She cries at inspirational sports flicks, no matter the sport. She howls to the point of tears if I evoke character voices when I’m reading aloud, which only encourages me. She lets me hold her all night and can’t fall asleep until I do.
Yesterday, I openedGreat Expectationsto chapter forty-four, highlighting,You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read,and laid it next to her pillow before she awoke.
Later, she left a slip of paper on my desk with a quote written on it.In case you ever foolishly forget: I’m never not thinking of you.She included that it was a line that had been misattributed to Virginia Woolf.
My sweet, clever girl.
And yet it’s not enough.
She hasn’t reciprocated those three life-altering words. And more importantly, she never accepted my proposal. She requested to be at the Prohibition Ball for her mission, so I assigned her to the employee team that runs the escape rooms—an activity that kicks off the night to add another obstacle for members to gain admittance. That should get her close enough. Since I believe she’s KORT’s asset—it’s the only thing that makes sense, with them leaving her here once I had suspicions, like she mentioned—helping her succeed serves everyone.
She thanked me for always taking care of her, but even though she knew tonight was our expiration date unless she could give me forever, she said nothing more.
I am gutted and at a loss for how to proceed. I want to lock her up, refuse to let her go, but that’s the one thing I promised myself I’d never do. Why would I cage someone who wants to fly away from me?
For her own safety and mine, tomorrow morning, I’ll be stashing her somewhere while I try to discreetly bridge things with her father. We’ll concoct a story that explains that her escaping my clutches was part of his plan to properly complete their mission. If all goes well, she’ll eventually be free to go home to him—if he is indeed safe and in her corner. I’ll make that decision after I speak with him. And maybe someday, there will be a chance for Zara and me to reunite under less dire circumstances.
That’s the plan. I’ve spent the better part of today convincing myself I can carry it out. It’s either that or I cuff her to my bed and tell everyone else she disappeared. Decisions.
Dismissing both outcomes for now, I tune back in to the song by The Animals, which was one of my mother’s favorites. It always kicks off our evening and is accompanied by the many vices we all have—Ryker’s rattling dice, Maddox’s snicking knife, Cash’s fluttering cards, and Jax’s whooshing matches.
I click my watch and survey the ceramic ball’s journey, hoping for green. It’s rare that I have an itch, urging me to root for zero.
The last time was the day Zara strutted into my resort.
The ball hops from pocket to pocket, and as the final soulful note resounds, it chooses to park in a sanctuary similar to the eyes that feel like home.
Maybe this time, it means that she’ll decide to stay.
Just the thought is enough to bolster me to be the man, brother, father figure, and leader my family needs. Ryker passes out the snifters of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin Black Pearl Grande Champagne Cognac.
“We’re ready for your brilliant toast, Papaw Axe,” Rena warbles. She is always the voice to break our silence after the song—the pretty spark of pink and spunk that my mother prayed for and was afforded so little time to enjoy.
Playing into her moniker that renders me both honored and ancient, I lift my glass to the screen. “The brilliance lies with an old timer’s refusal to change his ways. Same music, same toast, same remembrance.”
“Same phenomenal family. Same beautiful people,” she counters, and something cracks in my chest. “No sense in fixing perfect.”
“And that you are, sweet girl.” I clear my throat, grateful she’ll assume the huskiness in my tenor is a reflection of my sentimentality, not my internal breakdown. Then I tip my drink to a wall housing our nostalgia and my mother’s favorite artist, Picasso, as I deliver his last words. “ ‘Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can’t drink anymore.’ ”
“To Mom,” the room croons in unison, and we all swill our cognac.
We say our goodbyes to Rena, who pouts about not being here, and to the rest of her family. It’s been years since this event has been considered safe for them, and it never gets easier.
Ryker and Mercy check once more on Remy and their sitter. Then we meander as one unit, like a winding river rushing toward an estuary—our fresh take melding with our salty past to create the fertile ground of the future.
Before the ball, we head to an entertainment suite to have dinner and amuse ourselves with the antics our guests pull in the escape-room challenges. The elevator stops on the wrongfloor, and my irritation seeps out in a grunt. When my eyes snap from the button I’m hammering on the control panel to the open doors, my heart halts far more abruptly than the metal cube did.
Zara stands before us, in a champagne dress plucked straight from the 1920s. It has a plunging V neckline, showcasing the provocative swell of her breasts, thin straps that likely lead to a mostly open back that I’m desperate to catch a glimpse of, and a hemline fringed with glittery beads that hit mid-thigh and graze her toned legs. Her hair is down in large Hollywood waves, and her heels are strappy, revealing her cute gold-painted toes. Every inch of her is delectable.
But there’s another accessory that is the reason my empty lungs are burning.
Her luscious lips curl into one of those amorous grins she loves to flash me. “This isn’t your floor. Did you get turned around?”
That’s close to how she greeted me in the women’s restroom the day she’d arrived, so I brandish the sentiment of my previous retort.
“The most breathtaking views arrive on the paths we never expected to take.”
Her emerald eyes flash with so many emotions that it’s difficult to discern what she’s thinking, but then she brushes her fingers over the diamond choker around her neck. It’s dainty and elegant, like my radiant girl, composed of delicate roses on a string of thorns.
