Chapter Three

SERENA

My mother had called me four times before ten in the morning.

Four.

The first call came at eight seventeen, which was practically a crime considering I’d gone to bed after two. I ignored it.

The second came eleven minutes later.

By the third, I was beginning to wonder if someone had died.

By the fourth, I decided that if someone had died, they could wait until I’d brushed my teeth.

I rolled onto my stomach, buried my face in my pillow, and answered.

“Who died?”

“Serena.”

“Mom.”

“Where are you?”

I opened one eye and looked around my bedroom.

“Paris.”

“Don’t start.”

“Fine. Milan.”

“Serena, I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I. It’s Saturday.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“Exactly. Saturday.”

I heard her sigh.

My mother had a particular way of sighing when she spoke to me. It was never just a sigh. It was an entire conversation about how she’d raised me better than this and couldn’t understand where she’d gone wrong.

“Your father wants to see you.”

That got my attention.

I pushed myself up against the headboard.

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Then how do you know he wants to see me?”

“Because he asked me to call you.”

“Couldn’t he call me himself?”

“Serena.”

There it was again.

My name, spoken like a warning.

I rubbed my eyes.

“Okay. What time?”

“Eleven.”

I looked at the clock.

9:48 a.m.

“Mom, that’s barely an hour away.”

“Then I suggest you get out of bed.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

“Good morning to you too.”

I tossed it onto the mattress and got up.

My apartment was quiet, apart from the distant sound of traffic outside. I’d moved out of my parents’ house two years ago, after a particularly spectacular argument about what I was going to do with my life.

According to my father, I needed direction.

According to my mother, I needed discipline.

According to me, I needed somewhere I could eat cereal at midnight without being asked whether I intended to waste my entire future.

Moving out had seemed like the most reasonable solution.

My father disagreed.

He’d spent the first three months referring to my apartment as my “little experiment.”

Then he’d visited, seen the rent, and asked why I hadn’t chosen somewhere cheaper.

I reminded him that he’d complained about the neighborhood of the cheaper apartment I’d originally wanted.

We hadn’t discussed my living arrangements since.

I made coffee, stood in front of my wardrobe for a good five minutes, and eventually settled on jeans, a cream blouse, and flats.

If my father wanted a formal meeting, he should have sent an invitation.

⸻

The Sinclair house sat behind tall iron gates on a quiet street in the Upper East Side.

I’d lived there for twenty-three years, yet every time I returned, I felt like a guest who’d forgotten to make an appointment.

The security guard waved me through.

I parked beside my mother’s car and walked toward the front entrance.

Before I could ring the bell, the door opened.

“Miss Serena!”

I smiled.

“Good morning, Martha.”

Our housekeeper pulled me into a hug.

“Look at you. You’re getting thinner.”

“You said that last week.”

“And you were thinner last week too.”

“At this rate, I’ll disappear by Christmas.”

She laughed and stepped aside.

“Have you eaten?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee isn’t food.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“Come. I made pancakes.”

I followed her toward the kitchen.

Martha had worked for my family since I was six. She knew everything about everyone, although she liked to pretend otherwise.

She’d witnessed my first heartbreak, my disastrous attempt at cutting my own hair, and the time I accidentally reversed my mother’s car into the garden fountain.

She’d also been the only person who didn’t yell at me about the fountain.

She’d simply handed me a towel and said, “Your mother is going to kill you.”

Which, considering the circumstances, had been a fair assessment.

I was halfway through my second pancake when my mother appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Serena.”

I looked up.

“Good morning.”

“You’re eating?”

“Observant as always.”

Martha turned toward the sink, suspiciously busy.

My mother ignored the comment.

“Your father’s waiting.”

“Can I finish?”

She glanced at my plate.

“Make it quick.”

Then she left.

I watched her go.

Martha placed another pancake on my plate.

“Eat.”

“She said to hurry.”

“Your father can wait five minutes.”

I grinned.

“Have I told you you’re my favorite person in this house?”

“Every time you want more food.”

“Because you understand me.”

She patted my shoulder.

“Go before they come looking for you.”

⸻

My father was in his study.

He stood by the window with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in the low, controlled voice he reserved for business calls.

My mother sat on the sofa, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

That was my first indication that this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

My second was the fact that neither of them smiled when I walked in.

