Once Feared (Riley Paige #21)

PROLOGUE

Standing before the antique mirror in her foyer, Victoria Ashworth adjusted the pearl necklace that graced her slender neck.

Warm light glowing from the dining room softened the lines of her face—lines that had deepened over the decade since Bradley’s passing.

The house was unusually still tonight, devoid of the staff she had dismissed, as was their custom on this most intimate of occasions.

September fourteenth. Bradley’s birthday.

The ninety-fifth he would never see, yet one she would celebrate with the same devotion as when his heartbeat had still matched her own.

She smoothed down the midnight blue silk dress that hugged her figure—still elegant at forty-seven—and surveyed the final touches of her appearance.

The dress had been a gift from Bradley on their last anniversary together, a reminder of the dress she’d worn when they first met.

Victoria had kept it pristine, wearing it only on his birthday, a tactile link to memories that time threatened to erode.

“Almost ready, my love,” she whispered to the empty house.

Her heels clicked against marble floors as she moved through the east wing of the estate.

This grand Chicago mansion had become both sanctuary and mausoleum in the years since Bradley’s death—each room preserved as if he might return at any moment to reclaim his place within its walls.

Victoria had insisted upon it, even when well-meaning friends suggested she might consider selling, downsizing, moving on.

But how could she explain that these walls contained more than memories?

They held the echo of his laughter, the phantom trace of his cologne, the warmth that lingered in spaces where he’d once stood.

The dining room awaited her, transformed into an image of romantic elegance.

Crystal glinted in the dancing light of tapered candles set in sterling silver holders that had belonged to Bradley’s grandmother.

Fine china—the Limoges pattern they’d selected together during a trip to France—graced the table.

Two settings, as always. One for her, one for him.

She’d prepared everything herself, dismissing the kitchen staff after they’d helped with the preliminary preparations.

Bradley had always appreciated the intimate touch of her cooking on his birthday.

It was their ritual—this private celebration where the world fell away and left only them, cocooned in the luxury they’d built together.

The lamb had been roasted to perfection, rosemary-scented and resting beneath a silver dome.

Truffle-laced potatoes, his favorite asparagus with hollandaise, and the chocolate soufflé that would rise precisely when needed—all awaiting their moment.

Victoria paused at the entrance, allowing herself a moment to absorb the perfection of the scene. The windows revealed the Chicago skyline beyond—a view that had commanded an extravagant price, one that Bradley had paid without hesitation when he’d purchased this historic home.

“It’s nothing less than you deserve,” he’d told her then, his weathered hand warm against her cheek. “A queen should be able to look out upon her kingdom.”

With a deep breath, Victoria crossed the threshold and approached the table. She pulled out her chair, its legs whispering against the plush carpet, and settled herself at her place. Then she reached for the bottle of Campari and poured a measure into each of the two crystal aperitif glasses.

“Happy birthday, my darling,” she said, raising her glass to the empty chair across from her.

The candles flickered, as if in response, a dance of light across the vacant seat where Bradley should have been.

“Ninety-five years. Can you imagine? You always said you’d live to be a hundred. I believed you, you know.”

Victoria sipped the bitter liqueur, savoring its complex notes on her tongue. Bradley had introduced her to Campari on their second date—a gesture that had amused her then, an older man assuming she’d appreciate such a sophisticated palate.

“Do you remember that second date, Bradley? At Cipriani’s?

You ordered without consulting the menu, speaking Italian to that waiter who kept looking at me as if I were committing some terrible crime by being with you.

” Victoria smiled at the memory, tilting her glass so that the liquid caught the light.

“I thought you were showing off. I didn’t realize then that you were simply in your element, that the confidence I mistook for arrogance was just.. . you.”

The silence that followed her words was comfortable. In these moments, she could almost convince herself that Bradley was simply being his thoughtful self, contemplating his response with the care he always took with words.

“They never understood us, did they?” she continued, setting down her glass and reaching for the salad tongs.

She served herself a small portion of the arugula and pear salad, then placed an equal amount on Bradley’s plate.

“All those whispers. All that celebrity gossip. ‘Gold-digger,’ they called me. A struggling artist, a nobody, cashing in on an elderly rich man’s infatuation.

As if I’d orchestrated meeting you that night at the charity auction.

As if I’d planned for you to outbid everyone for that ridiculous painting of mine. ”

Victoria’s knife sliced through a slice of pear with more force than necessary, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet of the room.

“Forty-seven years difference. That’s all they saw.

Not how we understood each other in every possible way.

Not how you listened when I spoke about art—not just my own work, but the whole history of art.

Not how I made you laugh when no one else could pierce that boardroom armor you wore.

Not how I held your hand through chemotherapy or how you held mine when my mother passed. ”

Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a reminder of the world beyond their sanctuary. Victoria waited until it faded before continuing her one-sided conversation. “I’d have married you if you’d been a teacher or a postal worker rather than the CEO of Ashworth Enterprises.”

