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She frowns. “Honestly? Not particularly.”
“What if I’m not asking.”
“Then I’d say our conversation is back on track.”
I glare at her. “Eloise?—”
“Because my father’s living will demanded it, okay? When he fell into his coma, his people made sure to…follow through.”
“I knew about the will. I’m just confused why you went along with it.”
Eloise glares at me. “As much as I hated when you called me princess back at school, you weren’t wrong,” she hisses. “I am a mafia princess. And that means family duty. And arranged marriages, even if you fucking hate them.”
“So why the fuck do you stay with him?”
She looks away, her face tight. “Can we please change the subject? Nine at night after twelve straight hours at work isn’t really my peak emotional state to discuss my forced marriage to a psychopath.”
Fair enough. I take a sip of whiskey. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Oh, goodie, we can skip over talking about my arranged marriage to a lunatic and talk about my dad being in a coma instead. Much better.”
I grin. So does she, before she hides it with a gulp of whiskey. Then her brow worries.
“Did I see Ansel Albrecht in the conference room earlier?—”
“New fucking topic,” I snarl, harshly enough that she jumps. Her eyes widen as she looks at me with a little bit of fear and a little bit of confusion. Then she just shrugs.
“Works for me.”
She finishes her drink, and then her brows knit as she looks up at me.
“I wanted to say…I’m sorry about Layla,” she says quietly. “When I heard…”
“Thanks.” My voice is clipped as I look away.
Layla, Gabriel and I’s first younger sister above Tempest in the birth-order, was also at Knightsblood when Eloise was there.
Then she died.
Fuck heroine.
Eloise nods quietly at my silence and reaches for the bottle again. I get there first and cover it with my hand.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. If you hate your husband so much, try something other than poisoning your liver.”
“What, like fooling around with my boss?” she says coldly, throwing me an accusatory look.
“Oh, right, because you were kicking and screaming,” I say dryly. “Unless of course your ankles squirming on my desk were ‘kicking’ and your desperately slutty moans were ‘screaming’.”
Eloise’s face turns scarlet. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make it seem like…I don’t know. A punishment. Like I owed you what happened the other day.”
“Maybe because you treated it like it was a punishment. You froze me the fuck out eight seconds later,” I grunt.