“Morning,” I said.

My father glanced at me and held up one finger.

I sat in the armchair opposite my mother.

The room smelled faintly of leather and the expensive cigars my father insisted he only smoked on special occasions.

He ended his call a minute later.

“Serena.”

“Dad.”

“How are you?”

I blinked.

That was unexpected.

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

He walked behind his desk and sat.

My mother adjusted the bracelet on her wrist.

I looked between them.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

My father leaned back.

“I understand you had an interesting conversation with Kael Blackwell last night.”

Oh.

So that was what this was about.

I crossed my legs.

“Interesting is one word for it.”

“What did you discuss?”

“His terrible manners, mostly.”

My father didn’t smile.

“Serena, I’m serious.”

“So am I. He was rude.”

“Kael Blackwell is not someone you should go out of your way to antagonize.”

“I didn’t go out of my way. He was standing in the corridor.”

My mother closed her eyes.

“Must you turn everything into a joke?”

“Must everyone turn a conversation into a family meeting?”

My father’s expression hardened.

“Enough.”

I sat back.

There it was.

The tone that meant I was supposed to stop talking and listen.

I’d heard it enough growing up to recognize it immediately.

Unfortunately for my father, I wasn’t twelve anymore.

“What exactly did I do wrong?” I asked.

“You were disrespectful.”

“To a man who was disrespectful to me?”

“That man controls one of the largest investment groups in the country.”

“And?”

My father stared at me.

I stared back.

He looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Do you understand how much business our company does with the Blackwell Group?”

“Not down to the dollar, no.”

“Then perhaps you should think before speaking to people whose influence you don’t understand.”

I felt something unpleasant settle in my stomach.

There it was again.

Money.

Influence.

Connections.

It didn’t matter what somebody said or did. If they were powerful enough, I was apparently expected to smile and thank them for the privilege.

“Did Kael complain about me?” I asked.

My father frowned.

“What?”

“Did he call you and say your daughter was mean to him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I don’t want you embarrassing this family.”

I looked away.

For a moment, the room went quiet.

My mother shifted on the sofa.

“Richard,” she said softly.

He ignored her.

“You have no idea how much work goes into maintaining relationships like these, Serena. One careless conversation can damage years of—”

“Okay.”

He stopped.

I looked back at him.

“Okay, Dad. I understand.”

He studied me.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Kael Blackwell is important, I’m an embarrassment, and I should apologize if I happen to breathe in his direction again. Can I go now?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“Watch your tone.”

I laughed quietly.

Not because anything was funny.

Because I was twenty-five years old, sitting in my father’s study, being lectured like a teenager for having an argument with a man who’d been perfectly capable of defending himself.

It was ridiculous.

And exhausting.

My mother leaned forward.

“Serena, sweetheart, nobody is calling you an embarrassment.”

I turned toward her.

“Dad literally just said he doesn’t want me embarrassing the family.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

She hesitated.

My father answered.

“Vivienne Vale.”

I went still.

Of all the things I’d expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“What about her?”

My father folded his hands on the desk.

“Kael mentioned her last night.”

“I know. I was standing there.”

“Did you tell him anything?”

I frowned.

“About what?”

“About Vivienne.”

I looked from him to my mother.

Something was wrong.

Not the usual kind of wrong where my parents disapproved of something I’d done.

This was different.

My mother was looking at my father instead of me, and my father had stopped pretending this conversation was about my manners.

“What would I tell him?” I asked.

My father didn’t answer immediately.

“Anything you remember.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

“Serena.”

“No, seriously. Why?”

He exhaled.

“Kael has been asking questions about Vivienne for years. His uncle was involved with her, and the situation was complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“That’s not important.”

“Then why bring it up?”

My mother spoke before he could respond.

“Because some things are better left in the past.”

I turned toward her.

I hated that sentence.

I’d hated it since I was seventeen.

It was what adults said when they wanted you to stop asking questions without admitting they had something to hide.

“Vivienne died,” I said. “She’s not some embarrassing family scandal we can pretend never happened.”

My mother’s face softened.

“Nobody is pretending she didn’t exist.”

“Then why do you both act like saying her name is a problem?”

Neither answered.

I looked at my father.

