Bryce
I drop my keys in a small Bizen-yaki bowl in the foyer and stride into the living room. The lights come on automatically as the system detects my movements.
No sign of Fiona. She hasn’t called, either. It’s already after ten. Where is she? When is she going to contact me? Or is she doing this on purpose to be passive-aggressive? Should I make the first move and reach out to her?
A rattling sound comes from one of the windows facing the backyard.
Bang, bang, bang.
Not rattling this time,knocks. Who the hell managed to get past security?
I reach for a Glock just in case, but a figure presses itself on the glass from the other side of the window. I blink to make sure I’m not imagining things. Limp hair covers most of the face, but I could recognize Fiona even if she hid her face in a paper bag.
She wasn’t in the best mood when she walked out. I hoped she’d had time to calm down and think things through, but her wild look makes me lose that hope.
Well, tears, screams, it doesn’t matter.I can do this. I open the Frenchdoor to the backyard and step outside. “What are you doing out here? Why didn’t you come inside?”
She pushes the hair out of her face and squints at me. “Seriously?” She snorts. “Apparently, I’m not supposed to be inside your house. That’s what the guy who let me pass through the gates said. So I told him I’d wait out in the backyard until you got back from work or wherever.”
“You should’ve come inside anyway.”
“And get arrested? Your housekeeper apparently set the security system.”
“I would’ve bailed you out.”
She shoots me a skeptical look. Guess I deserve that, based on our interactions since I crashed the wedding. If this had been when she first barged into my office, I would’ve relished seeing her squirming behind bars. But now, such pettiness seems low—
Whoa. The abrupt thought leaves me dazed for a moment. When did the sharp edge of my anger start to dull? I always told myself I’d never let it go. It wasn’t just a matter of being vindictive, but self-preservation. Only idiots repeat the same mistake.
I refortify my emotional and mental shield, stiffen my spine and gesture at her to come in. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
Stilettos dangling from her hooked index finger, she walks past me. The scent of freshly cut grass wafts from her. I resist an absurd urge to hug her and take a moment to be glad that she’s okay—and she’s back. Part of me says she’dbetterbe back to pay off the two million. But another part is just relieved she doesn’t seem harmed.
Fiona sniffs. “You smell like cigars and alcohol. Did you go out after work?”
Her eyebrows pinch in irritation, and the tight vise that’s been around my skull all afternoon and evening eases. I almost laugh with relief. It’s good that her spirit hasn’t been broken after her encountering Mom’s psychotic behavior. I can deal with an angry Fiona. I just can’t with a Fiona who is sad and lost.
“Yeah.” I close the French door and gesture toward a couch, which she promptly takes. I sit next to her, facing her with one knee bent and on the couch. “What about it?” I keep my tone nonchalant and casual.
“Wow. You weren’t even worried about what happened this morning. But of course it wasn’t you Zoe threatened, just me and possibly some other women.”
The reminder makes me scowl. “Trust me. I’m definitely on her radar. Both of us are.” I take a moment to gather the thoughts and the arguments I made in the morning to convince her that a quick marriage is the best way to get Mom off our backs. Given the state of panic Fiona was in, I’m not sure how much of it stuck. For all I know, she might’ve dumped all my words along with her stomach contents.
She scrutinizes me skeptically. “Did she sendyoua picture of a severed finger, too? Because I don’t think she did. If she had, you wouldn’t be so calm.”
“What?” The vise around my head retightens. “Show me.”
She unlocks her phone and pushes it in my face, her hand slightly shaky.
I study the picture, my heart thudding heavily. It looks like a photo to hang on a wall for a low-budget Halloween party. The lighting’s third rate, and the background is just a concrete floor. The finger is feminine, with a long nail. I stare at it for a while. No way to tell if it’s from last night’s redhead. I didn’t pay attention to her hands. But Harvey’s warning is genuine. Mom’s had twenty-two years to strategize and prepare.
I recall her determined expression when she tried to kidnap me and my brothers. The proud conviction that she was doing the right thing, no matter what anyone else said. She no longer just wants the family back. No, she wants the power her father wields—since it’s the only thing that kept her under control. The condition that forbids her from approaching us is over. Vincent is old and sick. Nothing can stop her now.
“I can’t tell if it’s real,” Fiona adds in a small, subdued voice.
For a nanosecond, I debate lying, but opt for the truth. Fiona deserves that much. “Mom wouldn’t send a fake photo. It’d make her look weak if we found out.”
Fiona pales so fast that I ready myself to catch her. She sways a little, but rallies without my help. “What am I going to do?” she mutters, pressing the heels of her trembling hands against her temples.
