See her on that damn stage again, looking terrified but determined.
And then my imagination goes truly wild. I think about her moving on. Being back in that bar again, flirting with customers, letting someotherwoman buy her drinks and promise her things I never could. Robin in someone else’s bed, giving away the sweetness I thought was mine alone.
And I want to keep a thread of connection despite myself. The ability to know what she’s doing at any moment, even if I choose not to know.
“And keep the protection detail in place,” I tell Leon.
“Eva, perhaps you should?—”
“Enough.” I stand and walk to the window, looking out over the dark-watered lake that gives the castle its name. “Is there anything else?”
Leon studies me with the patience of a man who’s learned to read me too well. “Brie Colombo wants another meeting about the Gattos. Face to face.”
My pulse quickens in anger at the mere mention of the Gattos—those pathetic bottom-feeders who dared put Robin on auction like a piece of meat. Who made her stand there terrified and vulnerable while viciously-minded men bid on her body.
“Brie Colombo wants a meeting, does she?” I turn from the window. “I asked her for a favor, one that would also benefit her, and now she expects me to be at her beck and call?”
“She wants to discuss your expectations in more depth. I believe this is a test to see how committed you really are.” Leon’s voice is carefully neutral, but I’m sure he’s just as interested as Brie Colombo in how far I’m prepared to go with this Gatto business.
It would mean another trip to Las Vegas. I’d rather cut my own throat than go there more than once a year.
But Robin is also in Las Vegas.
The thought snakes deep into my brain, no matter how hard I try to shut it out. I force myself to turn back to the window,watching the wind blow scars into the surface of the black lake. “Schedule a meeting with the Colombos. And Leon…” With a small sigh, I give in to the insistent thought, just so I can get rid of it. “Find out why Ms. Rivers is so desperate for the money that she can’t wait.”
Leon’s footsteps retreat, but I barely hear them. My reflection stares back from the window glass—a woman with cold eyes and too-sharp edges. A woman who looks like she’s been carved from the glass itself.
I try to review the files on the Vegas operations, plan the most efficient way to dismantle the Gattos. I should focus on business, on the empire my father built and bled for.
Instead, I find myself thinking of strawberry blonde hair and innocent blue eyes. I close my eyes and let myself remember, just for a moment. My fingers running through that soft hair. The gasps she made when I found the most intimate places inside her. The way she looked at me afterward, like I was her whole world instead of the monster who’d bought her.
Even in memory, she haunts me. Because Robin didn’t just warm my bed—she made mehope. Hope that someone could see past the darkness in me, see whatever humanity I might have left.
And then my father died, and reminded me that hope is just another one of the cruelties in the world.
I get back to work.
When I finally emerge from my study, the sun has set. The castle feels different in darkness—more like the fortress it truly is. Leon catches me at the doorway to the Great Hall, his expression carefully blank.
“The Vegas arrangements are confirmed,” he says. “Departure is set for tomorrow.”
“Good. Make sure we have the right contingency. I don’t want to waste time while we’re there.”
“Eva?” Leon’s voice stops me as I turn away. “Perhaps it would be wise to consider what you truly hope to accomplish in Vegas.”
“I’m not going to see her,” I insist. “I don’t need to see her.”
And I close the door calmly in his face.
Chapter 2
Robin
I’ve been breathing hospital air for so many hours straight that disinfectant is now linked inextricably in my mind with defeat. Maisie’s hand feels so fragile in mine, her skin paper-thin and cool to the touch. The machines around her bed beep in a steady rhythm that should be comforting but isn’t. Each sound reminds me that my little sister is closer to death than she’s ever been.
Somewhere in the distance, a cart squeaks across linoleum, nurses murmur in hushed tones, and a phone rings incessantly at the nurses’ station. It’s the soundtrack of desperation, and I’ve been listening to it for three days straight.
Maisie stirs slightly, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. I hold my breath, not willing to wake her—God knows she seems to breathe more easily when she sleeps—and she settles again after a few moments.