“She practically helped raise me.”

“I know.”

“She came to my birthdays. She picked me up from school when you were both busy. She taught me how to ride a bicycle because you kept saying you’d do it when you had time.”

“Serena, that’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.”

My voice rose before I could stop it.

I swallowed.

The last thing I wanted was to cry in front of them.

Not over this.

Not again.

“She was important to me,” I said, quieter now. “And every time I mention her, you act like I’m doing something wrong.”

My father looked tired.

For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me something.

Instead, he stood.

“Vivienne made choices that had consequences. You were too young to understand what was happening.”

I felt my chest tighten.

“What choices?”

“That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Dad—”

“I mean it, Serena.”

I stared at him.

Then I stood too.

“Fine.”

My mother rose from the sofa.

“Sweetheart—”

“No. It’s fine.”

I picked up my bag.

“You called me here to tell me not to talk about someone who died eight years ago. Message received.”

I headed for the door.

“Serena,” my father called.

I stopped.

“If Kael approaches you again, I want you to tell me.”

I turned around slowly.

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

I gave him a long look.

Then I opened the door.

“You’re going to have to come up with a better reason than that.”

⸻

I made it to my car before I started crying.

Which was embarrassing.

Not because I thought crying was weak. I cried at stupid things all the time. I’d once cried over a video of a dog being reunited with its owner after three years.

But this was different.

This was the kind of crying that made me angry at myself.

I sat behind the steering wheel and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“Fantastic,” I muttered.

My mascara was probably ruined.

I reached into my bag for a tissue.

Nothing.

Of course.

I found an old receipt, considered it, and decided I wasn’t quite desperate enough to wipe my face with proof that I’d spent forty-three dollars on a sandwich and iced coffee.

My phone rang.

I looked at the screen.

NINA

Thank God.

I answered.

“If you’re calling to tell me you’ve committed a crime, I can probably help you hide the body, but you’ll have to give me twenty minutes.”

There was a pause.

Then Nina said, “Okay, first of all, that’s concerning. Second, why do you sound like you’ve been crying?”

“I haven’t.”

“Serena.”

“Allergies.”

“To what?”

“My parents.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. What happened?”

I leaned my head against the seat.

“Apparently, I embarrassed the entire Sinclair family last night.”

“Again?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because you have a history.”

“I have a personality.”

“You have both. What did you do?”

“I met Kael Blackwell.”

Silence.

Then—

“You WHAT?”

I pulled the phone away from my ear.

“Nina!”

“Kael Blackwell? As in the Kael Blackwell?”

“No, Nina. The other billionaire named Kael Blackwell.”

“Don’t be annoying. What happened?”

“He was rude. I was rude back.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Serena.”

“What?”

“You’re leaving something out.”

I sighed.

“He was threatening some man in a corridor. I overheard them. We argued. Then he found out who I was.”

Nina went quiet.

“Wait. He was threatening someone?”

“Yes.”

“Like, physically?”

“No. He wasn’t waving a gun around, Nina. He was just being unpleasant.”

“And you decided to join the conversation?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“Because it was stupid!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Thank you for your support.”

“You’re welcome. What did your parents say?”

I hesitated.

“They’re worried about him asking questions.”

“About what?”

“Vivienne.”

Nina didn’t answer immediately.

She knew about Vivienne.

Not everything, because there were things I hadn’t told anyone. But she knew enough to understand why the subject bothered me.

“Did he know her?” she asked.

“Apparently.”

“That’s strange.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Have you asked your parents?”

“Just did. They gave me their usual speech about leaving the past alone.”

Nina sighed.

“Serena…”

“I know.”

“No, listen. Maybe you should stop asking them for a while.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Because every time you do, you end up hurt.”

I stared through the windshield.

A woman walked past the gates with a little boy holding her hand. He was talking excitedly about something, tugging at her sleeve until she bent down to listen.

For some reason, the sight made my throat tighten again.

“I just want to know what happened,” I said.

Nina’s voice softened.

“I know you do.”

“She was there one day, and then she wasn’t. Nobody explained anything. They just told me there’d been an accident, and that was supposed to be enough.”

“Serena…”

“I didn’t even get to see her.”

The words came out before I could stop them.

I pressed my lips together.

