How’s Lily coming along?
From:[email protected]
Subject:Re: Inventory
Tell him good things come to those who wait.
Lily’s coming along well, she’s going to be the perfect asset in a few years. She already understands expectations and knows better than to draw attention to herself, which will serve her well.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Re: Inventory
Good. Keep her close and make sure she’s on track. If Jonathan’s sniffing around, we don’t need him seeing what she’s capable of.
Chapter 2
London, England
Curves for days. That fucking smirk. Eyes that always saw right through my bullshit. She’s still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and that’s half the problem.
Her face might be covered from her cheekbones to her eyebrows by a black lace mask, but I’d know that body anywhere. The streaks of pink in her hair are new, as are the piercings and tattoos scattered across her hips and ribs, and unless I’m imagining things, she has even more curves to worship. But Lily Davis has always been as familiar to me as my own reflection.
I’d bet my entire inheritance you could blindfold me and I’d be able to pick her out of a lineup without her saying a damn word. I’ve always been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, andthe last year—the mountain of betrayal between us—hasn’t so much as softened that pull.
These days, she lives on my computer screen. Sprawled across soft pink sheets, draped in the smallest amount of fabric known to man. Or pottering around her flat, coffee in hand, in an oversized hoodie. Both sights have me ready to book a one-way flight to Lyon, break down her door, and demand answers.
Looking at the screen and seeing her there, knees spread, teeth digging into her bottom lip, has me fiddling with the damn ring I can’t bring myself to toss, and clenching my jaw against all the words that want to spill out into my empty flat.
The camera angle’s too perfect not to be deliberate, her words too polished not to be rehearsed. She might be fooling her audience, but not me. I know every flick of her wrist, every calculated move. I know her body better than I know my own. I was right beside her as the eighteen-year-old version of her learnt how to play them for every penny they’ve got.
Hell, Itaughther how to play them.
God, she’s always known how to use herself like a weapon. She used to call it taking back control. I used to believe her. Now I don’t know what was a lie and what was the truth. Maybe I never will when it comes to her, but still, I can’t look away.
If anyone found out what I’m doing, it’d be a disaster. A full-blown, reputation-ruining clusterfuck.
I can practically hear Owen reminding me she’ll always be my stepsister in the eyes of the Mafia—off-limits, untouchable. I hear Abbie, too, warning me away from Lily that morning on the beach. Ugly accusations that I was treating Lily like my own personal whore, that we didn’t stand a chance, haunt me more often than I care to admit.
And then there’s my Da’s voice calling her trash. Uncle Bren’s evidence burning a hole in my carry-on the whole flight back from Belfast.
I can already see the disappointment in their eyes if they ever learnt that even after everything she’s done, I can’t force myself to put her in the same box as her bitch of a mother and just move the hell on.
I can’t force my eyes away from her traitorous body or forget the way she almost collapsed under the weight of the truth that night in Jonathan’s penthouse.
Even a year later, the memory hasn’t dulled. I can still see how shattered she was, hear the way her voice cracked as Cora and Owen kept her standing. Fuck, I can feel her staring at me—burning holes straight through my skull—while I stared at the floor like a coward.
Christ, I couldn’t look at her. My own heart was collapsing in on itself, and I knew if I met her eyes, I’d fall to my knees and never get back up.
To this day, Cora swears there’s no chance in hell Lily is anything other than innocent. But she doesn’t know her like I did. Keeping secrets was as easy as breathing for Lily, and sneaking around with me came naturally. It’s not that much of a stretch to think she could have had more secrets. The memory of those emails flickers in my mind, the way Benedict and Jen referred to her as an asset, and the mere idea presses down on me like a stone in my chest.
Exiling her to France was the kindest thing Jonathan could have done. And yet here I am.
Still watching her, still wanting her, still wondering if I was just a pawn like everyone else.
