“I have remembered,” he said at last, the admission pulled from him with more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge. “Almost everything.”
Hargreaves’ brows lifted, though his expression remained composed. “Almost.”
“The night of the accident remains… unclear.”
“Fragments?”
“Nothing of use,” Alexander muttered, though even as he spoke, he heard the echo of a voice just beyond comprehension.
Hargreaves studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once. “Then we proceed as planned. We examine your dealings. Your rivals. Anyone who might benefit from your absence.”
Alexander inclined his head, though his thoughts had already begun to drift again, slipping away from ledgers and into far more treacherous terrain.
Because it was Diana who truly disturbed him.
Sleep did not come.
It had not come the night before, nor the night before that, and by the time the house had long since fallen into silence, Alexander had abandoned the attempt entirely, retreating instead to his study where the decanter now sat half-empty, and the fire burned low, casting restless shadows along the walls.
He leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, the amber liquid catching the light as he turned it idly, though there was nothing idle in the way his mind refused to settle.
The nightmare had come again, in jagged fragments. It was enough to leave him restless.
And beneath it all, threaded through the unease with a clarity that made the rest feel distant by comparison, there had been her.
Diana.
The memory of her rose with far more certainty than anything the nightmare had offered, vivid and immediate in a way that made his grip tighten around the glass in his hand. He could recall the breathless sound she had made beneath his mouth, the way her body had responded despite herself, arching toward him with surrender. He could recall, too, the moment it had shifted, the way her voice had caught.
His jaw clenched. He lifted the glass to his lips, letting the burn of the whiskey ground him, if only for a moment.
The door creaked softly behind him.
“Why are you drinking this late?”
Alexander stilled. He did not turn immediately, though his heart leapt at the sound of her voice. He took a few breaths to regain his composure.
When he finally looked over his shoulder, he found her standing in the doorway, wrapped in a robe, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders in a way that made his stomach clench at how beautiful she looked.
“You should be asleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to the decanter, then back to him, and without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I heard you,” she added. “You woke rather… abruptly.”
Alexander exhaled slowly, nodding once.
“A dream,” he said.
She hesitated, then crossed the room, her steps quiet against the carpet as she approached the desk, her eyes lingering on the glass in his hand. “What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
She wrinkled her nose slightly. “That explains the smell.”
Despite himself, the hardness in him eased, just a fraction. “Would you like some?”