There were some things I didn’t talk about because saying them aloud made them feel too real.

Vivienne’s funeral was one of them.

My parents hadn’t allowed me to attend.

They’d said I was too young.

I’d been seventeen.

Old enough to understand death. Old enough to know someone I loved wasn’t coming back.

But apparently not old enough to say goodbye.

Nina was quiet for a moment.

“Where are you?” she finally asked.

“Outside my parents’ house.”

“Come over.”

“I look terrible.”

“You always look terrible when you cry.”

“Wow.”

“I’m serious. Come over. I’ll order food.”

I smiled despite myself.

“What kind?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Even sushi?”

“Don’t push it.”

I laughed.

A proper laugh this time.

“Fine. I’ll be there in thirty.”

⸻

Nina lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Chelsea that looked like an interior designer had been given unlimited money and absolutely no supervision.

There were plants everywhere.

On the windowsills. On the shelves. Hanging from the ceiling.

I’d once asked her whether she was planning to open a botanical garden.

She’d told me to mind my business.

When she opened the door, she took one look at my face and stepped aside.

“Jesus.”

“Good afternoon to you too.”

“You look like someone died.”

“Technically, someone did. Eight years ago.”

Her expression softened.

“Come here.”

She pulled me into a hug.

I hugged her back longer than I intended.

Then she pushed me away.

“Okay. Enough emotions. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

I laughed and followed her inside.

There were two cartons of Chinese food on the coffee table and a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket.

I looked at her.

“You said you were ordering food.”

“I did.”

“You also bought wine.”

“I know how to host a crisis.”

I dropped onto the sofa.

“Marry me.”

“Absolutely not. You’re too dramatic.”

She handed me a plate.

For the next twenty minutes, we ate, complained about our parents, and argued over whether Nina’s latest boyfriend was worth the trouble.

His name was Adrian.

He was thirty-two, worked in finance, and apparently believed responding to text messages within the same calendar day was an unreasonable expectation.

“He’s busy,” Nina insisted.

“He’s unemployed emotionally.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It should be.”

She threw a cushion at me.

I caught it.

“Listen, if a man can spend forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency to you, he can spend four seconds typing ‘good morning.’”

Nina stared at me.

Then burst out laughing.

“You’re actually terrible.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

We were still laughing when her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it.

Her smile disappeared.

I noticed immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nina.”

She put the phone facedown.

“Eat your food.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

“Is Nobody the name of your new boyfriend?”

“Serena.”

I leaned forward.

“Show me.”

“No.”

“Show me.”

“You’re so nosy.”

“And you’re acting suspicious.”

She sighed and picked up the phone.

“It’s Adrian.”

I waited.

She didn’t continue.

“What did he say?”

“He wants to see me tonight.”

“Okay?”

“At his place.”

I blinked.

“After ignoring you for two days?”

“He’s been working.”

“Nina.”

“What?”

I gave her a look.

She groaned.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Because I’m starting to think I should make you a PowerPoint presentation.”

She laughed again.

Then her expression changed.

“Speaking of terrible men…”

I groaned.

“Don’t.”

“I looked up Kael Blackwell after you called.”

“Of course you did.”

“Serena, that man is…”

She paused.

I raised an eyebrow.

“An arrogant bastard?”

“Ridiculously attractive.”

I threw my head back.

“Oh, please.”

“Have you seen his pictures?”

“I’ve seen him in person.”

“And?”

“And he has a face.”

Nina stared at me.

“A face?”

“Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. Very standard arrangement.”

“You’re impossible.”

I reached for my wine.

She turned her phone toward me.

A photograph of Kael filled the screen.

He was standing outside a building, wearing a dark coat over a suit. His expression was serious, his hair slightly untidy, as though someone had caught him on a particularly inconvenient day.

Unfortunately, Nina wasn’t wrong.

He was attractive.

Very attractive.

I hated that.

“Well?” she asked.

I took a sip.

“He looks like he argues with waiters.”

Nina burst out laughing.

“You’re lying!”

“I’m not.”

“Serena, that man is gorgeous.”

“Then you date him.”

“Gladly.”

“Good luck. Bring a lawyer.”

She was still laughing when she started scrolling.

“Wait. Did you know his parents died when he was little?”

I looked at her.

“No.”

