“Shit,” I hiss, jolting after the lithe woman snaking through the tuxedos and gowns, her body lithe enough to fit through minuscule gaps. Directly ahead of her, Arthur leaves through a rear fire exit, now flanked by a guard with hands larger than my head. “Harper—” I start, but the orchestra strikes back up, swallowing the word whole.
Pushing forward, I don’t bother with apologies, shoving my way through the crowd blocking my access to her. Clayton joins me, using his large arms like battering rams, although he does mutter sorry’s and excuse me’s as he goes. Chasing the bare shoulders, weaving past the plinth and slipping out the back door, I holler after Harper as a wall of paparazzi surges forward, cameras flashing in violent bursts of white light, voices overlapping, shouting questions that blur into one continuous noise.
“Rhys! Over here!”
“Is it true you’ve reconciled with your father?”
“Who’s the woman you arrived with?”
“Are the rumors about Waversea Group under investigation?—”
“Move,” I snap uselessly, my shoulder slamming into a photographer who barely stumbles. Clayton is right beside me, cursing under his breath as he tries to push against the barricade they’ve created, but there are too many of them. Hands grab atmy jacket, microphones are shoved into my face, lenses inches from my eyes. I shove back harder, panic clawing up my throat now, because I can’t see her. I can’t see Harper anywhere.
By the time I break free of the press, lungs burning, the exit is in view. I burst through it, panting in short bursts, my eyes darting around the night in a frenzy. A Bentley sits on the side of the main road, the guard standing by the rear. At the front, Arthur has one hand clamped around Harper’s arm, his grip unmistakably possessive, his face a mask of cold hatred. I can tell, even from here, that she’s fighting against him, her body twisted away and heels skidding slightly on the stone. Unfortunately for her, he’s used to a punching bag that is heavier and stronger.
“Harper!” I shout too loudly for her implants, unable to help the sound tearing out of me, raw and broken.Her head snaps up at my voice. For a split second, our eyes lock across the distance. There’s fear there, but also resolve. That stubborn, infuriating bravery she can’t shake. She mouths something I can’t hear, then Arthur shoves her inside the driver's seat.He follows, nudging her over into the passenger side, not sparing me a glance this time.
My feet are moving before the door slams, uselessly running after the Bentley that peels away with a snarl from the wheels and engine, disappearing down the drive. Even without the guard striding towards me,I stop dead, the world tilting violently on its axis.No. Not again.Of all the things I should have protected her from, Arthur was supposed to be at the top of the list.
Clayton skids to a halt beside me, his face pale with fury, his hands clenched so tightly I can see the tendons standing out.
“Fuck,” he breathes, kicking his foot out at the nearest lamppost. “What the hell is she thinking?!” Another skid comes up behind us, banishing the guard’s presence as he returns to thehall. I turn to see that the covert police van has come to a stop just inches from my chest. Dully, I wish it hadn’t stopped at all, since my chest already feels like it’s been caved in.
“You two stay here, we’ll take chase,” the undercover cop in the passenger seat barks. Clay grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me out of their way. Whether intentionally or not, his grip sends me flying into a patch of grass, and I barely feel the fall. Something vital has been ripped out of my soul and taken away with Harper, leaving behind nothing but panic and white-hot rage. This was supposed to be simple, a planned confession that would free us all. I was supposed to be the one pulling the strings.
Instead, she’s gone. And she’s gone with him.
Slowly, I come back to myself. The gala lights blaze behind us, laughter and music spilling thoughtlessly into the night. A sharp stabbing in my neck reminds me of the mic clip, my fingers shaking as I tear it free and hold it with as much care as I’m able. I still have this, a singular connection to her. Clayton spots me, hunched over and trembling. In an instant, his jacket is around my shoulders, and he’s dropped down beside me. I don’t have the words to tell him that I’m not shaking from the cold, my entire focus on the mic clip between my fingers.
“Harper. You stupid, beautiful woman. Forget the plan, don’t try to be a hero. Just get the fuck out of that car and come back to me. You can’t…I won’t let you leave me again. Come back to Clayton and I. We’ll leave, we’ll move away and start fresh. No Waverseas, no power plays. Just please. Please come back and let us love you.”
