With Addy propped up by Clay, the four of us step into the hallway, bags in hand. Rhys doesn’t creep or hunch, but his sneakers are silent against the marble. Stopping at the top of the stairs, we linger on the precipice of the commotion happening underneath us. Phillip is deeper in the manor, possibly still in the dining area or in his office. The deep baritone of Mr. Kavanagh is also present, trying to placate him. I shift from foot to foot, listening to the implosion of a family I was never meant to witness from behind closed doors.
Fiona is hovering over a bubbling saucepan, wooden spoon clenched in her hand as if it’ll ground her. I’m already making my way over to her before her eyes flick upwards with an all-consuming panic cracking through her usual composure. It’s clear that having the lord of the house at home is not a pleasant experience for anyone. All of the sass and self-assurance I’ve known from her have disappeared, and the kitchen feels more like a prison than a place of employment.
The kitchen is suspended in a time that saw us all laughing and signing around the central island. There’s a large cream dessert that Addy would have stolen if she could see straight, the radio murmuring softly with a tune we’d have been bobbing our heads to. In the air, the scent of herbs and garlic clings desperately as if trying to pretend this is just another evening. Not the end of an era, and the beginning of who knows what.
Rhys crosses the room in three long strides and reaches for the key holder by the back door, his fingers closing around the truck fob without hesitation. I’d forgotten that Rhys had his driver go back for the truck he and Clay had been using. His blue eyes entrap mine, his jaw set with an air of finality.
“Time to go.” Jostling the key, Rhys swings towards a door I’ve yet to see used. Peering inside, another door immediatelygreets us, but this one is made of glass. Rhys presses a button to open the elevator and gestures for us all to get inside with little patience.
Fiona moves then, stepping in to stop me from following Clay and Addy inside. Her body is angled to block the others from seeing her reach into the pocket of her apron with a speed born from fear and resolve. Pressing a folded piece of paper into my hand, she hastily draws me in for a quick hug.
“I’m sorry I didn’t help sooner,” she whispers, before shaking her head as if to convince herself of the truth she’s been hiding from herself. “Mr. Waversea is a dangerous man.” Her eyes flick to the main archway, then back to mine, shining with defiance and an apology all at once. Tentatively, I curl my fingers around the paper.
Opening my mouth to thank her, possibly to ask her to come with me, Rhys grabs my upper arm and hauls me into the elevator. His grip isn’t harsh, only tense from the need to go. Fiona’s mouth trembles, and for a heartbeat, she looks like she might say something to Rhys, might pull him into the kind of embrace he was denied for most of his childhood. Instead, she stills, her professional mask sliding back into place with visible effort.
“Be safe,” she nods once and returns to her pot. It’s bubbled over now, the scent of burning wafting through the room. The door slides closed, confining us into a space big enough for two, and we descend into an underground garage. The Raptor is a beast against all of the other cars present, low and sleek sports models in various shades of red. Against the back wall are the black Bentleys that the Waversea’s use for public appearances.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Rhys says quietly, and it hits me how different his voice sounds. There’s no suppressed rage or wounded hope hiding beneath his words. Only a sense of resolve, of relief. He meets my gaze, and in the silence thatfollows, something unspoken passes between us. I see it anyway in the way his shoulders ease, in the way his jaw unclenches just slightly. In a house built on control and cruelty, this is his goodbye. It isn’t loud or dramatic. It just is what it needs to be.
Reaching out with my free hand, I link my fingers with his. There’s a burning desperation inside of me to look at the document Fiona gave me, but I squash it for now. This moment is more important. Clay takes the bags from Rhys without comment and loads them into the truck, Addy leaning into him and murmuring something I can’t quite catch. Her bravado has softened, whether from the gravity of emotion swirling around us or because the wine is ebbing from her system, it remains to be seen.
I climb into the backseat with her, my heart thundering as the boys take the front. Nothing is said as we peel out of the garage, a ramp bringing us around the side of the manor until the fountain can be seen. Rhys doesn’t spare it a second glance, his eyes set on the iron gates drawing closer. It’s me who loses the battle against my curiosity, looking back over my shoulder.
The manor looms behind us, all stone and shadow. I don’t know what I expected, but the sight of Phillip standing in the doorway, half swallowed by darkness, has my heart clenching tight. His face is unreadable from this distance, but his stance is clear enough.
