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Sighing, she glares at me. “I’m in the middle of this very creative brainstorming session.”
I snap her notebook shut and she narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate that.”
However, I refuse to budge. “I have questions.”
She just stares at me, stonily.
“You’re hiding things from me. What happened five years ago? With your parents and Thomas Richards?”
Eve’s face tightens. “I’m surprised you haven’t done your own research into it.”
I sense the hostility behind her words and I keep my frame relaxed. “I don’t want to go behind your back and dig up your secrets. I would rather you trust me enough to tell them yourself.”
The struggle on her face is apparent as she meets my eyes and when her face finally falls, I have to hide my disappointment, along with hurt.
She takes some time in choosing her words. “It’s not—it’s not about me not trusting you, Zayn. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I’m just not ready to talk about that period of my life.” She lowers her eyes to the marble counter, a dull blankness in her eyes. “I—I can’t. Don’t ask that of me. Not yet.”
There is a pleading note in her voice, and I hate it.
“All right,” I put my hands up with a wan smile. “I can be patient. But—” I add at her relieved look, “is it possible that this Thomas is responsible or could be responsible for what’s going on?”
Eve hesitates and then shakes her head. “He’s nothing but a bully.” The smile on her lips does not linger in her eyes. “And all bullies are cowards at the end of the day.”
I watch her leave after that, to Mila’s room, and I think about her words.
While I don’t plan on going behind her back, I do want to confirm from another reliable source that this is not Eve’s past coming back to haunt her.
Elijah’s house never felt like home to me.
Even when Henrietta, God bless her kind soul, tried her best to make it so.
Tucked on the edge of the city, encased in the tightest security measures, this piece of architecture is a sprawling mansion, with gardens and small orchards.
Why one man needs all this space for himself, I never bothered to ask.
As I walk through the marbled hall, surrounded by snobbish paintings, I wonder where Henrietta is. Walking up the spiral staircase, I hear two voices in a heated argument, and I blink upon recognizing them.
“Well, I quit!”
I know that voice.
Never in my life had I ever heard the soft-spoken housekeeper raise her voice like that.
When she launches into a stream of passionate Spanish curses, I wonder what happened to rile her up.
“I refuse to accept your resignation!”
My father never roars.
The anger in his voice is unmistakable, and I find myself hurrying towards his study, suddenly feeling as if Henrietta might be in need of help.
The sound of something crashing has me quickening my pace into a run.
Something else is smashed against the wall, shattering on impact, the noise loud.
I am nearly there.
I just set foot in the office when something flies like a missile and lands right next to my head on the wall, and I freeze.