Chapter Thirty Six
I don’t know what came over me. I saw the glint in Arthur’s usually cold eyes, watched him step down from the platform with that same unhurried confidence, and my feet simply moved without waiting for my brain to catch up.
After everything we’ve been through and discovered, after Rhys being lied to, manipulated and beaten, I couldn’t let Arthur just walk away. He couldn’t slip back into the shadows with his secrets intact. My pulse roared in my ears as I pushed through the thinning crowd, my dress snagging briefly on someone’s heel.
Despite Rhys’ voice bellowing in my head and my breath coming out too fast, I was being driven by something hotter than fear. Anger, maybe, or foolish desperation. For some reason, I thought that if I just confronted Arthur, if I exposed the act he’s putting on for the world, he’d finally be forced to answer for it all.
“Arthur!” My voice cuts through the night air. The man in question turns slowly and deliberately, as if he were hoping to be followed. Although, given the slight hitch of his brow, I don’t think he was expecting it to be me.
Even so, I open my mouth to demand answers. To get him to admit to hurting Rhys for no reason other than to be cruel. Except as I near, the party inside, which is still very much present in my skull, erupts in an onslaught of hollering. Being streamed in through the mic clips, the volume of it throws me off balance. I can’t focus on Arthur’s face, the screaming of questions making me wince.
Before I know it, Arthur’s hand is clamping down on my arm before I can even think to pull away. Panic slams into my chest like a freight train, my heart stuttering as I twist and struggle, heels skidding uselessly on the pavement.
“Let go of me!” I gasp, my spine jolting painfully as I’m shoved into the sleek black car sitting idle at the curb. Arthur’s body forces me aside, his hands harsh as he pushes me into the passenger seat. The door slams closed, the engine revving, and a harsh panting fills my head. Not my own, as I’ve thrown myself into a situation where what I’m hearing is a few yards back in the form of the man shrinking in the wing mirror. That’s when the sudden crash of realization hits. What have I done?
I was supposed to be Rhys’ moral support this evening, letting him take the lead. His chance to confront his fake father and put an end to his suffering. But now, with his voice seeping into my head, it sounds like he’s suffering more than ever.
“I won’t let you leave me again. Come back to Clayton and me.”A sob drags itself into the back of my throat, the gravity of my decision weighing down on my chest.“Please come back and let us love you.”And then silence. The mic is too far out of range, and the cocoon of silence I’ve spent my life hiding in suddenly becomes a steel trap.
Bolstered by the dread rushing like icy splinters, I start to scream and yell, tugging on the door handle and smashing my fist against the window. Nothing works, and even if it did, I spare no thought about flying out of this car at the increasingspeed Arthur is picking up. He races past seventy, taking corners sharp enough to send me crashing into the door. Following a sharp glare, Arthur barks something in the silhouette of passing streetlamps.
“I can’t hear you,” I hiss, more pissed at myself for my complete lack of survival skills. Rule one should be don’t confront a madman without a backup plan. Waversea’s neighboring town sleeps as I’m propelled through it, a destination set in Arthur’s mind. This is bad. So, so bad. My breaths turn ragged, my thoughts splintering into sharp, useless fragments as Arthur speeds us forward, his mere presence sucking the oxygen from the car. He smells of cologne, arrogance, and the frustration that’s rolling off him in waves.
My eyes dart around the cab, hunting for something I can use. My phone is nestled deep in my bra. I need to distract Arthur long enough to be able to pull it out and connect to my implants, giving me back the ability to communicate. To bargain, threaten, whatever it takes to get me out of this car and his proximity. Dragging my gaze towards the steering wheel gripped by his hands, I exhale harshly. Well, it’s not like I’ve thought about anything else this evening.
Reaching out, I grab the wheel and jerk hard. The car skids, jerking violently to the side. Using the force of that momentum, Arthur elbows me aside, recovering far too quickly. I yell something akin to a banshee’s scream, tugging on his solid arm. In a flash, his hand comes up, fingers threading into my hair with brutal precision and yanking my head back far enough that spots dance in my vision. I barely have time to gasp before he slams my head sideways into the car door. Pain explodes behind my eyes, white-hot and blinding, my skull ringing as the world tilts violently off its axis.
