Chapter 9 Slade
CHAPTER NINE
SLADE
My plate sits untouched on my desk. The mound of mashed potatoes has formed a skin, and the steak juices have congealed to an unappealing gelatinous texture. All the while, the only bite of food I took last night roils in my stomach.
What came over me? The need to sit down and listen to her, to Edmond.
Dinner, contract, an explanation—that’s his job.
Thea is different. There’s so much behind those bright blue eyes, and her expressions tell me there’s deep thought whispered in her stares. But it’s the opposite of what comes out of her mouth. It’s as if she’s caught between fear and finding her voice.
I snarl at the irony.
She signed the contract, though. Adding to the handful of women I’ll use to destroy my grandfather.
Pulling on my suit pants, I move around my bed to grab my button-down and tie.
It’s still neatly made, except for the subtle dip on the left side of the California king where the duvet has been creased and my pillow is indented.
I spent hours pacing my room, restless, then more hours lying still with heavy thoughts too loud to silence.
I drag myself to the standing mirror in the corner of my room and stare at my reflection, shirt and tie hanging loose in my hand at my side.
When they said they needed fresh blood four years ago, I hadn’t realized they were being literal.
The scars are a jagged mess slashed over my left pec, a sloppy EV whipped across my chest. It’s still clear, even after all these years—still puckered and pale against my skin. As though it never really healed.
To the average person, the initials EV aren’t legible. For me, going without a shirt in public isn’t an option. It isn’t for many of us. Only at home or EV locations am I allowed to breathe.
The year after I joined, I drowned myself in women.
I thought it would help with the influx of emotions.
And while most tried not to stare, they always did.
Their eyes would flick to the gnarled skin mid-kiss, or when my shirt came off, there’d be a flicker of curiosity, sometimes pity.
Mostly, disgust. As though it makes me less human.
Isn’t that the goal? We give up more of ourselves for the society than most of us would admit to.
I hate it. Hate looking at it. It’s not just a mark. It’s a reminder of what has been forced on me, what I’ve become. This half-in, half-out game I’m playing is dangerous. How close am I to becoming the person I swore to dismantle?
The lines blurred faster than I expected, and it’s not strategic.
It eats at me. Deep down, I know if I don’t finish what I started soon, I may forget why I began.
It’s for the right reasons. I’m doing this to bring him down, the way he tore me down.
He whittled away at the potential man I could be.
Every lie, every mask, every calculated silence brings me one step closer to destroying the man who built this kingdom of rot.
He taught me how to weaponize charm, how to hollow out the truth, and look clean while my hands are anything but.
But there are days when my reflection is foreign, and I wonder if I’m just another version of him. Another generation of DuPont with a savior complex.
When I take him down, will there be anything worth saving in myself?
Each year, every minute I’m sucked into the EV culture, I make connections, garner loyalty, power.
I’d be lying if I said there weren’t nights I basked in it.
Let what this world offers curl around me like a heady smoke.
It’s a hit, addictive in its own right. And—
Her thick, voluminous russet curls, untamed and cascading past her shoulders like a burning sunset, flickers unapologetically in my mind. Now I’m looking at her—one of the girls—like the rest of the members. Differently. That’s the worst part. Instead of seeing a means to get revenge, I see—
My intercom buzzes while my shirt is halfway on.
“Sir. She’s awake and … roaming.”
I raise my eyebrows at myself in the mirror and adjust my glasses.
Roaming? It’s six fifteen in the morning.
Most of the girls sleep until they need to leave or at least stay in the room with what I’m assuming is an out-of-sight, out-of-mind mentality.
The corner of my mouth threatens to lift.
Already testing boundaries. Bold or reckless? Maybe both.
Quickly, I do up the buttons on my gray shirt, drape my black tie around my neck, and fling open the door to rush out.
Urgency pounds through each step against the floor and down the stairs, but as I reach the bottom, my pace slows. I inhale a deep breath, the faint smell of lemon polish and warm linen hitting my nose. The unmistakable trace of my house cleaner starting her morning routine.
I roll my shoulders back, reining in the adrenaline causing my pulse to thump. Walking past the dining room, I peek in—empty. I scan the living room. The oversized linen couch, still crisp and fresh with plush overstuffed cushions still puffy.
I search my damn home like I’m lost.
Then I spot her.
