“We all want this to be over,” I say, meeting Rhys’ eyes. “We want to find some normality, whatever that looks like for us.” Rhys nods, releases Harper and returns to where Mason is waiting.
He doesn’t say anything after that, only listens as the detectives begin explaining placement, testing frequencies, and walking Rhys through what to do if things go sideways. They’ll be nearby in an unmarked van, waiting for the signal to enter and make the arrest. It seems so simple in conversation, but knowing Arthur, I’m anticipating it to be anything but simple.
When the meeting has finally broken up, the detectives have left and Harper has changed into sweats that encompass her lithe frame, she leans back against me, her head fitting under my chin like it belongs there. Rhys resumes pacing, his hand scrubbing through his hair.
“This is going to work,” he mumbles more to himself than to us. I kiss the top of Harper’s head, our eyes never leaving him.
“We know it will. Doesn’t mean you have to be a dick about it,” I state. Rhys stops in his tracks, his attention swinging to me and then dropping to how Harper is quietly watching him.
He exhales like the wind has been knocked out of him, shoulders slumping as the fight drains away all at once. Crossing the room, Rhys doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of Harper, his head sinking into the crook of her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, stripped bare of the bravado he was clinging to. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just—” He falters. Harper’s arms wind around him, and as she pushes up onto her tiptoes, I steady her with my chest at her back. “I have to make sure the world is safe enough for you. But I know it’s a risk, and I’m…scared.”
Keeping my face impassive, I don’t reveal the look of surprise that sweeps over me. Rhys Waversea just apologized and admitted to being scared in the same minute. If that’s not proofhe’s changed, I don’t know what is. I haven’t had time to register that before Rhys stuns me once again.
“I can’t lose you. Either of you,” he murmurs quietly as if he needed to say it, but hoped no one would hear. Well, I heard it, and it’s now imprinted at the forefront of my mind.
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around them both, sealing the circle. It’s probably a one-off, never to happen or be spoken about again, but for now, Rhys lets it happen. For now, nothing else exists. No Arthur. No gala. No wires or plans or consequences.
“I accept your apology,” Harper muffles between us. “But just so you know, I hate these stupidly uncomfortable shoes.” A soft chuckle shifts between the three of us, the quiet understanding dawning that this is what we’re fighting for. We’re all fighting for us.
Chapter Thirty Five
The irony of Waversea Academy hosting a fundraising gala while half its donors are bleeding it dry is not lost on me. If anything, it feels poetic.
The main hall has been transformed beyond recognition, crystal chandeliers lowered from vaulted ceilings, their light fractured through finely cut glass and reflecting against the polished floors. White drapery cascades down the walls like something out of a high-society wedding, threaded with fairy lights that give the room a subtle ambience. Long banquet tables line the perimeter, dressed in pristinely white linen. Flutes of champagne wind past the guests as waitstaff glide through the crowd with rehearsed smiles.
Confronted by the display, flashbacks to every gala I’ve attended growing up are called forward from wherever they were lurking. This is the Waversea signature style, as beautiful as it is dangerous. More guests, mostly students, line the courtyard, waving their invitations in desperation to be let in. Striding past them all, I arrive at the front with Harper on my arm and Clayton on her other side.
“Invitation?” a security guard asks without looking up from his clipboard. I wait with a raised brow, anticipating the moment he clocks me. “Oh, Master Waversea. Forgive me.” Unhooking the red rope, the guard permits our entry, much to the chagrin of those left out in the cold. They’ll be allowed in soon after my supposed father has posed for photos and networked with those he deemed worthy VIPs.
The moment we step through the entrance, the room hesitates. A collective intake of breath can be felt rather than heard, the kind that happens before the break of a new scandal. Then the cameras start. Paparazzi pounce from where they were previously tucked behind decorative columns and velvet ropes, lifting their lenses in unison.
Flashes erupt, rapid and merciless, white light burning into my retinas. I feel Harper stiffen beside me, feel Clayton’s hand bump my hip from where it curls around her back. In the same spirit, I wind my arm around her shoulders, pinning her between us.
“Smile, sweetheart. You look stunning,” I say into the mic clip nestled in the sharp collar of my shirt. Harper doesn’t relax her posture, but her mouth curves in my peripheral vision. I take note of the company name on the paparazzi’s lanyard, knowing I’ll need a copy of this photo.
Harper truly is stunning, devastating in the elegant, backless gown that skims her curves as if it were tailored to her shape. The shimmering black fabric catches light every time she moves, her hair pinned up to expose the delicate line of her neck.
Surprisingly, Clayton has cleaned up well too. It’s amazing what a little money can do. Instead of his only shirts being flannel and threadbare, he’s standing tall in a fine suit, a dark shirt open at his throat. For once, his shoulder-length blond hair is neatly brushed back, his black eyes alert as ever.
And me? I decided that I was going about this evening all wrong. The best way to irritate Arthur is to be the epitome of everything he hates most. Unbroken, unashamed, and present. Hence, I’ve binned the tie. My shirt is rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned dangerously low, my tattoos gleaming against my skin. I slide a hand into my slacks pocket, wearing my mask of composure like armor. Whispers ripple outward as we move further into the room, a few catching my ears beneath the soft blend of modern and classical music.
“That’s the Waversea heir.”
“Is she with both of them?”
“I heard she ran off with a sugar daddy.”
I keep my arm locked around Harper’s shoulders, guiding her through the gossip I hope she can’t hear. It’s all old news anyway, which is surprising. I thought Arthur would have publicly disinherited me by now. Clayton stays with us, mirroring each step until we have placed ourselves in the middle of the dancefloor. The orchestra swells near the stage, strings cutting into a leisurely, luxurious waltz. Harper shifts uneasily, her eyes darting up to me for direction. The smirk on my face spreads wider, a decision rooting itself in my head.
“Would you mind grabbing us a table and some drinks?” I ask Clayton. With a simple nod, he strides away, removing an entire tray of champagne from a waitress’ hand and putting it down on a table with a group of women present. I’m definitely a bad influence on him. At his intrusion, the women stand and leave, all except for a busty blonde who takes a champagne flute for herself. Klara tips the glass towards Clayton, sipping as he sits beside her.
Something uneasy stirs within me, but it doesn’t matter as I’m having a hard time taking my eyes off Harper’s. Beneath the chandelier, they glisten like the finest emeralds, and a small smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.
“That was extremely civil of you,” Harper comments as I drag her into my body. Extending her arm to take my hand, the other settles low on her back. “Dare I say, your friendship with Clay is growing beyond sexual blackmail.” I snort, fully aware there’s an undercover police van down the road listening to this entire exchange.
“Well, I thought you’d slap me if I told him to fuck off.” With gentle guidance, I ease Harper into a simple one, two, three step, spinning us in light circles.
