25. Liam
LIAM
Victor turns down lunch, claiming he’s not hungry, so we settle for drinks instead.
We take the terrace. The afternoon light is clear. I move to the bar and pour myself bourbon. He asks for his usual sparkling.
“Since when do you skip lunch?” I ask.
“Since today.”
I nod at his glass. “You sure you don’t want something stronger?”
“Actually…I’ll have what you’re having.”
I pour him a bourbon and slide it across.
He takes it.
“You should look refreshed after Europe,” I say. “And at least mildly insufferable, given Greigson signed on.”
His jaw ticks. “So you found out.”
“I don’t ‘find out,’” I say. “If it matters, it lands on my desk before the ink dries.”
He gets it. That look he gives me—he remembers claiming Greigson was secured months ago. We both know it wasn’t true. And now he also understands I’m aware of the token from the Game. What he hasn’t worked out is who placed it.
“Yes,” he says. “He signed.”
“How about the house?” I continue. “You toured Long Island, and bought none of them. Not your scene?”
He stares at the ocean. “It’s over.”
“Well,” I reply, “maybe it’s too soon to plant roots.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean it’s over with Helen.”
“You’re serious?”
He takes a slow sip before answering. “Should’ve done it sooner. I kept pretending she was the girl I grew up with. She’s not.”
I let him talk.
“She’s calculating,” he continues. “You know that type. Sweet face, playing innocent while she’s strategizing.”
“Strategizing what?” I ask.
“Whatever she thinks she can get.” He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “In the end, she’s just another little bitch who thought she could outplay me.”
For a split second, I consider correcting him the way I would have if he wasn’t a friend. Instead, I sit back. “Strong words,” I say, almost a warning.
He watches me. “You think I’m wrong?”
I place my glass down. “I think breakups distort perspective.”
He huffs. “Don’t tell me you’re defending her.”
“I’m not defending anyone. You said it’s over.”
“It is,” he replies, firmer now. “Clean break. I have zero interest in revisiting that chapter. She’s free to chase whatever fantasy she stumbled into.” He takes another drink. “I’m done investing in it.”
He leans forward, irritation rising again.
“She plays the martyr,” he says. “Like I’m the villain because I wouldn’t fit myself into her timetable.
I understand she wants freedom, and she wants us to take it slow.
I understand she works hard for herself and her sister.
Fine. But if I mattered, she would’ve found the time. ”
Maybe Victor believes that. Helena did have time for the sanctuary.
Not just while he was in Europe. Bree mentioned she kept going.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Still, if Victor mattered the way he believes he did, would she have chosen differently?
If I were her, would I have put him ahead of the birds?
The answer doesn’t form cleanly. There are too many angles that can’t be sorted in a few seconds. And maybe I don’t need to sort them. It isn’t my business.
Except…it might be.
Victor scoffs and continues, “She talked about her work as if she’s still rebuilding from ashes. It’s ridiculous.”
“You think she’s not?” I ask.
He answers without thinking. “Edward built contingencies. Not everything burns.”
I hold his gaze. “What did you mean?”
He pauses then answers, “Philosophically.”
Victor has never been philosophical about money.
He changes direction. “Maybe I decided too soon after Jess,” he mutters. “Jess would never cheat on me.”
“Cheat?”
I try to get a read of him, deciding whether this is just anger talking or whether he’s layering a real accusation on top of the excuse about Helena wanting more space in the relationship.
“I underestimated her. I thought she really wanted me.”
I don’t try to unpack it, because this is very likely about what happened in the game. I shake my head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He straightens almost immediately, shrugging the sympathy off.
“You know what?” he says, the anger resurfacing. “If some masked idiot wants her, he can have her. Gang bang her, for all I care.”
“Watch your mouth!”
No man speaks about a woman like that in my presence.
He exhales sharply. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But something happened in that game. You’re my friend, Liam. We go back a long time. Who wore the Red Fox mask?”
So my suspicion is true. The Velvet Game has a way to expose people that nothing else can.
I keep my posture relaxed but I let him know my displeasure. He is stepping out of order, but I don’t want to escalate.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I say. “But that’s not information you’re getting from me.”
He searches my face for a long second. “Fine. I’ll find out sooner or later.”
“You don’t sound like a man who thinks it’s over.”
His hand lifts, almost slams into the table, but he stops himself mid-motion. “This,” he says, his voice low, “will be the worst you’ve ever seen me, Hunt. Not even my divorce made me this mad.”
Mad. Not heartbroken.
“I shouldn’t even bother,” he continues, standing now. “I’ll make my return to New York about my future, and no one else’s. My company’s going to explode. I’ll restore the Rochemont riches.”
I rise with him. The urge to protect Helena surfaces. I’ve let him talk long enough in my house. I’ve listened to him reduce her to something disposable. That stops here. If I can intervene two greedy, territorial owlets from invading her space, I can step between her and Victor.
Even if I’ve called him a friend.
The word doesn’t sit the way it used to.
And there’s something else working at the edge of my thoughts. Edward and the contingencies. Victor doesn’t speak carelessly. So was that a slip? Or a signal? Maybe both. It might also reveal why he wanted a game with her in the first place.