“Yeah. Both of them. Apparently, his uncle raised him.”

I glanced at the screen.

There was a photograph of Kael standing beside an older man at some corporate event.

The resemblance wasn’t particularly strong, but they had the same serious expression.

“Victor Blackwell,” Nina read. “His uncle. He’s been involved in the family business for years.”

I leaned closer.

Victor Blackwell.

I’d heard the name before.

Not just at business events.

Somewhere else.

A long time ago.

Nina continued reading.

“Apparently, Kael took over the company after finishing his education. There are articles about him everywhere.”

I wasn’t listening anymore.

Because suddenly, I remembered something.

A rainy afternoon.

Vivienne sitting beside my bedroom window, speaking quietly on the phone.

I couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

I’d been lying on the carpet, pretending to read a magazine while listening to her conversation.

She’d sounded upset.

Not angry.

Scared.

“Victor, please,” she’d whispered. “You can’t keep doing this.”

I’d looked up.

She’d noticed me watching and immediately lowered her voice.

A few minutes later, she’d ended the call.

When I asked who Victor was, she’d smiled and told me he was an old friend.

I hadn’t thought much about it.

Why would I?

Adults had friends. Adults argued. Adults did all sorts of boring things that had nothing to do with me.

But now…

“Serena?”

I blinked.

Nina was looking at me.

“What?”

“You went quiet.”

I put down my glass.

“Vivienne knew Victor Blackwell.”

Nina frowned.

“What?”

“I remember her talking to him on the phone once.”

“Okay?”

“She was upset.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know.”

Nina studied me.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen, maybe.”

“Serena, that was eleven years ago.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you’re remembering it wrong.”

“Maybe.”

But I didn’t think I was.

There were things about that afternoon I could still remember clearly.

The rain hitting the windows.

The smell of the vanilla candle Vivienne always brought whenever she visited.

The way she’d ended the call so quickly when she noticed me listening.

And the expression on her face afterward.

I’d asked whether she was okay.

She’d smiled.

Then she’d asked if I wanted ice cream.

I hadn’t thought about that afternoon in years.

Now I couldn’t stop.

⸻

I got home a little after seven.

The city was already dark, and my apartment felt colder than usual when I walked inside.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag on the kitchen counter, and headed straight for the bathroom.

A shower helped.

So did changing into an oversized T-shirt and making myself a cup of tea.

For approximately fifteen minutes, I managed not to think about my parents, Vivienne, or Kael Blackwell.

Then I opened my laptop.

Which, in hindsight, was a terrible decision.

I typed Vivienne’s name into the search bar.

Dozens of results appeared.

Most were old charity photographs, society articles, and brief mentions of events she’d attended.

I clicked on one from eight years ago.

PROMINENT PHILANTHROPIST VIVIENNE VALE DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

My stomach tightened.

I’d read the article before.

More times than I cared to admit.

But tonight, I forced myself to read it again.

Vivienne had reportedly died following a late-night car accident outside the city.

The police had ruled out foul play.

There had been no further investigation.

I scrolled down.

A photograph accompanied the article.

Vivienne stood outside a charity event in a pale blue dress, smiling at the camera.

She looked exactly as I remembered her.

Beautiful.

Warm.

Alive.

I stared at the photograph for a long time.

Then I noticed the man standing beside her.

He was partly cropped out, but enough of his face remained visible.

Dark hair.

Sharp features.

A familiar expression.

I opened another tab and searched for Victor Blackwell.

The photographs loaded.

My breath caught.

It was him.

I went back to the article.

Then to Victor’s photograph.

Then back again.

Vivienne and Victor.

Together.

I sat very still.

My father had said Victor was involved with her.

But he’d said it so casually, as though it were nothing more than an old relationship that had ended badly.

Why hadn’t anyone ever told me?

Why had Vivienne never mentioned him?

And why did the name Blackwell suddenly seem to be everywhere I looked?

I leaned back in my chair.

For the first time, I wondered whether my parents had been protecting me all these years.

Or protecting themselves.

My phone vibrated on the desk.

An unfamiliar number appeared.

I frowned.

Normally, I ignored calls from numbers I didn’t recognize.

But something made me answer.

“Hello?”

“Miss Sinclair?”

A man’s voice.

