Catching Rhys’ eye, he nudges his head towards the archway. I stall for one more confused moment, my mind delayed in catching up.I know Harper is burning to ask a million questions. Like a string of thought slipping away, I reach out and grab onto it, suddenly understanding. This isn’t about pre-braces Rhys. This is about gleaming some answers from the woman who’s been present for Rhys’ entire life. Who’s witnessed the comings and goings over the years.
Jumping down from my stool and signing frantically to Addy to help me, we gently usher Fiona into one of the smaller living areas just off the kitchen. The shift in atmosphere is immediate, like the walls themselves are leaning in to listen. We drop onto the sofa side by side, while Fiona takes the armchair across from us, brushing down her knee-length skirt out of habit. Despite our efforts to appear relaxed, her eyes twinkle with awareness, the look of someone who isn’t naïve enough to be fooled by our tight smiles.
“Before you interrogate me, I’ve signed an NDA. I can’t discuss anything relating to Mr. Waversea.” Fiona’s voice remains level as if she’s been waiting for this line of questioning for years. My gut drops immediately, but Addy leans forward without hesitation, elbows braced on her thighs.
“What about Mrs. Waversea?” she asks, cutting straight through the formalities. Fiona’s lips part, then press together again, and when she speaks, her voice is quieter.
“There isn’t much to say.” She exhales slowly, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the room. Although her posture remains composed, I can see the cracks in her armor beginning to form. She’s desperate to talk to someone. To share what little information she’s been holding onto all this time. “One night, they were all here. Watching a movie in the theater room, laughing and eating popcorn. Next morning, we arrived to find a six-year-old boy sitting at the bottom of the stairs, crying and clinging to an old blanket he slept with every night.”
My heart squeezes painfully at the image that slams into my mind, so vivid and uninvited, it steals my breath. Small shoulders hunched forward, bare feet on cold marble. A child waiting for a mom who never came back. Fiona fidgets with the edge of her apron.
“There was no one else in the manor, but instructions had been left. Apparently, they were called away for an emergency trip. We did our best to reassure young Rhys, but they were gone for months, and only Mr. Waversea returned. He was never the same after that, but that’s as much as I can say.”
“Did you see them leave?” Addy narrows her eyes, sifting through information like a detective. “As in, did you see them walk out, alive and of their own accord?” Fiona’s eyes refocus, her hesitancy evident until she gives a small shake of her head. My throat tightens, the next question churning in my gut.
“What happened to the blanket?” Fiona’s eyes flicker to mine, her arms folding as if she doesn’t know where to put her hands.
“It was burned. Along with all of his personal belongings. The things he cherished most.” A hollow ache blooms behind my ribs as she goes on. “Around the same time, he was moved out ofhis room and told he had to earn his place in the house. I can’t tell you how many times I found him curled up, asleep in the hallways.” Her voice softens, sorrow etched deep. “This isn’t a home to Master Waversea. It’s a prison.”
Silence settles over the room like an unmovable fog, the kind that is in no rush to be broken. The three of us sit there, breathing the same air, each lost in our own private thoughts, yet tethered by what Fiona has revealed. My chest feels tight, as if my heart is pressing outward, too full of grief and fury and a helpless sort of love that has nowhere to go.
I can almost hear Addy’s thoughts buzzing inside her mind, while Fiona stares at a point just beyond us, her expression worn with the quiet guilt of someone who witnessed too much and intervened too little. In some ways, Fiona is the closest thing to a mom Rhys has ever had. Perhaps more like a grandmother due to her age, but either way, I can tell she hasn’t been able to be involved as much as she would like. There’s a motherly instinct there, hindered by an NDA and an employer who seemingly changed over the course of one business trip.
After a while, Fiona sighs and comes back to herself. She gestures absently to the armchair she’s sitting in, her fingers brushing the hunter’s green velvet stretched across the arm.
“He used to sit right here,” she says quietly. “His feet never touched the floor. I’d slip him cookies before dinner was served. He would always try to decline, but I insisted.” A sad smile curves her lips, the memory bittersweet. “Sugar helped to calm his nerves before sitting at a table with his father. He suffered terribly with anxiety, but he learnt to deal with it.”
