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“Your father was—is—a member of The Order, intimately familiar with KORT.” His fingers dive into his superbly styled hair, mussing it. “He had the means and connections necessary to protect you. Doing so was an act of treason against KORT, but he didn’t care. He gave everything he had to keep you safe. That was his greatest life purpose.”
So many questions flicker through me. I spew them all so I don’t lose them. “Why do I need protected? From what? And how do you know this? Did you know my father before his stroke?”
He heaves a breath. “Let me take those one at a time. This is a lot, so if you need me to stop at any point, tell me.” His eyes ping-pong between mine. “You were born to Daniel O’Reilly and Eleanor Healy. He loved her but refused to leave KORT for her. He was head of his family and newly in one of the most powerful seats in the world. No amount of assuring Eleanor that he would be conducting less dangerous business worked. At seven months pregnant, she disappeared, never to be seen again. Most people thought you were both dead. But O’Reilly believed Eleanor would’ve seen to it that you were safe. He wanted you back, wanted you to be heir to all he was building, and searched tirelessly for you.”
An eerie calmness washes over me as though I’m detached from the core of my being, like my heart and soul have checked out while my brain sorts through this. Numb. No feelings. Not even in my body. It must be bidding me farewell, exploring lighter days with my inner essence.
He clears his throat. “You ended up being raised by your parents, who took great care to keep you hidden at the request of your birth mother. But your father—Dr. Kingston—understanding the expectations as a member of The Order, believed you were capable of being who KORT needed to fill the O’Reilly seat someday,so he intended to train you for it and have you reveal yourself when the time was right.”
“This is fucking absurd.”I’ve seen pictures of my mom pregnant, but I also remember overhearing she lost a baby.“My parents aren’t my birth parents? I’m actually some heir? Why does that put me in danger?”
Those words sound angry. He probably thinks I’m raging, but I don’t feel angry. I feel absent.
Vacant.
“It’s complicated, but simply put, not everyone wants you to inherit the seat. We can delve into that in greater detail later.”
“So, the roofie? It was targeted?” Some sort of fight-or-flight response has me flinging questions and responses. I’m not even absorbing his words. They trickle over me and rush for the drain.
A leaky faucet.
“Yes. It was connected.” Wells’s voice is flat, like this is everyday business. That, somehow, a person tracked me down to what, kill me? Because I’mnotme.
“What happened to him? The guy who roofied me.” My spine tingles, a chilling cognizance skittering over me with that inquiry. I think I know.
“Dead.” He hedges for a beat before clarifying. “I killed him.”
Right. That’s what I anticipated. He once admitted to hurtingnot goodpeople. Still shocking yet oddly reassuring.
“And you?” I mutter, half dazed. “When did you first enter the picture?”
“I was hired to find you.” His answer echoes through the room like I’m drunk in a tunnel.
A lump lodges inside my esophagus, dizzying me with the inability to swallow, but there’s so much more to this blind suffocation. My vision is blurred and spotted by a lifetime of lies. Pretty ones, wrapped in bows of love and normalcy—game nights and art classes. Ice cream for breakfast on birthdays and Shirley Temple toasts at celebrations.
I’m crashing into an invisible wall of realization that I’m not who I thought I was—nothing I believed was real. I’m not real. The curtain’s been pulled back to show it was all an illusion. But I’m not sure where that leaves me, other than sawed in half.
And that’s merely my childhood.
What about this? The whispers of a future, the hopes spilled at our picnic, the dreams shared during pillow talk, the touches that tingled of home, prickling my depths with my greatest desires—visions of babies and holidays and exotic getaways. An unlikely family found in those three winsome yet obstinate guys. An epic love who would carry me through every rocky step.
I knew a secret was looming. I prepared myself, thinking Wells had an enemy who was targeting me, but this? I didn’t expect to have my quaint life ripped out from underneath me so I could either be hurled into a sinister position I know nothing about or hunted by those who’d prefer me to be a corpse over assuming it.
My brain shudders in my skull, like we’re enduring an earthquake and I’m left with nothing to provide stability—destined to be jostled until it siphons the blood from my veins. There’s only one thing I can manage to ask—my deepest fear—frozen to the knowledge that I’m a job to the man I’m hopelessly in love with—my husband.
“Was this … you and me … was any of it real?” And the pain of having to ask that question opens a floodgate I’m afraid might never close.
IVY
The room is closing in on me. Tears are streaming over my cheeks, sweat cascading down my spine. The words are out, but I’m shaking, terrified of his answer. Yesterday was the happiest I’d ever felt, and today—well, today, I don’t know what to feel or think or be.
Was any of it real?
Before the question even concludes, Wells leaps out of his chair, rounds his desk, and kneels before me. Something about witnessing this dominant man on his knees in worry is jarring, as if this situation wasn’t dizzying enough.
He sweeps a tendril of hair behind my ear and brushes his fingertips over my cheeks, collecting the drops of my disillusionment. His face is as twisted as my stomach. “Yes, Ivanna. Every moment between us has been real.”
“How can I trust that when you’ve been hiding everything from me? When I’m a job? Why would I believe you?”
