Chapter 21
SAGE
When I step out of the wedding dress shop after my second fitting, Mundel’s Range Rover is gone. In its place: Troy’s sports SUV, idling at the curb, engine purring like a lion. A friendly lion, if such a thing existed, but I know better.
I slow as I approach, wary, until the window hums down. Troy eyes me from behind the wheel.
“Well, get in.”
Every instinct screams not to. I hesitate, but what say do I really have?
Apparently none, and I’m marrying him in less than a week.
The thought still feels impossible, like a bad dream I can’t wake from, especially when I’ve hit a dead end with my investigation.
Those numbers Nola gave me haven’t helped.
I called one from the bridal shop, and Mundel answered.
One rang for ages, and the other one is dead.
I slide into the passenger seat. The butter-soft leather welcomes me, and the air smells faintly of cherries, cedarwood, and new car scent, sweet and intoxicating. Nothing this polished could be old.
Troy watches every move I make, his gaze heavy, unrelenting.
As if I might bolt the second he looks away.
I want to ask why he keeps staring at me like that, but the truth is, some part of me likes it.
I hate that I do. It’s like I’ve been left to wither away on a corner my entire life, only to be feasted on now by a man I suspect is a serial killer.
Possibly a cannibal. And if I’m not horrified enough about it… I actually like it.
Sometimes, I don’t understand myself at all.
“Where are we going?” I ask when he pulls away, heading in the opposite direction from Grayfleet.
He doesn’t answer, and the silence stretches through the dark country roads. When we merge onto the main road, the city drawing nearer, my stomach flutters with a strange, guilty excitement. This is my second time in London in less than a week.
The excitement of being off the island makes me a little giddy, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
But every now and then, I sneak a glance at Troy, even though his eyes are fixed straight ahead.
I’m hopeless at small talk, so I twiddle the ends of my hair and focus out the window, admiring the fancy cars weaving in the traffic, the tall buildings surrounding us, and the sheer vastness of the city swallowing us whole.
Finally I try again. “Where are we going?”
This time he glances over, holding my gaze for longer than is safe while driving. It should unnerve me, but it just makes my heart pound a little more.
“One of my hotels. In Soho.” His eyes are unreadable. “I thought we’d throw an impromptu engagement party.”
I blink at him. “Tonight? Why?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m a billionaire. Expectations to maintain.”
“What kind of expectations?”
“You’ll see. If you’re still intent on becoming my wife.” At that, his hand flexes on the wheel, and we pull into the valet parking lane of the hotel entrance.
I glance down at what I’m wearing. “But. I’m not exactly dressed for a party.”
Troy kills the engine and looks at me properly. It’s evening now, so there’s hardly any light except from the glow of the hotel’s main lobby. But I can see the gleam in his eyes as he does.
“You look...”
I stare at him in the dark, waiting for him to tell me what I look like. When, suddenly, there’s someone at the car window. A valet, who rushes to open the door for him. He shifts in his seat but ignores him, still looking at me.
“…fine. But if you like, we can go buy you something to wear.”
“But you’ve already bought me over a hundred dresses.”
He shrugs. “What’s one more?”
“This is fine, really.”
He opens the door and glances at the attendant as he gets out. “Tell the concierge I need a cocktail dress.” And then he tells him my size.
My cheeks redden as he comes over to my side of the car and holds my door open for me, at the same time offering me a hand.
I nearly fall out of the low vehicle. “I really don’t need another dress.”
Troy tuts and grabs me, helping me up. “If you’re going to be my wife, need isn’t a word in your vocabulary anymore.”
“Along with shouldn’t? I won’t have any words left at this rate.”
His mouth curves at the ends, matching the gleam in his eyes. “Words are overrated anyway.”
It’s a look on him I’ve only seen once before, at that bar that day he took me shopping. I wish he would smile more. It suits him.
Troy’s hand finds the small of my back, and he steers me into the side of the hotel as we leave the car to the attendants, and we take the lift to the top floor.
The rooftop is rammed. Lights pulse, and music blares from loudspeakers when we step out. I feel like I’m in a nightclub, but Troy guides me past the main bar toward the restaurant. There’s a sign outside that says Closed for a private party.
But before we go inside, one of the hotel staff comes running over, breathless, holding up a black dress on a hanger that would look painted on when worn, complete with a matching purse. She offers it to Troy, who indicates that it’s for me.
