Sydney's eyes flick to me. Her arms are crossed, and while they might not be doing anything more than talking, it's clear I walked in on an intimate conversation. They are standing too close to be anything more than two people who have Asha in common.
Warrick's jaw ticks before he straightens, taking a deliberate step away from the bookcase, his dark eyes that miss nothing never leaving mine.
"I don't recall today's invitation including you," he says coolly, putting more space between himself and Sydney as he rounds a leather reading chair.
I move farther into the room, my boots heavy against the polished wood floor. "Yeah, well, I'm sure my wife didn't come over expecting her father and her best friend to be rendezvousing in dark corners either." I stop beside a drafting table and turn to Sydney, my glare pointed. "Tell me, where exactly does my wife think you are right now?"
Her eyes widen as color floods her cheeks, something new for Sydney, who's one of the most confident, non-insecure humans I know. She shifts her weight, fingers tightening around her own arms. She usually owns whatever she does, even when it's outlandish. I think she enjoys the shock value of it all. But this…this is different. If she owns this, she hurts someone she cares about.
Before she can respond, Warrick cuts in. "What goes on in my house is none of your concern." He moves to the windows, his back to us now.
I angrily run my hand over my beard and bite my tongue so I don't say something I'll regret—not for Warrick, but for Sydney.
"You're right. It's not my house." I pace a few steps, unable to stand still with this much adrenaline coursing through me. "Youcan do what you want. But it is my concern when what you do hurts my wife."
He turns from the window, and afternoon light catches the sharp angles of his face. "What is it that you think you know?" he asks, each word measured.
"I have eyes. I see things." My gaze flicks between them before I add, "I notice things."
Sydney crosses the room toward me in quick strides. "I should get back to Asha." She pauses in front of me, and I can see a story there. I'm not wrong to have suspicions, but there's something else too. "Whatever you think you know, you don't." Her tone is certain, but there's vulnerability written all over her blue gaze.
"Sydney." Warrick's voice is sharp as he takes a step forward, his shoe clicking against the walnut floor. "That's enough."
She looks at him over her shoulder, and something passes between them, an entire conversation in a glance, filled with unsaid things–things I need answers to.
"There's nothing to tell," she says quietly, still looking at Warrick. "Maybe there once was, but there's not now."
And before anyone can say another word, she squeezes past me and slips out the door.
Warrick pulls in a deep breath, and I can see the tension beneath his perfectly pressed button-down. For just a moment, his composure cracks as he raises his hand to adjust his already perfect tie.
He drops his hands and turns to me, his dark expression unreadable. "You need to leave."
"I can't do that. Not when I know what's at stake," I say, taking a few steps farther into the room. His eyes narrow on mine as he processes their meaning. "I talked to my father—" is all I manage before he pulls an audible breath through his nose and clenches a leather wingback chair he's standing beside hard.
"And what did he say?" he asks through clenched teeth.
"I know about the audit you're holding over our heads and the ultimatum you gave him."
"The man who prides himself on telling no secrets sings like a canary for his son." He crosses the room to a decanter on a side table beside a leather couch and pours himself two fingers of bourbon.
"He didn't tell me those things." I supply evenly, watching him carefully. "You did."
He turns to face me, the glass already at his lips. "You were there…" He takes a long pull from the glass, downing the spirit in one go before adding, "In the house."
"I was. I heard everything you said. It's one of the reasons I'm here now." I pause, letting the weight of that sink in. "You might hate me, but we have something in common. We both love Asha."
"You still haven't told me what it is you think you know." He pours another two fingers of bourbon and swirls it in the glass, a tell that he's calculating. "If it has anything to do with what you think you saw walking in here today, then you've wasted your time."
I study him, the man who's built an empire on control and precision, who's never caught with a hair out of place or an emotion out of check. He’s getting close to his breaking point; not only can I sense it, but I can see it in his movement. He’s too tense, too controlled, too tight. He’s riddled with anxiety because he knows we’re close, even if we don’t have the full story. We have pieces, and he doesn’t like it.
"I know you're lying, but here's the part that might surprise you. Right now, I don't care. That lie has nothing on the one your daughter suspects you're telling." His eyebrows lift fractionally.
Then, his eyes snap to mine with an intensity that would make most men step back, and I feel my lips tug up at the corner slightly.Good. I have his attention.
"It's got everything to do with fear," I start, turning away from him to walk casually toward the tall windows overlooking the west lawn and paddocks."‘Don't forget, I know things too. Not only do I know where the bones are buried, I know the stories they tell,’"I finish with the words my father gave him.
The silence that stretches between us is short but suffocating.
