s Oliver?” Atlas snarled, handing off her coat and starting that direction, bellowing, “Oliver!”
“Upstairs, sir,” Chester said with a small clear of his throat.
As Atlas turned to start up them, a man appeared in a quilted robe on the gallery.
“ Must you behave like the street mongrel you are?” Oliver Davenport looked exactly as Stella remembered him, right down to the scathing glower at his son that somehow ignored her and disapproved of her all at once.
“How long has she been drinking?” Atlas demanded.
“How long do you think? You left here at eleven ten on Thursday, so eleven eleven. Perhaps you should have anticipated collateral damage when you were plotting your revolution.”
“You’re saying it’s my fault? Of course you are.” Atlas took the stairs two at a time. “Why haven’t you taken her to the clinic? She’s likely dehydrated.”
“The party was her idea. She’ll only discharge herself and come back for it.”
“I cannot believe you.” Atlas brushed past him.
Stella stood frozen in place, shock turning to apprehension as Oliver finally took notice of her.
For a long moment, he stared down at her. Then he snorted in dismissal and walked away.
“Perhaps I could show you to your suite, ma’am?” Chester offered. “I believe the stylist is arriving soon. I’ll have her sent up once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”
“Thank you. Um…unless Atlas needs my assistance with his sister?”
“One of our maids is with her. Please.” He guided her to the stairs.
As they reached the top, they found Atlas supporting Carmel as he walked her toward them along the gallery. She wore crumpled silk pajamas; her hair was lank, her skin sallow.
In a slurred voice, she complained, “I had a year. You ruined it. I hate you so much.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “You can tell the counselor all about my many offenses, but let’s get you there.”
“This is her?” She picked up her lolling head as they came even with Stella. “Daddy said you’re not even pregnant. You must have done something really vile, in bed or out—”
“No, Carmel,” Atlas said dangerously. “You hate me . Never go after Stella or I really will make your life miserable. I’ll be back in time for the party,” he told Stella before he walked his sister down the stairs.
The party would go on?
She blinked in surprise, but followed Chester as he showed her to an apartment-like suite where he left her with a maid and a promise that tea was on its way. The maid was unpacking her things into the bedroom closet and looked horrified when Stella offered to do it herself.
Stella paced back to the sitting room, trying to get her bearings in the place Atlas had spent his adolescence and young adult years. His personality wasn’t stamped here much. The decor was masculine with a sturdy desk and heavy armchairs in the study, a long sofa and big-screen television in the sitting room, and a wide king-size bed in the bedroom. A selection of his clothes were in the closet and there was a shaver on the charger in the bathroom, but those things could have belonged to any man.
Above the bed was a beautiful triptych of an island she presumed was Atlas’s birthplace, given the white buildings against a blue sky surrounded by turquoise waters. On the night table stood a framed snapshot of a young Atlas—perhaps five or six, judging by his missing teeth. He was hugging the waist of a pretty woman who had her hand on his shoulder. Her other arm was around a smiling heavyset man beside her. They stood on the stoop of what must have been the family’s taverna.
Was this all he had of them? she wondered.
Love shone out of their faces in blunt contrast to the scene that had taken place when they’d arrived. How often had he had to take Carmel to a clinic? Many times, she suspected, considering the resigned tone he’d used when he’d said she could tell the therapist about his many shortcomings.
She heard the door to the sitting room and came back, hoping to see Atlas had returned, but braced for Oliver. She wouldn’t be surprised if his father had decided to barge in and verbally attack her, blaming her for his daughter’s condition.
It was another maid, rolling in a tray with a tea service and a tiered stand filled with crustless sandwiches, scones, jam, tartlets and cakes. She asked if she could set it up on the table by the window overlooking the rose garden.
“Please.” Stella noted the staff seemed subdued, but not nearly as affected by Carmel’s condition as Stella was. They’d obviously been through this before.
She thanked the young woman, then sat, not really hungry, but it would be a long evening. She used the time to browse her phone. She didn’t know much about addiction beyond learning how to respond to overdose in first aid and reading HR policies on drug use, so she read up on recovery and support while she ate.
The stylist came in shortly after she finished and Stella was tied up with her for the next few hours. Her nails had been done yesterday, but it still took ages to have her makeup applied and her hair curled, combed out, then pinned back from her face to fall in ripples down her back.
Her gown had been a difficult choice, finding the balance between her debut as Atlas’s wife and trying not to upstage whatever his sister might wear, for fear of getting off on the wrong foot. She’d chosen a beaded one-shoulder gown in mauve that clung to her figure and split over her left thigh, revealing her cute peep-toe shoes with their double ankle straps.
She was fully dressed, necklace and earrings on, mouth dry as she contemplated whether she would have to go downstairs alone when Atlas strode in.
“You’re ready. Good. Guests are arriving.” He scraped his hand against his five-o’clock shadow. “Give me a minute to shave and change.” He began peeling off his shirt as he walked through the bedroom toward the bathroom.
“Is Carmel all right?” she asked, trailing him.
“No. But I’ve seen worse. They’re giving her fluids and will keep her while she dries out. I’ll check on her tomorrow before we go back to London.” He clicked on his shaver and began running it over his face.
She hovered, feeling useless until he turned off the shaver and walked around her toward the closet.
“It’s good they had a bed available,” she said, trying to find a bright side.
“We founded the place. She’s got her own room with her name on the door.” He dropped his trousers and kicked them away. “That is a very dark, tasteless joke. I shouldn’t have said it.” He pulled on his tuxedo pants and left them open while he shrugged on his shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she invited.
“No.” He buttoned and tucked, zipped his fly, then tied his bow tie perfectly, first try, without a mirror. He shot his arms into his jacket, shrugged it into place and shot his cuffs.
He looked insanely handsome and so remote it hurt her heart.
As he closed the buttons on his jacket, he finally looked at her again, scraping her appearance from top to toe with his critical gaze. “Did you get the ring?”
“What ring?” She glanced toward the study. “Chester left something on the desk.”
“It’s for you.” He strode through and picked up the glossy black bag with satin ribbons for handles. Inside was a box upholstered in red and tan leather tied with a gold ribbon. “Bloody packaging,” he muttered, pulling it apart to reveal a smaller box, this one black velvet. “Granted, the average thief would have given up by now…”
He offered her a huge blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. When he slid it onto her finger, it fit as though made to sit against her wedding band—which she suspected it had.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” She had begun to lose her shyness when it came to touching him, but she felt awkward as she stepped closer and kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Lipstick?” he asked, wiping at the spot as she drew back.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Good. We should go.”
He was so aloof. Was it the stress of his sister’s condition or did he blame her for it?
She made herself find a smile as she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and accompanied him to the stairs.