I take it, unsure of what to do next.
“Put it on,” he says.
The staff member shows me where the ladies’ toilets are.
I change, struggling a little with the zipper, then let my hair down, put it back up, and down again, unable to decide which looks better.
I don’t have any makeup with me, either, except for lip gloss.
What I put on this morning will have to do.
A knock echoes through the room.
I open the door to find Troy, his jaw tight, looking annoyed—his default expression, I’ve come to realize.
“It’s been twenty minutes. Are you ready yet?”
“Y-yes.” I step out, my discarded clothes bundled in my arms.
The dress clings everywhere it should, and my boots don’t go with it and are the completely wrong color. But when Troy’s gaze travels slowly from my feet to my face, heat crawls up my entire body.
That look, slow and assessing, feels like fingers tracing my skin.
But he frowns at my footwear.
Troy gestures to the member of staff who gave me the dress as they appear and takes my old clothes. “Run next door to Louboutin. Buy a pair of black heels. So Kate, if they have them.” He glances at me. “What size are you?”
I stare at him. “Uh, a five.”
Ten minutes later, she hurries back, panting as if she just ran a marathon, and offers the shopping bag to me.
Inside is an orange box with a black dust bag containing a sleek pair of designer shoes, crimson soles gleaming like a deadly promise.
I’m too scared to touch them, but the real shock comes when Troy unexpectedly kneels at my feet.
He pulls my boots off, one by one, making my breath catch. Then slides a shoe onto each foot, his dark green eyes holding mine captive the entire time. Like I’m Cinderella, and he’s the dangerous villain pretending he’s a prince.
“Perfect fit,” he drawls, his fingers trailing fire across my ankles…
“I…can’t walk in these.”
Troy raises a brow. “What? Even worse than you do already?”
“I don’t usually wear heels. I tend to fall over.”
He exhales a long breath, takes my hand, and pulls me upright. “Then I suggest you don’t let go of my hand all night.”
And he doesn’t, leading me toward the restaurant with his fingers locked around mine.
The restaurant is triangular, with floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides, suspended above London like a crystal cage.
Conversations hush as we enter, and then we’re surrounded on all sides by congratulations, introductions, and business cards pressed into Troy’s free hand.
Through it all, his grip on me never loosens.
Someone hands me champagne. A woman compliments my dress. A man asks about wedding dates. Troy’s thumb traces absent circles on my mound of Venus, and I can’t tell if it’s possessive or unconscious.
Or just making my heart skip beats on purpose.
“Um,” I murmur after twenty minutes of small talk. “Troy, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Again?” Troy’s eyes narrow, but then he releases my hand. “Fine, but come straight back and try not to fall over.”
The ladies’ room is mercifully empty when I get there. It’s all marble and gold fixtures as I set down my champagne and splash cold water on my wrists, trying to slow my racing heart.
Taking out my own phone, I sit on a stool, mainly because I can’t feel my toes anymore, and try to make a call, but the signal is terrible. Why is it always so bad? Instead, I send Laine a message.
Any luck with the research?
…
She starts to reply and then stops. There’s a tightness in my chest when nothing pings back, but then I let out a breath. I’m not surprised. Laine is probably busy with Jaxon.
Suddenly, I feel very alone.
With a slight tremble, I smooth my hair and dab the run mascara from under my eyes.
Then I root for my lip gloss, carefully reapplying it once I find it.
I should go back to the party. It is my engagement party after all.
However, it would be best if I didn’t show my face looking flushed and tear-stained. Troy might question it.
But the door opens behind me.
In the mirror, a woman in her thirties slips inside.
“Sage Lovett?” Her voice is low and urgent as she makes eye contact.
“Yes?” I turn around.
She reaches into her blazer and teases out a press badge tucked inside. Fleetwater Gazette, the same paper Tobias works for.
“I need to be quick.” Her eyes dart to the door and then back to me. “I’m looking for my colleague, Tobias Ragg.”
My stomach drops.
“I don’t—”
“He missed several deadlines last week. I knew he was researching something about Grayfleet Hall and was on his way to interview your fiancé, Troy Severin.” She pulls out her phone, shows me Tobias grinning, thumbs up, in the helicopter. “He sent me this, so I know he went.”
“I…” The walls feel too close.
“His last email mentioned meeting an unexpected source connected to the estate. I know that you’re living at Grayfleet with Troy Severin. My hunch is that the source is you?”