“That seems dangerous.”
“Live a little.”
He opens his mouth, and I guide the spoon in. He takes the bite, his lips closing around the spoon in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“Good?” I ask.
“Very good.” His hand finds mine on the console between us.
I feed him another bite of ice cream, and his thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. Behind us, Kai laughs at something Donovan said. The heater blows warm air. Snow falls gently outside the windows.
This moment is perfect. And I want it to be real so badly it physically hurts.
But it’s not real, because they don’t know the truth about why I came here. They don’t know about Robert and the revenge plan and the lies I’ve been living since I arrived.
They think I’m just a woman who ended up here by accident. Who fell into their lives and decided to stay.
They don’t know I came here to destroy them.
20
DONOVAN
Three daysafter the ice cream trip, I’m in my office at eleven at night reviewing financial reports that should have been done yesterday.
The estate is quiet. Dad’s been in Denver since this morning, handling the hospitality acquisition. Kai’s probably asleep, or pretending to be. Samantha’s been working late most nights, pushing herself harder than necessary on the retail strategy.
I want to go to bed. But numbers need reconciling, and offshore accounts don’t balance themselves.
My phone buzzes with an email from our Miami contact when I hear it—a crash from somewhere below. Glass breaking. Then a sharp gasp that makes my spine straighten.
The wine cellar is directly beneath my office.
I’m moving before I finish the thought, taking the stairs two at a time.
The cellar door is open. Lights on. And Samantha’s on the floor surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine, her hand pressedagainst her opposite forearm while blood seeps between her fingers.
“Don’t move.” I’m across the room in seconds, kneeling beside her. “Let me see.”
She pulls her hand away slowly, and the cut is deep. Not catastrophic, but enough that it needs immediate attention. The wine makes it look worse than it is, red mixing with red.
“I was trying to reach the top shelf,” she says, voice shaking. “The bottle slipped, and I grabbed for it and?—”
“Stop talking. Let’s get you upstairs.”
I help her stand, careful to avoid the broken glass. Her arm is still bleeding steadily, dripping onto the stone floor.
My office is closest. I guide her there, sit her on the leather couch, and grab the first aid kit from my desk drawer. “This is going to sting,” I warn, pouring antiseptic over the wound.
She hisses through her teeth but doesn’t pull away.
There’s one tiny piece embedded near the edge, and I remove it with tweezers before applying more antiseptic.
“You should’ve called for help instead of trying to reach it yourself,” I say, wrapping gauze around her forearm.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“Bleeding out in the wine cellar would’ve been more of a bother.”
