Chapter 4: The Heir Is Confused

There are only a few things more frightening than a man who writes four angry words and then comes to find you in person.

I had barely finished reading the note when I heard footsteps in the corridor. They were fast, firm and impatient, and the staff outside my door went silent one by one as he passed. Rosalie looked at me, her face white.

“Miss Parker,” she whispered. “It is him.”

“I know.”

“Shall I say you are sleeping?”

“I think he would break the door.”

I got out of bed and tied my robe tighter. There was no time to dress. There was barely time to breathe. I stood in the middle of my room with my hands folded in front of me, like a woman waiting for a verdict, and the door opened without a knock.

Christian Whitmore stepped inside.

In the book, the author described him as a man who made rooms go quiet, and for once the author had not been exaggerating. He was tall, with golden hair and sharp blue eyes, and he wore a dark suit with the Whitmore crest on his cufflinks. He looked like something from a magazine cover. He also looked like he had not slept.

“Leave us,” he said to Rosalie.

She glanced at me. I gave the smallest nod. She slipped out and shut the door behind her with a soft click that sounded far too loud.

For a long moment, he only looked at me. His eyes moved over my plain robe, my loose hair and my bare face, and I watched confusion cross his features like a shadow.

“Mr. Whitmore,” I said, and gave a polite nod, the correct one, the one Rosalie had quietly taught me in the last two days without knowing she was teaching me. “This is a surprise.”

“Is it?” His voice was low and tight. “You did not come to the gala.”

“I was unwell.”

“You were not unwell.”

I kept my face calm. “I am sorry you were troubled.”

“I was not troubled.” He took a step closer, and then stopped, as if he had remembered himself. “I was told you were ill. I sent my assistant to your door last night. Your maid said you were eating soup and reading.”

I would have to speak to Rosalie about honesty. Or perhaps not.

“A light supper helps me recover,” I said.

He stared at me. “Genevieve.”

It was the first time he had spoken my name in this body. It sounded strange in his mouth, almost careful.

“Yes, Mr. Whitmore?”

“Why are you speaking to me like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I am a stranger.”

I did not answer immediately. The book had a hundred scenes with Genevieve and Christian. In every one, she clung to him, flattered him, begged him, and he turned away in disgust. I had never imagined the reverse could happen, where he stood in her bedroom looking lost.

“I am only being polite,” I said. “You are the heir of Parker Group.”

“You have never been polite to me in your life.”

“Then perhaps I am learning.”

He let out a short, disbelieving breath. “For three years you have followed me from room to room. You sent me gifts I never wanted. You stood outside my office for hours. You tore apart a girl’s gown because she spoke to me for five minutes.”

My stomach turned. I knew all of it. I had read every page. But hearing it said out loud, in his voice, made it feel uglier. Somewhere in this body was a woman who had done those things, or had been accused of doing them. I still did not know which.

“I am sorry for any trouble I caused you,” I said quietly.

“Sorry.” He almost laughed. “You apologize now?”

“I do.”

“And you did not come to the gala because...”

“Because I did not wish to,” I said. “I thought it was better for everyone.”

The air in the room changed. His jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he might shout. Instead, he walked to the window and stood with his back to me, one hand pressed against the glass.

“I waited for you last night,” he said at last.

I blinked. “Waited?”

“I told myself I did not care. I told myself it would be a relief if you stayed away.” He spoke slowly, as if every word cost him something. “Then I stood in that ballroom for two hours and found myself looking at the door. Do you understand how strange that is for me?”

I did not know what to say. I truly did not. In the book, this man loved Juliette with a pure and steady love. He was supposed to be dazzled by her kindness. He was not supposed to stand in the villainess’s bedroom confessing that he had watched an empty doorway.

“Mr. Whitmore,” I said carefully, “Miss Hayes was beside you all evening.”

“Juliette is a kind girl.” He turned around. His eyes were bright and troubled. “But she did not make the evening feel empty by being gone.”

I should have been flattered. Another heroine might have been. But I felt the floor tilt under me and a cold sweat touch my back. I had stepped off the path to save my life, and now the golden heir was walking toward me.

That was exactly the wrong direction.

“I think you are tired,” I said gently. “You should rest.”

“I do not want rest. I want to know what has changed.”

“Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed.” He crossed the room in three strides and stopped close enough that I could see the faint shadows under his eyes. “Tell me why. Are you in trouble? Is someone threatening you? Is that why you are pulling away?”

I almost said yes, for the simple reason that it was true. Instead, I took a small step back.

“No one is threatening me.”

“Then I will make sure it stays that way.” His voice lowered, firm and sure. “Whatever it is, I will remove it. Any person, any rumor, any obstacle. I will cancel every plan that endangers you. Do you hear me?”

He meant it. That was the worst part. This was not the cruel heir from the book. This was a young man used to fixing what he wanted, and he had decided, in the space of one sleepless night, that he wanted me.

I had to end it. Right now. Before it grew.

“Mr. Whitmore,” I said, and my voice came out calmer than I felt, “that is very kind, but you do not need to worry about my future.”

“Why not?”

The words rose in my throat before I could stop them. I thought of the pale gray eyes in the roof garden. I thought of a man who might die tonight in an alley.

“Because Cassian Wolfe has asked for my hand,” I said, “and I am considering saying yes.”

Christian went completely still.

The color drained from his face, and then it came back all at once. The warmth in his eyes turned to something cold and dangerous that I had never seen in any chapter.

“Cassian Wolfe?” he said softly.

I nodded.

“The Black Wolf.” A muscle moved in his jaw. “He asked for you.”

“Yes.”

“And you are considering it.”

“I am.”

He looked at me for a very long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, and it frightened me more than shouting would have.

“Then you do not know who he really is.”