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4
Scarlett
I haven’t been able to talk to Dad since the night of the charity gala. He’s been gone for a few days, and tonight is the first time he’s been home. The man he was talking to still has me on edge because I have no idea who he was. The stranger didn’t fit in, and he never returned when Dad did, which means the stranger was sent away.
Only, I’m not sure if it was a friendly parting or not.
Classical music drifts from the dining room as I make my way down the stairs. My parents must have guests over because I hear glasses clinking together and my mother’s laughter at something someone said. Whenever we have guests, it’s always like this. She puts on a show in front of them, but by the time they leave, she and Dad are at each other’s throats.
The moment my sneakers hit the expensive Italian tiles, my mother’s voice rings out to me. “Scarlett, come in here for a moment, darling.” The fake tone of her voice has me rolling my eyes.
My twenty-first birthday is coming up, and I told her I wanted to spend my summer with Gran before I fly to New York to start my internship. The excitement at finally moving out on my own has taken over, and I’ve been counting down the days until I’m free. Spending my life behind the opulent walls of the Bardot mansion has been stifling, and I’m more than ready to find my independence.
It’s been difficult to accept that my future had been planned for me, even before I could walk. Just last year, my mother was convinced I would be married by the time I’m twenty-one, but she soon learned my desire was to work hard, build a company from the ground up, and not depend on a man to pay for everything.
I reach our lavish entertainment area, which leads into the dining room and take it in. Decked in furniture which cost more than most people make in a year and dripping with a gilded chandelier, I find my parents both dressed to the nines, along with a man I’ve never met before.
The moment I enter the room, his gaze snaps to mine, stealing the breath from my lungs at the luminosity of the jade color. A seemingly nonchalant glimpse lands on me, locking on mine, reminding me of the vacations Dad used to take me on to British Columbia. The lake house we had overlooked a thick forest, which was as dangerous as this man’s stare. The stranger’s dark hair matches his charcoal suit. The danger that he seems to exude fills the room with menace, but I tip my chin up, showing him an act of defiance. My mother and father may cower to the wealthy assholes who walk in here, but I won’t. My gaze tracks his silver button-up shirt because I need a reprieve from his intensity, but it doesn’t help distract me because his body is immaculate in form.
Everything about this man seems put together for a reason. He doesn’t wear something for the sake of covering up. It’s been chosen specifically for him to lord over the people he’s around. His presence screams wealth, and when he looks at me, the corner of his mouth quirks slightly as if I amuse him.
The heat in his gaze burns me from head to toe as he regards my outfit—sneakers, a black lace tank top, along with a pair of frayed denim shorts. My long, red hair has been straightened to the middle of my back, and my makeup is nonexistent since I didn’t expect us to have company.
“There you are,” my mother says, a smile plastered on her face as she takes in my appearance with a slight scowl before she pastes on the fake smile. “Come here.” Her hand waves toward me, gesturing for me to close the distance, but with every step I take, the more I feel the stranger’s eyes raking over me. It’s almost as if he’s touching me.
“Scarlett, this is Mr. Shaw,” Dad says, introducing the stranger to me. “He’s having dinner with us this evening.” There’s a hint of tension in my father’s voice, but he offers me a smile, which sets me at ease for the moment, but something else niggles at me. My dad is formidable, but the air in the room is thick with foreboding.
The man in question, Mr. Shaw, locks his cool gaze on me and offers me a smile. His hand extends toward me. The moment I slip my fingers along his palm, electric currents shoot through my arm, but I can’t pull away because his hold is like solid steel.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Scarlett,” he says, allowing my name to roll off his tongue like the smooth whiskey he’s drinking. His deep baritone and slight accent I can’t quite put my finger on, send tingles of awareness right through me—from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
