I looked down so fast it was pathetic.
My pulse jumped. It was ridiculous, he was my Dom, but right now, after that meeting, I was genuinely afraid to meet his eyes. Because the man in that room wasn’t the one who held me at night.
He was the heir of Villain.
Atticus shifted beside me. He never said a word, just stepped half an inch closer, that brotherly orbit he’d always kept around me.
“You want to ride with me? We’re all heading back to the estate anyway.” he asked.
“Which estate?”
“Elizabeth. Since when do you get caught on the details?”
I exhaled through my nose. “Don’t use my middle name like that.”
Atticus only grinned wider. “Madeline Elizabeth Thorne,” he recited in the same mocking-posh voice he’d used when we were eight. “And Atticus Archibald DuPont. Remember how we decided our names were pretentious?”
“We were eight-year-olds who knew the word pretentious. Which was pretentious.” I fought my nervous smile. He was trying to distract me. I sighed. “Fine, Archer. But you better be ready to help me drink through whatever our fathers are planning to lecture us on. When they get onto legacies, I expect full emotional support.”
“Of course. And once they start their ‘real heirs negotiate with poise’ speech, I’ll even nod along.”
I bumped my shoulder against his. “Liar.”
“Constantly.” He lifted my coat and held it out. “Arms.”
I slipped into it. He adjusted the collar the way he always had, then took the umbrella from my bodyguard.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
We stepped out into the rain together, beneath the umbrella. The same way we had hundreds of times leaving academy lectures or formal dinners or childhood playdates. Except this time, he didn’t tease me for being pale. Or question, how weak I was in that room. A table I would normally own. Instead. I sat silently, taking notes. Not even correct ones.
34
Madeline
The DuPont estate—thisone, was built for inheriting empires and ruining livers. Vaulted ceilings, ancestral portraits, dark velvet lounges, and a constantly roaring fire that made everyone look a little more dramatic than necessary.
Atticus fit the setting perfectly.
Of course he did.
He was AtticusArchibaldDuPont, known for women, flawless negotiations, and being called a Prince so often at academy galas that it stuck like a title. He could charm an entire dynasty delegation before breakfast, and then charm their daughters after.
He also did the best impersonation of our fathers I’d ever heard.
Currently, he was pacing in front of the fire with a tumbler in his hand, deepening his voice into something gravelly and authoritative as he reenacted the negotiation meltdown from earlier.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my drink.
“Stop,” I wheezed. “He doesnotsound like that.”
“Elizabeth,” he said solemnly, now switching to his own father’s clipped, “if the Crows insist on acting like…that, thenit falls to heirs like you and Archer to restore dignity to the bloodlines.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Atticus?—”
“No, no, allow me to continue,” he said, sweeping an arm dramatically. “‘Because apparently, negotiations now require violence, intimidation, and—dare I say it—shirtless criminality.’”
