15. Jamison #3
“It isn’t formal.”
“She is going to arrive thinking she belongs beside us.”
“She’ll survive a seating change.”
The cruelty came easily. A habit.
Emmie’s face changed again. “She is going to be humiliated.”
I looked away. Staring outside, at the graveyard of herbs Marcel pretended had a future.
Sienna walking into a harbour luncheon and finding Weston waiting beside her place card. Trying to smile through it because she would assume she had done something wrong.
I took another drink from a glass that was no longer intact. Whiskey leaked cold over my fingers. I set it down.
“I don’t care,” I said.
Nobody spoke.
“They should move her,” I continued. “Good. Let Weston deal with the endless ballet stories and the hand thing. St. Cross can babysit her. Maybe all of you can finally stop acting like she needs a fucking escort through life.”
Emmie stared at me with tears on her cheeks. Harrison’s expression went flat. Marcel’s arm tightened around his wife.
I had gone too far.
I knew it.
Still, anger carried me forward because stopping would mean feeling whatever sat beneath it.
“You should all be relieved,” I said. “Nobody has to babysit Sienna anymore.”
Emmie flinched.
“Enough,” Marcel’s eyes turned furious.
I ignored the warning because I was already bleeding internally and apparently decided the rest of the room should join me.
“Sienna is twenty. She’ll survive St. Cross. She’ll find new friends. Smile at Weston until he thinks it means something and spend his money on art gallery memberships and ballet shoes. She’ll be fine.”
“I hope you remember that this weekend.” Harrison looked at me for a long second. “When you see Weston sitting beside her. He gives her his hand without making her beg for it.” Harrison lifted his glass. “I hope you remember how relieved you are.”
My palm twitched.
I imagined Sienna reaching toward Weston.
Hand, please.
The thought turned something violent inside me.
I smiled coldly. “Hopefully you get a merger too, Harry. Then Emmie can make friends with your wife and stop acting like Sienna is the only woman in Harlan.”
The second the sentence left my mouth, I knew it was wrong.
Emmie went completely still. Marcel’s fingers stopped against her collar.
I had meant to cut Harrison.
Instead, I cut her.
Emmie stood from Marcel’s lap.
Marcel’s arm loosened immediately, letting her move even though every part of him wanted to pull her back.
She looked at all three of us.
“I have no one because of you.” Emmie pointed toward Marcel. “You terrified every person who tried to get close to me after the merger.”
Marcel’s jaw tightened. “They were using you.”
She laughed once, shaking her head. Looked at Harrison. Then turned to me. I held her gaze. That was harder than dealing with most armed men.
“People see me as a source to reach Marcel. A way to find out what the Crows are doing. You all made sure the rest stayed away because you scare half of Harlan by standing in a room.” Her voice cracked, “I had friends.”
Marcel stood slowly.
“Emmie.”
“I had a fiancé. I had a whole life before I got pulled into a merger with you.”
Marcel looked like she had put a blade directly between his ribs. Emmie’s hand lifted to the collar at her throat.
His obsession.
Her choice, maybe. But it was her cage too, on days when love and dynasty tangled too tightly to separate.
Marcel took one step toward her.
“Baby.”
She stepped back.
That stopped him.
“I love you,” Her tears came harder. “I do. But sometimes you all look at these mergers like women walk into Crow houses with nothing behind them. Like we were empty until you decided where to put us.”
Nobody answered.
What the fuck could we say?
“I’m going upstairs.” Emmie wiped at her cheeks.
Marcel moved instinctively.
She shook her head. “Give me a minute.”
Every part of him wanted to follow. Touch her collar. Pull her onto his lap. Fix it. Marcel fixed everything for Emmie. This could not be fixed with a contractor or a rose-gold clasp.
Emmie walked out. Her footsteps disappeared toward the stairs. Marcel stood in the middle of the living room staring after her.
Lost.
Actually lost.
I had never seen him look that way. Harrison looked toward the bar. Then the terrace. Anywhere but Marcel.
“Get out.” Marcel’s voice came rough.
Harrison nodded once.
No argument from me. I wanted to leave half an hour ago.
I stood.
Marcel looked toward the staircase again. His hand curled at his side, missing the collar it always found when Emmie sat within reach.
“I’ll speak to Damius,” Marcel said.
I stopped near the door.
“About what?”
“Sienna. She deserves to know before the weekend.”
“Tell her family.”
“Her family is arranging it.”
That was dynasty. Women smiling at tables while men moved them between seats.
“You going this weekend?” Harrison picked up his jacket. “To the harbour luncheon,” he clarified. “Since you’re so relieved.”
I opened the door, left the house, without giving him an answer. Of course I fucking cared. But my mouth had a way of saying the wrong thing, every time I opened it near her.