Broad shoulders set in place, hands clenched at his sides, legs braced far apart. Like a man watching something slip through his fingers without fully understanding its value. Phillip doesn’t care about Rhys leaving. He only cares that he’s lost control, that someone didn’t bend to his will. It’s for that reason that, no matter what we find after leaving here, I know we haven’t seen the last of Phillip Waversea.
Chapter Twenty Eight
I blindly drive northeast, my sole focus on putting miles between us and the manor. What happened this evening was a clusterfuck of uncoordinated ideas. Rhys decided that being underprepared was his tactic for dealing with his father, leaving us all at the mercy of a power-hungry man who could barely bring himself to look at me, being the lowlife scum he thinks I am. The tension in that dining room squeezed around my throat like a vice, threatening to cut off my air supply when Addy hammered the final nail into all our coffins.
I don’t blame her for having the courage to say what we were all thinking. In fact, without her drunken outburst, we might have kept chasing the same ghosts on an endless loop. Addy’s real mistake was challenging me to a game of drinking craps in the cellar. I grew up watching hustlers on the sidewalk trick people out of the little money they had with the simple roll of a dice. A game Jeremy taught me to pass the time, and ensure I wasn’t lured in by the prospect of a quick win. He was always trying to protect me, but it never worked out for either of us.
My hands grip the steering wheel, my foot pushed against the accelerator until the lines on the freeway start to blur. Blinkingharshly, I squint to focus, refusing to slow. It’s not like I’d be able to get us back to Waversea in one single drive, but I can at least make a dent in the journey. Eventually, Rhys’ hand presses against my arm, his expression stern.
“Take the next exit, there should be somewhere nearby to crash for the night. The girls need a proper bed.” Glancing in my rearview mirror, I discover the pair of them have passed out, collapsed against one another in the back. Agreeing silently, I flick the indicator and exit, slowing my speed through the sleeping town. Most of the residents have retired due to the late hour. Just as I’m starting to lose hope, the last house on the corner of the street presents itself like a beacon of light, a sign swaying gently on the lawn.
The Barn Inn, Bed and Breakfast.
Pulling to a stop, I raise a brow at Rhys. He shrugs and nods, stepping out of the truck. I join his side, leaving the girls to sleep while we check it out. I note the backpack Rhys shoulders, keeping my voice low as we approach the entrance.
“How are we going to pay for this? No doubt your father has already cut off your credit card and put out a collection notice for the truck.”
Pausing on the wooden porch, Rhys stares at the door handle, his mind working overtime. Whatever he was considering is gone by the time he swings his gaze to me. Piercing blue, clear and far too confident for a man with nothing left.
“I’ve been preparing for this day for a long time. My father threatened to cut me off enough times that I knew I needed a fallback. I have stocks in cloud computing and cybersecurity companies, not to mention untouched accounts he isn’t aware of. And as for the truck,” Rhys glances back at the Raptor, “it’s yours. My father can’t touch it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I whisper harshly, grabbing his shoulder before he turns away. “Rhys, what do you mean, it’s my truck?” Shrugging my hand free, Rhys dusts off his hoodie and pushes his hands into his pockets.
“I didn’t hire it. I bought it in your name.” I can’t fathom his nonchalant tone, my eyes turning crazed as I stare at him underneath the porch’s weak light. I have so many questions, the how, why and when not adding up.
“Didn’t you need me to sign for something like that?” I frown. A hint of a smirk lifts Rhys’ mouth.
“You did sign for it,” he chuckles lightly. “You should really work on your signature, it’s far too easy to copy.” My mouth drops open, but before I can berate him any further, Rhys has pushed open the door, announcing our arrival with the ding of a small bell. A small entrance hall greets us, a desk set up at one side against the stairs. To the left, a living room is lit by a crackling fire. The smell of wood polish, old books, and baked sugar clings to the aged furniture, a sense of warmth filtering through the house from more than just the fireplace.
A woman appears from a doorway behind the desk, wiping her hands on the front of her cardigan as she goes. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, silver threaded through her dark hair where it’s pulled back into a loose knot. She’s got the look of someone who is kind by habit, not by effort. Her eyes crinkle at the edges as she takes us in.
“Room for two?” she asks without reservation. Rhys and I share a look, a red twinge colouring our cheeks.
