“I meant is itsafeto be here. Usually Riggs doesn’t let me go to the freaking bathroom without a full contingent of guards on standby.”
“We make regular sweeps of all royal properties. Plus, there’s a unit of guards posted at the perimeter. I assure you, we are quite safe.”
“Still, I’m surprised you let Chloe talk you into bringing me here.”
Galizia’s lips twist. “She made a good case.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but she doesn’t offer any further explanation. And once we step through the doors into the foyer, all my curiosity is quickly overridden by awe.
“Wow,” I murmur, spinning in a slow circle, head canted upward to the lofty ceiling. In another life, had Linus claimed me as his daughter, this might’ve been my home. It’s practically palatial — quite a far cry from the dilapidated house in Hawthorne where I spent my youth.
I walk through the first floor, popping my head inside different rooms, running my fingers across the antique furnishings. The estate is far smaller than Waterford Palace, but its interior decor is equally beautiful. Perhaps more so. The artwork on the walls could put the Louvre to shame.
It’s odd to envision Carter and Chloe running through these gilded halls as kids, sliding down the thick bannisters of the staircase, slamming their palms down on the keys of the grand piano in the parlor. This is not the kind of house where children are encouraged to be children. I wonder whether Octavia allowed them any space for joy.
Probably not.
That hag doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
I wander deeper into the house, so absorbed by the oil paintings on the walls, I don’t even notice when Galizia falls behind. Nor do I notice that Chloe doesn’t catch up to me, as she promised — something that might normally set off alarm bells inside my head.
I’m too enraptured to be suspicious.
Eventually, I find myself in a gorgeous library. I actually gasp when I step inside, overtaken by its beauty. With wraparound balconies, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, rolling ladders, and reading nooks aplenty, it reminds me of the one The Beast gifted Belle in my favorite childhood Disney movie.
The day outside has turned cloudy, blocking any sunbeams from penetrating the thick window panes. The sconces are dimmed to their lowest setting, doing little to illuminate the many rows of books. Despite the dark, my eyes pick up the faint flickering light of a fireplace coming from somewhere deeper inside the library.
Intrigued, I head for the source, drawn in like a moth to flame. Cutting between two tall shelves, I drag my fingertips along dozens of dusty spines. My high heels are muted by the plush carpet as I make my way ever-closer to the fire. My heart, for no reason at all, begins to pound — a drumbeat of inexplicable tension.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
When I reach the end of the row, the fireplace comes into view… and I come to an abrupt stop. My hands fall away from the books, dead weight at my sides. My heart gives a great stutter inside my chest, then resumes beating at twice its former speed.
It makes sense now — why Chloe waited in the car. Why Galizia fell behind. It was no accident, but rather… a careful orchestration.
Because there’s a man standing at the fireplace, a metal poker in his hand. His back is to me, every broad muscle in his shoulders on full display beneath the fabric of his dark grey shirt as he leans forward to rearrange the burning logs. His hair is longer than I’ve seen before, falling into his eyes when he bends.
I blink hard, to make sure this isn’t some vision. Some figment of my imagination, born from my most secret desires. But when my eyes open, he is still standing there.
He’s real.
I must make some small sound — a gasp, a sigh, a plaintive note of longing — because the man goes stiff and straightens to full height. In slow motion, he turns to face me, every muscle in his body rigid with tension.
When he sees me standing there in my mini skirt and oversized sweater, the poker slips from his grip, clattering to the marble floor. All the blood drains from his face as though he’s seen a ghost.
“You.”
Carter sways back like he’s been sucker-punched. Our eyes lock — cerulean blue clashing with emerald green, a lightning strike of disbelief and longing as two storm fronts collide without warning. A series of emotions flicker across his face so fast, it’s hard to keep track of them all.
Shock.