“No,” I shake my head suddenly, my chest aching, heart breaking for the boy I never got to meet and the man still carrying his scars. “He learnt to bury it.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Dare I say, the mood in the manor has been different over the past few days. So far removed from anything I’ve ever known to exist here. And as much as it pains me to admit, Addy has played a part in it, whether intentionally or by simply existing like the neon hurricane she is.
Since the girls quizzed, they’ve agreed to keep any revelations to themselves and enjoy the time we have left here. Laughter has echoed down halls that usually creak with silence, sock-skidding streaks cut across the polished floors, and every spare hour seems to end in a snooker rematch or someone shouting over a drunken card game.
Even Fiona has seemed lighter than I’ve seen in years, humming as she bakes elaborate patisserie desserts I was never allowed within arm’s reach of before. But even with all that warmth bleeding into the cracks, the clock hasn’t stopped ticking. The days haven’t stopped moving toward the inevitable.
Standing in the bedroom window, I watch the iron gates at the end of the driveway like a hawk. The sun has begun to set, casting the surrounding wall in an orange glow, the fountain now shrouded in shadow. My jaw tics as the minute hand crawlsby on the fifth day since my father left. I told him I’d have the others gone by now, but I had no intention of seeing it through. For better or for worse, Harper stays within arm’s reach of me from now on.
I hear the low hum before headlights shine through the gates, the iron working to open and let the devil in. A black sedan enters, polished with the shine of a narcissist. My fingers curl at my sides on instinct, a cold breath cutting down my spine as it rolls along the tarmac. That alone is enough to put a foul taste in my mouth, and then a second vehicle follows. This one is silver and sleek, the familiar crest of the Kavanagh family glinting above the license plate. My heart gives a hard thud against my ribs.
“Fuck,” I hiss through my teeth. What are they doing here? I can only imagine my father told them I was sitting here twiddling my thumbs and in need of company. Klara’s company. Shuddering, I move away from the window before I’m spotted lurking.
Dragging a hand down my face, irritation scrapes through my nerves like glass. My father never brings guests without warning, not unless he wants something. Wants me cornered or wants leverage. Footsteps echo distantly downstairs, Fiona moving toward the foyer to greet them, Klara’s shrill voice carrying through the walls as soon as the door has been opened.
“Rhysie!” she calls, causing a slice of anger to wedge under my sternum. I grit my teeth so hard the muscle in my jaw spasms. Yep, our reprieve has just been blown to pieces. I force myself down the stairs, each step deliberate as I take on the persona my father expects from me. Shoulders squared, chin high, expression blank. The dutiful son carved out of bone and resentment.
The chandelier glimmers, bringing the lobby to life around the man who has hated every breath of mine he can’t control.My father shrugs off his coat, handing it to Fiona without looking at her, already surveying the manor like he’s expecting disappointment. It’s probably for the best, as here I am.
“Rhys,” he says, glancing over my shirt and slacks. I knew better than to be caught in sweats for a second time, although my top button is undone and my sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. “Good. You’re presentable.” His gaze flicks past me toward the empty space behind my shoulder, and his mouth tightens. “I assume the dining table is prepared for guests?”
“I didn’t know we were expecting any,” I reply, my jaw tight.
“That much is obvious.” He turns aside, presenting Klara and her parents as if I didn’t hear her from a mile away. As if I haven’t been purposely looking anywhere she isn’t. Klara beams at me like I’m her childhood sweetheart instead of someone who barely tolerates breathing the same oxygen as her. Mrs. Kavanagh steps forward first, exchanging pleasantries by kissing my cheek and drowning me in her perfume. I shake Mr. Kavanagh’s hand as fiercely as he does, a power play taking place right here in the lobby.
“I apologize but I’ve already eaten.” I quickly spin away from Klara’s impending hug. In actual fact, I’m starving, but my mind is currently spinning with places I can stash the others to keep them out of sight.
There’s a storage alcove in the west hall, sealed with the panel behind the tapestry, but Clayton’s obnoxiously large shoulders won’t fit. The sex room is bigger but also has a whole range of experimental sex toys, and Addy is a terrible influence, so no. I can hardly suggest my father’s office when the door is supposed to be locked. It’ll have to be between the shelves in the library until the Kavanagh’s leave. Then I’ll figure out what to do about my father. It’s not like I’ve had five days to work on a plan B or anything.
