I’m being deliberately harsh, and my only explanation for that is things are becoming too familiar between us. Too cozy if you like, and its territory I didn’t intend to wander into.
I prefer to keep Tiffany out in the cold for my own self-preservation, and the ring on her finger doesn’t alter that.
She nods, her expression changing as she closes emotion down as she understands my position. I don’t feel bad for crushing her on our wedding day. This is business, nothing more, and always will be. Nobody will ever become important to me again. It’s too painful when they leave. When they are forced to leave. When they have no choice but to leave.
Pain spears my heart as a reminder of what’s important in my world, and for a second, I struggle to contain the pain.
As Tiffany studies her food, I run my knife over my palm under the table, deep enough to hurt, letting the pain bleed out.
My soul sighs with relief as the demon breaks free, my attention firmly now on the physical pain rather than the mental one.
It’s almost euphoric as I watch it fly away, knowing it can’t destroy me, not today, anyway.
CHAPTER 22
TIFFANY
I’m nervous. We are sitting in a room I never expected to meet my relative in. An art gallery.
Joseph sits beside me on a bench as we stare at a magnificent painting, and yet I can’t appreciate its beauty.
“Why here?”
My words are a mere whisper, and his dull tone does little to reassure.
“Because it’s public. He demanded it.”
“Why?”
The fact that we are surrounded by ominous-looking guards at all times should be my answer. Plus, there is the fact that Joseph’s constant aura is of dark retribution. I can excuse my grandfather his reluctance to be in a room with him, but why is he afraid?
The room is empty despite the crowds we walked through to get here, and I expect it has everything to do with the guards turning everyone away.
I’m surprised the gallery allows it; then again, nothing surprises me about Joseph Ravera, and for some reason, I’m impressed when I shouldn’t be.
I love how protected I am, but I’m also mindful that it could turn on a whim when I cease to be of use to him. He is cold, unfeeling most of the time but reveals glimmers of humanity when it counts.
A movement by the door causes my heart to leap, and I note a smart gentleman stride into the room, his expression fierce, his resemblance to me a little uncanny.
I stand, holding my breath as he locks eyes with me, and I’m shocked when his expression softens and his eyes twinkle with unshed tears.
“Tiffany.”
His tone is husky, disbelieving even, and I nod, my mouth dry, the words sticking in my throat.
Joseph stands beside me and reaches for my hand, either in a demonstration of ownership to prove a point, or to reassure me. I can’t decide which one. Probably both, probably the former, but I appreciate the gesture anyway.
Walter Van Der Hudson is an impressive man. Strong, powerful, almost younger than his years. No fear, merely curiosity in his expression, and he nods coolly to Joseph.
“Mr. Ravera.”
Joseph points to the bench.
“Please take a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.”
There is a ripple of animosity in his words, which confuses me, and Joseph nods, apparently unaffected by that.
