3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Ava
“Owen said he’d be at the house in ten minutes,” I say to Raul when he comes into the kitchen the next morning.
“Let me know how it goes.” He scoops up the breakfast burrito our personal chef made earlier and left on a warming plate.
The other meals for the day for the three of us are already in the fridge just waiting to be reheated.
According to Raul, paying for the chef to stay here all day is a waste of money.
For someone so rich, he can be pretty cheap.
“You’re not staying?”
“No need,” he says. “Owen’s got a team on me already. You’re meeting whoever he’s put in charge of your security and Landon’s security.”
“You don’t want to be here for that? You don’t care?”
He gives me a look as though I’m being “too much” and opens his breakfast wrap to take a bite.
“Of course I care. But it’s not worth my time.
Whoever Owen’s given this to is just going to go through your weekly routine.
Come up with a strategy and the number of people needed to keep you both safe.
I’ve got shit to do. The Bellerive branch of my company is in crisis.
You don’t really expect me to stay, do you? ”
“No.” I stare at what’s left of the bottle of scotch that’s still on the kitchen counter. No one has put it away yet. “No,” I say again, though I really mean “yes.”
Historically, fights never end well for me.
Whenever he’s losing, he’ll threaten to pause the algorithm on The Nile, which pushes my perfume company higher in the rankings.
Without that, I’m not sure my company could survive.
To get what I want, I end up on my knees, letting him feel like a man, so the argument can end and he doesn’t tank the one accomplishment I’m proud of.
Unlike my other business ideas that never lifted off, I have a lot of employees working for me now.
If Reckless went under, so many people, so many families in Bellerive would hate me.
The executives Raul has found for me wouldn’t care, not really—they’d locate another job somewhere.
A lot of them have already come and gone in the five years I’ve been in business.
The workers on the factory floor, though, the ones who are being paid a “fair” wage at my siblings’ insistence—even though Raul said I was being too generous—wouldn’t be able to find something of equal pay in this country.
Reckless, my perfumery, flopping might cost my working-class employees a house or a car or the ability to raise their children out of poverty.
It’s that last one that stops my heart every time I consider it.
The way I love my son is mind-blowing. Makes me understand a little better how Gage changed so much once his daughter, Nova, appeared.
Raul and I don’t have to worry about money, but I’ve spent enough time with people who do, heard enough from them to know, if not understand, the impact I have on their lives and their futures.
That matters to me more than I ever would have thought.
Thinking about how my influence helps the working class on the island almost cracks open the door to a place I never go, and I manage to slam it shut before old memories creep in.
That door leads to sleepless nights and endless regrets.
I understand enough about Bellerive’s levels of poverty, and I don’t need to consider where or from whom I gained that knowledge.
Landon’s feet slap against the designer tile floor as he runs through our mansion from the stairs of his second-story bedroom toward us. I swear, an elephant would be quieter.
“Ah,” Raul says with a grin as Landon storms in, “here’s my boy!”
I crouch down, and Landon rushes into my embrace, little arms flinging around my neck with a squeal of delight.
When I rise up with him on my hip, he cuddles in close, head on my shoulder.
My mother tells me these moments will become more and more fleeting as he gets older.
I don’t remember any with her. An ache always spreads across my chest whenever I think of that conversation.
I live for these minutes with him, where he still craves this close connection.
“Daddy’s still here?” he asks.
“Daddy’s just leaving,” Raul says, ruffling Landon’s hair.
“I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” He crumples the tinfoil from his sandwich and sets it on the counter, grabbing the coffee that was prepared and left waiting in an insulated mug before making his way out of the kitchen. Without another word to me, he leaves.
“What do you want to do today?” I ask Landon when we hear the front door close.
“Mini sticks,” he says, still snuggled close.
“At Aunt Sawyer and Uncle Logan’s house? I can call and ask. They might be busy. What else?”
“Palace park,” he says, and then he seems to remember something. He pops his head up to look at me. “You don’t work today?”
“I took this week off to spend it with you, since you go to school next week. No nanny all week.” I tickle his belly, and he giggles.
