You’re beautiful, he signs with the exact expression required. One filled with so much adoration, his eyes are practically pulsing with love hearts. I blush and nudge his shoulder, calling him a showoff. For a short while, it’s simple. Playful taps of fingers, quiet jokes, little bursts of pride whenever Clay nails a sign without hesitation. His success spirals through me, colliding with my own. Every gesture, every swift motion, everyshift of finger spelling brings him closer to a portion of myself I rarely share with anyone. One that’s begged for companionship on her own terms.
Fiona returns with our breakfasts, setting the plates down with the grace of someone who’s done this routine a thousand times. Clay and I both touch our fingertips to our chins and flick them forward in unison to signthank you,and Fiona looks slightly amused. Her lips quirk as she straightens, hands smoothing down her apron like she’s bracing herself.
“I owe you an apology for my hostility,” she says to me specifically. “I misjudged you. You’re nothing like the other one that’s usually keeping Master Waversea company.” I blink a few times, my fork halfway to my mouth as my mind goes utterly blank. Everything in me halts as if someone has pulled the emergency brake.
“The other one?” I ask out loud, confusion marring my features. Clay’s head has tilted slightly too. Fiona nods, though uncertainty flickers behind her eyes. Still, she presses on.
“Miss Kavanagh visits regularly when Master Waversea is back for the holidays. They’re due to be wed upon their graduation?—”
“That’s quite enough, Fiona.” A harsh voice cracks through the kitchen like a whip. I jump so hard, my fork clatters against the plate, and Clayton instantly curls an arm around my waist, his body going tense beside me.
Bracing for Rhys’ anger, I twist in my seat, but instead find myself staring at an older, angrier version. Phillip Waversea stands in the open archway like a storm in human form. His eyes never touch mine, but burn straight into Fiona with frosty disdain. When he next snarls, I swear I feel an ice-cold tendril slip straight through my defences.
“What the fuck are they doing in my house?”
Chapter Fifteen
Standing outside my father’s office door feels like being transported backwards through time, like the polished wood and the heavy silence have reached out and wrapped themselves around my throat. I shift my weight between my socked feet, telling myself that if I’m about to receive an infamous whipping, burning or beating, I’ll be doing it in sweatpants.
It would have been more in character for me to ignore his summons, but I’m not the only one in this manor who can be harmed. I’ve brought Harper here, and despite praying to whoever is listening, we couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours before the devil himself walked in.
“Enter.” My father’s voice rolls through the wood, clipped and impatient, and for a second, I consider walking away, but pride is a cruel mistress. I can’t let him see my weakness, especially when it’s walking around the manor in the form of a sassy brunette. Pushing the door open and stepping inside with my chin held high, I’m pulled straight back to the moment seven-year-old me stepped inside and was struck for the first time. I almost flinch, hearing the ghost of a crack within myhead, flames licking my cheek from where he struck me. It’s impossible to convince myself it’s not real. Not yet, anyway.
Swallowing past the haunted sting, I force air to enter my lungs. The room smells like the same old cologne my father has been drowning himself in for decades, the blinds drawn to cast each mahogany surface in shadow. Tall standing lamps in each corner illuminate shelves lined with books that are for show rather than purpose. There’s no art, no comfort, no humanity. A single glass cabinet displays awards and certificates from business councils I’ve never cared about, each plaque a silent reminder of the expectations I’ve spent years trying to outrun.
A desk dominates the room, an enormous slab of black walnut with corners sharp enough to bruise. I know this from experience. Beside the closed laptop set to one side, there’s a single photo of me aged around twelve in a gold frame. I hate that photo. It’s one of the prints from a magazine spread I was forced into. The boy who stares out is free of ink, scrawny beneath designer clothing, and smirking as if he’s got the entire world eating out of his hand. But if anyone bothered to look closer, they’d realize that smirk is covering a chasm of pain, and behind my eyes, I’m dead inside. I’d been dead for a long time until Harper walked into my life.
And then there’s the man standing in front of his gigantic window. Dark hair slicked back to calculated perfection, blue eyes that cut like cold glass, his tailored suit nothing more than a costume draped over rot and undeserved legacy. He looks every inch the powerful patriarch he pretends to be, but all I see is a parasite feeding on money, fear, and the silence of people he’s broken. It’s the same thing I see when I look at myself in the mirror.
“Close the door,” he orders. I reach back instinctively, but my hand barely grazes the handle before a force slams into it, shoving it open again so hard that it bangs against the wall.Clayton steps inside with the casual determination of someone who knows no fear, his expression carved into something resolute and headstrong.
“What is the meaning of this?” My father hisses, his eyes narrowing instantly. Clayton doesn’t flinch, only pushes the door closed with a click of finality.
“I’ll be sitting in on this family reunion,” he says calmly, as if he hasn’t just kicked a hornet’s nest. “Harper’s orders.” I whip my head toward him now with a glare. Not only has he interrupted whatever my father has in store, but he’s also brought Harper’s name in here. So much for my instruction earlier to keep her as far away from him as possible. That I would take the heat, all they have to do is lay low and let me handle it. My father exhales sharply, a sound that’s half annoyance and half disbelief.
“This girl has far too much power for my liking.” His fingers tap the desk like he’s seconds away from losing his temper, which honestly is his natural state. Indecision passes through the clench of his brows, his jaw working as he glares at Clayton, willing him to back down and leave. He does not. “Fine. Sit. Both of you.”
While Father exhales, Clayton and I drop into the chairs opposite him. The leather stretched across the cushions is stiff, made to keep visitors alert rather than comfortable. Lowering into his own seat, keeping the desk between us, my father’s shrewd gaze studies us with open contempt before settling solely on me.
“I’d appreciate an explanation for why my home is suddenly hosting… what should I call them? Guests? Strays? Whatever they are, I didn’t authorize it.”
“They’re not here to cause problems,” I say, even if the words feel like chewing glass. “They just needed somewhere to go for a short while.”
“A short while,” my father repeats flatly. “I am home for one day, Rhys. One. I returned to change clothes and collect what I needed before leaving again for the Zurich talks. I had plans to meet someone here tonight as well, plans I have now canceled because apparently my home has turned into a youth hostel.” Clay scoffs under his breath, and Father’s eyes snap toward him. “If you have something to say, Mr. Michaels, I suggest you say it directly.”
Clayton braces his elbows on his knees, a fire igniting in his dark eyes.
“Rhys is telling the truth. We won’t cause trouble, we just need somewhere to recover. We’re going through a difficult time.”
“Oh, my bleeding soul. How fortunate that my door was apparently wide open to you,” Father drawls sarcastically, tapping the desk. “And if you think my son is a truthful person, you clearly don’t know him very well.” My father challenges me to deny it with a raised brow. There’s nothing to challenge. I lie to him daily, just like I lie to the world about who I really am. I’m a menace who strikes first and feels second, that’s all they know. But not Harper. She saw through me instantly.
“You’re awfully quiet,” my father comments when the silence settles for a beat too long. I watch the way his fingers roam and tap against the wood. He’s twitching to pull the cigar box out of the drawer to his right, not through addiction but through habit. I swear he hasn’t smoked in years, but he’s lit plenty. My skin serves as a testament to that.
“There’s not much to say,” I mutter, biting down on my bruised lip that’s sorely missing its lip ring. A grunt escapes my father’s throat.
“Oh, I believe there is much to say. Shall we start with what the fuck happened at your birthday gala? How about why thatgirl is still lingering around with both of you, when I clearly stated she was to put a stop to this nonsense?”
“She did put a stop to it,” Clayton interjects. My father’s face tightens, his patience running thin. “It seems we didn’t get the memo.”
