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“I’m surprised you aren’t jumping for joy, or however it is, you express your happiness these days. With two glasses of brandy instead of one?”
“Darling, don’t joke,” she says, unnervingly sober for once. “Is this what Evie wants?”
“Of course, it is,” I snap. “She will have security, protection—”
“You make it sound so… business-like, Graeme,” Gloria remarks. “What about romance? I’m sure Evie isn’t the sort to be trapped in a loveless marriage.”
“And why not? You were.”
She sighs. “Darling…”
“I’m late. I thought I should at least let you know.”
“Just ask yourself one question. If, to make Evie happy, you had to let her go. Would you?”
“I don’t see the point of a hypothetical scenario, Mum.”
“Just ask yourself. Think about it carefully, and think about Evie. I am happy for you, darling. More than you will ever know. I just don’t want you to sabotage your own happiness the way you tend to.”
“Thank you for the kind words, Mother. I’m still decreasing your monthly allowance,” I tell her, rising to my feet. Only then do I make out her panicked expression as her gaze flits to something beyond me.
Or someone.
“Graeme.” Alexander stands in the doorway. I shouldn’t be so damn surprised. Of course, he would be hiding behind Gloria’s skirts.
“I’ll go put some tea on,” Gloria says before darting off. As if she’s ever touched a kettle in her life.
In her absence, Alexander steps forward, eyeing me from head to toe. “I heard you were shot.”
I stand straighter, making damn sure not to so much as wince. “I heard you were conspiring with Riley to stab me in the back.”
He chuckles and steps closer, feigning interest in a row of porcelain cats Gloria has on display nearby. With his gaze narrowed in concentration, he fingers a grinning tabby. I make a mental note to warn Gloria to count them later. “Not everything is about you, Graemy,” he says. “I came back to earn your favor. Work my way in. Adrian was merely my means to get you to talk.”
I raise an eyebrow. “To force us to be business partners?”
“No.” He turns to face me fully and shrugs. “To force us to talk. It’s that thing humans sometimes engage in to exchange ideas with one another. Have you heard of it?”
“Talk,” I echo. “About what?”
“You. For once.” He crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them. My curiosity is piqued by the display—rarely is Alexander Bellamy ever flustered.
“Go on, then. Speak.”
“I am not our father, Graeme.” He delivers that line with so much sincerity one might think I’ve spent the past thirty damn years calling him Louis Ashton. “Neither is Adrian—”
“That’s bloody clear.”
He holds up his hand. “AndI think we’d both prefer it if you stopped treating us like it. Father’s a dick. He hurt our mother, and for that, you’ve always wanted to hold him accountable.”
“Gloria seems to be in perfect health to me.”
He wrinkles his mouth, an eyebrow raised. “Do you even know what the proper rules of a conversation are?”
I do, thanks to none other than Evelyn King. Listening. Being vulnerable. Two attributes I have no damn intention of embodying here.
Why is that?She would ask were she beside me.You have a wall up without giving him a chance to say his peace.
Who asked her?