Professional.

Unfamiliar.

“Speaking.”

“My name is Daniel Mercer. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Kael Blackwell.”

I sat up.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe had decided I hadn’t suffered enough today.

“What does he want?”

There was a brief pause.

“Mr. Blackwell would like to arrange a meeting with you.”

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it.

“Tell Mr. Blackwell that if he wants to apologize, he can send flowers.”

Another pause.

“I don’t believe the meeting concerns an apology.”

“Shocking.”

“Miss Sinclair—”

“Listen, Daniel. Is it Daniel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please don’t call me ma’am. I’m twenty-five, not seventy.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now, tell your boss I’m not interested.”

“Mr. Blackwell anticipated that response.”

I blinked.

“He what?”

“He asked me to inform you that the meeting concerns Vivienne Vale.”

The smile disappeared from my face.

I stood slowly.

“What about her?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have those details.”

“Then tell him to call me himself.”

“Mr. Blackwell prefers to discuss this in person.”

“Well, I prefer people who don’t send strangers to call me at night, but apparently neither of us is getting what we want.”

Daniel said nothing.

I pressed my fingers against my forehead.

“Where?”

“Blackwell Tower. Tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock.”

I stared at the wall.

Tomorrow.

He expected me to rearrange my Sunday because he’d decided he wanted a conversation.

Typical.

“Does he always assume people are available whenever he calls?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“You’re very good at saying absolutely nothing, Daniel.”

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Mr. Blackwell requested confirmation tonight.”

“Then Mr. Blackwell is going to be disappointed.”

I ended the call.

For a few seconds, I stood in the middle of my apartment, staring at my phone.

Then I looked back at my laptop.

Vivienne’s photograph was still on the screen.

Beside her stood Victor Blackwell.

I thought about my father’s warning.

If Kael approaches you again, I want you to tell me.

I thought about my mother’s expression when I’d mentioned Vivienne.

And I thought about the man who’d stood in that corridor last night, looking at me as though my surname meant something.

I didn’t trust Kael Blackwell.

I barely liked him.

But he knew something.

And unlike my parents, he seemed willing to talk about it.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Two o’clock tomorrow. My office.

I stared at the message.

Then another appeared.

And Miss Sinclair?

I waited.

Three little dots appeared on the screen.

Then—

Try not to get lost on your way here.

I actually laughed.

The nerve of this man.

I typed my response before I could reconsider.

ME:

Try learning some manners before I arrive.

His reply came almost immediately.

I’ll consider it.

I shook my head.

Unbelievable.

I was about to put my phone down when another message appeared.

This one made me stop smiling.

Don’t mention our meeting to your father.

I read it twice.

Then I called the number.

It rang once.

Twice.

On the third ring, he answered.

“Miss Sinclair.”

His voice was exactly as I remembered it.

Low.

Calm.

Infuriatingly confident.

“Why shouldn’t I tell my father?”

“Good evening to you too.”

“Kael.”

A pause.

Then, to my surprise, he laughed softly.

“You’re much less polite over the phone.”

“Answer the question.”

“Because I’d prefer to speak to you before Richard decides what you’re allowed to know.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t hang up.”

“Then stop asking questions I won’t answer over the phone.”

I stared at the wall.

I genuinely wanted to throw something.

“You’re an incredibly irritating man.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“Several times, actually.”

“I’ve been counting.”

I pressed my lips together.

I hated that I almost smiled.

“Two o’clock,” he said.

Then the line went dead.

I lowered the phone.

For a full minute, I stood there, trying to decide whether I was more angry or curious.

Curiosity won.

Unfortunately, it usually did.

I returned to my laptop and looked at Vivienne’s photograph one last time.

“Whatever you got yourself into,” I whispered, “I wish you’d told me.”

Then I closed the computer.

Tomorrow, I was going to meet Kael Blackwell.

Not because he ordered me to.

Not because I trusted him.

And definitely not because I found him attractive.

I was going because, for eight years, everyone around me had treated Vivienne’s death like a subject that could be avoided until I eventually stopped asking questions.

I was tired of waiting for answers.

And if Kael Blackwell thought he could use that against me, he was going to have a very unpleasant Sunday.

Because I wasn’t going to his office to play nice.

I was going to find out what he knew.