The doorbell reverberates throughout the house, and Landon wiggles to get down.
“I’ll get it,” he shouts as he zooms off.
“The maid will get it,” I call after him, wandering toward the front door, sure it’ll be Owen with whoever he’s assigned to watch over us.
The door opens, and the recognizable murmur of the maid and my son is a comfort.
Then a familiar baritone echoes through the expansive front foyer in response, and I stop in my tracks, unable to turn the last corner, which will put me in sight of the person who’s arrived. When I draw in a breath, it feels like my lungs rattle.
Because god help me, I know who it is.
My hand shakes, and I press it against the wall, willing it to stop.
When that doesn’t seem to help, I rotate so my back is against the edge of the corner.
My heart beats wildly in my chest with fear, but I’m not sure that’s the right emotion.
He must know who he’s come to see, and dread pools in my stomach.
After all this time, I’d convinced myself I’d never see him again. That even if I did, seeing him wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t faze me.
If just the sound of his voice is this destabilizing, I’m in serious fucking trouble. I stare at my shaking hand. Fuck.
“You must be Landon,” he says, and I picture him crouched in front of my son. He always liked kids, so he’s probably smiling, showing a side of himself he rarely gives to adults.
The idea of my two worlds meeting is enough to make my knees threaten to buckle.
“I’m Landon!” my son agrees. “My mom’s coming.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“At work. He works a lot.”
“Come in,” the maid says. “Ms. Tucker must be delayed.”
“I’m here,” I say, forcing myself to have the courage to round the corner. I step out, still holding onto the wall, and almost immediately, I wish I’d stayed hidden. Given the choice, I might hide from him forever. “Stephen.” I breathe out his name.
“Mrs. Santos,” he says with a sharp nod.
His posture is stiff, which only makes him seem taller in his expertly tailored suit. There’s still a substantial bit of space between us because the front foyer, much like the rest of our residence, has more room than anyone would need. He walks toward me, and instinctively, I back up.
Landon stares up at Stephen while they come closer as though he’s watching a superhero moment in real life.
Stephen’s always had that kind of presence, and it’s part of what drew me to him when I was a teenager.
So tall. So broad. A dark-haired, brown-eyed Thor who used to be able to steal my breath with a glance.
From the first time he pulled me over for speeding and then let me off with a warning, I knew he’d be mine.
He took a bit of convincing, but once he was in, he never said no to me again. About anything.
When he gets close enough and our gazes connect, I don’t know why I never realized that his golden-brown eyes are the same shade as my favorite scotch.
Suddenly, I’m thirsty.
“Owen?” I manage to get the word out around the lump in my throat.
“He’s being well paid elsewhere, so I’ve been given the lead on the Santos file.” He tips his head toward the interior of the house. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”
Instead of listening, I’ve been stuck on the movement of his lips, and now I’m cataloging his face, noticing the lines at the edges of his eyes, the tiny scars along one cheek. The urge to run my thumb across them, ask him for their story is so strong that I inch closer, rise a little on my toes.
“This way,” the maid says.
I startle at her voice and step back from Stephen.
She throws me a concerned look as she leads Stephen into the main living room with Landon still trailing them, in awe.
She has every right to be concerned. My body has been taken over by aliens, and those aliens are rioting. Seeing him again has thrown me so off balance that I almost can’t breathe. But watching him walk away for a moment, I notice a small hitch in his step, which never used to be there.
Scars on his face. An imperfection in his step. Where the hell has he been for the last six years? Has he been working for Owen all this time?
Rage replaces whatever I was feeling two seconds ago as I click my heels across the tiled floor behind them. He owes me answers. I deserve answers.
Showing up out of the blue like this is bullshit. He doesn’t get to ghost me and then appear six years later on my doorstep, calling me Mrs. Santos like his tongue didn’t map every inch of my body for years.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when I finally get to the living room and notice that the maid has left with Landon.
“I thought that was obvious,” he says, giving me a mild look. “I work with Owen. I’m assigned to organize protection for you and your son.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”