Victoria’s gaze drifted to the oil portrait that hung on the far wall—Bradley at sixty-five, standing before the Chicago skyline, his silver hair gleaming in the painted sunlight, his eyes holding the wisdom and humor that had first drawn her to him.

“I sometimes think I should have fought harder to make them understand. But you always said it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.” She picked up her glass again, swirling the ruby liquid. “That what existed between us was ours alone.”

The minutes stretched into an hour as Victoria moved through the courses of the meal, each one served with the same attention to detail that had characterized their life together.

She spoke of her week, of the charity board meetings she still attended in his name, of the scholarship fund she’d established for young artists—the kind of person she had been when they met.

As she cleared away the dinner plates, preparing for dessert, Victoria felt a familiar pang of grief wash over her. Ten years had passed, yet sometimes the wound felt as fresh as if it had been inflicted yesterday. She steadied herself against the table.

“I still miss you every day,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Every single day.”

The soufflé would have to wait. Victoria returned to her seat, refilling their aperitif glasses. The ritual of their birthday dinners had always included a pause before dessert—a moment to reflect on the year past and the one to come.

“Do you remember what you told me on your eighty-fifth birthday?” she asked, her voice steadier now. “You said, ‘When I turn ninety-five, we’ll open that bottle of Chateau Margaux 1953.’ You were so certain you’d make it to ninety-five.”

Victoria smiled at the memory, at his unflagging optimism even as the doctors had begun to shake their heads behind his back.

“You said it was a magical vintage, that the wine would perfectly mature just as you would.” She laughed softly. “I never had the heart to tell you that you were already perfectly matured the day I met you.”

This was the moment that the whole evening had been leading up to—a moment born of nostalgia and the peculiar magic that seemed to fill the air on these nights when she allowed herself to inhabit the past so completely.

“The wine,” she said suddenly, as if Bradley had just reminded her, although she’d been planning this all along.

Every year, she opened a special bottle of wine that seemed appropriate to that particular birthday.

“You’re right, my love. We should have it tonight.

Why wait? You always said life was to be savored in the moment. ”

Victoria rose from her chair. The bottle of Chateau Margaux rested in the wine cellar, where Bradley had placed it himself. “I’ll go fetch it,” she promised, smoothing her dress as she stood. “Don’t you dare start on the soufflé without me.”

The walk to the cellar took her through the kitchen, its stainless steel surfaces gleaming under the low lighting she’d left on. The cellar door—heavy oak with wrought iron fixtures—stood at the far end, a portal to Bradley’s most prized collection.

She flipped the light switch as she descended the stone steps, illuminating the temperature-controlled room that housed bottles worth more than many people’s homes.

Bradley had been meticulous about his wine, each bottle cataloged and positioned with care, the cellar maintained at a precise fifty-five degrees.

Victoria had kept up the practice after his death, unable to bear the thought of neglecting something he had cherished.

The Chateau Margaux had its own special place—a small alcove where Bradley had installed a custom rack for the bottles he considered most precious. Victoria moved toward it now, her steps slowing as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something was wrong.

A soft light glowed from somewhere nearby—a light she hadn’t turned on. Victoria hesitated. The house alarm had been set; she was certain of it. Then she caught a glimpse of something that sent a chill racing along her spine.

An open bottle. A filled glass. Resting on the small tasting table that Bradley had placed in the center of the cellar.

“Who’s there?” Victoria called.

No answer came, but she could feel it now—a presence. She should turn, she knew. Should run back up the stairs, lock the cellar door behind her, call security. But her feet carried her forward instead, drawn by a horrified curiosity that overrode her instinct for self-preservation.

The bottle had no label, its dark glass catching the light in a way that made the wine inside appear almost black. The glass beside it was half-filled, the liquid within it catching the light like a garnet held to flame.

Victoria reached for it, fingers trembling. Before she could touch the glass, a slight sound behind her was her only warning.

Strong hands seized her from behind, one arm wrapping around her waist like a steel band, the other moving toward her face with something that looked like clear plastic.

A bag, her mind registered with distant horror.

She struggled, her body remembering long-ago self-defense classes, but her attacker was prepared, was stronger, was coldly efficient in subduing her flailing limbs.

The bag came down over her face, tight and unyielding, molding to her features. Victoria’s scream died in her throat, transforming into a desperate gasp for air that couldn’t penetrate the clear plastic barrier. Her lungs burned, her vision blurring as panic consumed her.

“The wine,” a voice whispered in her ear, so close that she could feel breath warm against her skin through the plastic. The carefully modulated tone could have belonged to either a man or a woman. “It’s the last thing you’re going to taste before you die.”

Victoria’s nails scraped against the plastic seal, tearing at it with diminishing strength as her body betrayed her, spots dancing before her eyes. The attacker’s grip never faltered.

“I hope you recognize the vintage,” the voice continued, a note of satisfaction sounding in the whisper as Victoria was turned, forced to look at the open bottle, the waiting glass. “It’s quite... special.”