There’s a small alcove tucked off the kitchen.
A narrow space with slim French doors that open not to a peaceful view of the lake, but to the most uninspired stretch of the property.
It’s used by my private chef or the delivery staff hauling boxes of groceries in.
But there she is, drenched in the morning sunrise surging in through the panes.
The light soaks the curve of her pale shoulder beneath the loose fall of the blue robe.
It hangs shy of her thigh, brushing against her bent knee as she leans into the doors, forehead pressed to the glass.
She seems to stare at nothing. Just the patchy grass that was trimmed two days ago. What is she doing?
I lean against the wall, letting the moment she’s unaware of me here stretch on. Her arms fold inward across her chest, her curls spilling down her back wild and uncontrolled. She heaves out a heavy sigh, but still gazes off into the grass.
What’s got her so occupied? The need to know frustrates me, and a growl emanates from somewhere deep in my chest.
The time to watch her undetected vanishes, and she whips around, tugging the robe closer to her chest as she hugs herself.
Her clear blue eyes widen when she sees me, gaze dropping over my suit and back up to meet my stare.
Full rose-toned lips part, and she double blinks before her strong brows dip into a V.
There’s an intensity to her that disregards her soft, luminous skin.
“W-what are you doing?” she asks, voice soft yet carrying a raspy grit to it. I can’t help but wonder if it’s from the early morning or if it scratches like this all the time. I’d have noticed it last night, right?
She bites the inside of her cheek when I don’t answer, her fingers drumming on her cradled biceps.
“Right. Forgot. You don’t talk.” She glances back over her shoulder into the grass, lingering once more. Then she shakes her head and redirects it to me. “Seems convenient.”
I tilt my head. What is?
“The not-talking thing.”
I blink, half worried I’d asked out loud.
She doesn’t know how right she is. She thinks I can’t talk at all. Good. Let her.
I could tell her otherwise, but I don’t.
Instead, I study her. The way her mouth opens and closes, it’s as if she wants to say something more but hesitates.
My eyes stay locked on hers, they’re trying to pull something from her she doesn’t want to give.
The air is thick, and hell, I’m annoyed I don’t know what she was watching out the window.
Flashes of different expressions work across her face until she narrows her eyes at me, her glare wrinkling the skin at her temples. I wait for her to say something. Yell. Cry. Tell me I’m horrid for putting her through this.
Some of the women, if they ever see me, beg. They even try to bribe me on their knees, begging me to let them go.
What would Thea look like riled up and savage?
I roll my eyes. Why the hell do I care? I don’t. Damn it, I don’t.
“Ah, Mr. DuPont. Good morning. And Thea, how did you sleep?” Edmond rounds the corner with an obnoxious smile on his face, dressed in his butler’s uniform with a cup of coffee in his hand. He raises his brows at me, and I shrug, turning in time to witness Thea do the same.
“I slept better than I have in a week,” she says.
“I’m glad to hear it. Chef is preparing breakfast right now. You’re welcome to eat in the dining room, or I can have it brought to your room. Of course”—he pauses and glances out the double doors—“you’re welcome to explore around inside.”
Her throat works a small swallow. “Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t going to. I-I haven’t seen the grass. I was—never mind. I’ll take breakfast in my room. Thanks.”
She offers Edmond a smile, but then her eyes land on me, and I watch it fall. Gone—drained from her face.
Walk away. Walk away. I’ve lingered here longer than … no, I should’ve stayed upstairs.
She darts past, bare feet slapping against the cool hardwood, and I stand there listening as the door to the guest room shuts.
Edmond stares at me, and I avoid his scrutiny by shuffling toward the French doors.
“Elliot’s on his way. Said you weren’t answering your text messages.” He turns to go but stalls. “Oh, and, Slade. Here, I think you need this more than me.” He hands me his coffee and steps away.
I snarl down at it until I’m distracted by the streams of light rolling over the yard, and I glance back out the window. What the—
In the line of sight from which she couldn’t tear her eyes minutes ago, a dandelion sways.
One single dandelion.
What the hell? I’ve never seen a dandelion in this yard.
Small, stubborn, and stupidly bright in the middle of all that fertilized summer green.
Was that it? Was that what she’d been staring at?
Out of everything—this massive house, the lake, the gardens, hedges—she focused on that. A damn weed.