I lifted my head, blinking away the remnants of my tears. “It makes me feel… unstable. Like, I never know where to put my foot.”
I blew a deep, heavy breath, grabbing my napkin to wipe my damp cheeks.
Emily leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Tell you what,” she said softly. “My question can wait.”
She offered me a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s go meet with Malik. If he has time, we’ll get to my question too. If not…” She shrugged. “No harm done.”
I let out a long sigh, something akin to relief settling in my chest.
“Thanks, Emily,” I murmured, squeezing her hand. “You’re the best.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, I wandered down the lower floor hallway, searching for the study.
Everything about Malik’s house was massive—from the impossibly high ceilings to the intricately carved wooden furniture to the heavy, ornate doors etched with symbols I didn’t recognize.
A door stood open ahead on my right.
I paused at the threshold.
Malik stood near the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the storm-darkened sky.
Emily crept up behind me, silent as a shadow.
Outside, a stiff wind bent the trees at unnatural angles, sending restless clouds racing across the heavens, galloping like wild stallions.
I swallowed. “We’re here,” I said, my voice small.
Malik pivoted, his gaze impassive, unreadable.
“Come in,” he murmured. Then, gesturing fluidly, he moved past his enormous espresso-colored desk and settled onto a jade-green silk sofa.
“Please,” he said, sweeping his arm to the side. “Join me.”
I hesitated in the doorway, rigid, then crossed the room and sank onto the couch beside him.
My eyes settled on the small side table near his seat.
Malik reached inside and withdrew a leather-bound book.
My breath hitched.
My mother’s journal.
Longing shot through me—an aching need to touch, hold, and possess something of hers in my hands.
Malik rested the book on his lap; his fingers splayed protectively over the worn leather cover. Then, shifting to face me, he said, “Your mother gave me her journal before Balthazar killed her.”
His expression softened, the harsh edges of his face easing into something almost gentle.
“She wanted me to tell you…” His voice lowered, weighted with meaning.
“If you found the journal and read it…” He held my gaze.
“She hoped you would forgive her.”
His words slipped inside my chest like probing fingers, working their way past the walls I had so carefully erected against my mother.
A strange, mushy feeling settled in my heart. Vulnerable. Exposed.
