Chapter 6

The returned Heir

Alastair’s grip tightened on the phone as he stared at the woman in the obsidian dress run down the pathway.

It was her. The same woman who, seconds ago, had collided straight into him — breath ragged, eyes wide with something he hadn’t had time to name before she’d wrenched herself free and bolted, leaving him standing there like a fool, achingly aware of a scent he couldn’t place and a face he already knew he wouldn’t forget.

He hadn’t caught her name. He didn’t need to. He’d watched what happened to her inside the ballroom not an hour before that — Keller’s hand over Mia Beaumont’s, the whispers rippling through the crowd, the tears she refused to let fall in front of a room full of people who thrived on exactly that kind of spectacle.

He’d stood there longer than he should have, fists clenched at his sides, wondering what it would take to walk over and put a stop to it himself. In the end he’d told himself he only wanted air. He hadn’t expected the air to lead him straight into her, and then straight back out into the storm chasing after her.

A third peal of thunder shattered the silence overhead, followed almost instantly by the heavens finally giving way. Rain began to fall in earnest, drenching the world around them, but she never slowed.

Alastair snapped into reality. “I’ve got to go, father.” He said into the phone and, without waiting for a reply, hung up and immediately called Elliot. He picked up on the first ring.

“Yes, boss?”

“Come around quick. I’m outside.”

A few moments later, Elliot showed up, tires hissing against the wet asphalt. But before he could get out to open the door, Alastair had already yanked it open himself and dropped into the seat. “I’ve got it.”

“It’s raining hailstones out there, boss, what are you doing in the rain!” Concern sharpened the old man’s voice into something almost paternal.

“No time to explain. Drive ahead. The weather’s getting worse.”

Elliot, for the sake of him, drove.

“How about Master Laurent and Meadows?”

“I’ll send a car for them.” Alastair’s eyes were fixed out the window, tracking the small, drenched figure ahead. He leaned forward. “There. Honk and pull up beside her.”

Elliot did as he was told. The woman flinched at the sound but didn’t stop walking — not until the door swung open and Alastair was already out, closing the distance between them in the downpour before Elliot had even set the brake.

She startled at the sight of him. But he could see she immediately recognized him. The recognition was short lived as it was chased by something rawer — distrust, sharp and immediate, even as tears carved pale tracks down her rain-slicked cheeks.

It struck him, absurdly, that fate seemed intent on putting them back in each other’s path within the same breath, as though the storm itself refused to let her get away that easily.

“Get in,” he said, raising his voice over the storm. “This isn’t the weather for a stroll.”

Her gaze dropped to the car, then lifted back to him, weighing him the way people weigh a decision they already regret making. He could see the argument happening behind her eyes — the part of her that wanted to refuse, and the part too exhausted and too soaked to care anymore.

He recognized that same wariness from moments ago — the way she’d looked at him for half a second too long before bolting, as though she couldn’t decide whether he was dangerous or merely inconvenient.

“It’s alright,” he said, gentler now. “I mean you no harm.”

Something in her shoulders gave way. Her eyes closed for a moment — surrender, or maybe just fatigue — and when they opened again, the resolve had won. She walked toward the car on unsteady legs.

Elliot was already there, holding the door despite the rain hammering down on him, not a word of complaint on his face. Alastair offered his hand. She hesitated only a second before taking it, letting him help her in.

Once they were both settled and the door shut against the storm, he reached for the overcoat folded on the seat beside him and draped it over her bare, trembling shoulders.

“Th—tha—nk you.” The words came out so faint he almost missed them beneath the drumming rain.

“You’re welcome.”

“Erm… forgive my interruption, b—” Elliot began, catching Alastair’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“Elliot,” Alastair cut in smoothly, before the old man could finish. “Would you be so kind as to take the lady to The Eyrie penthouse? I’m certain Sir Laurent won’t mind the intrusion—he’s still occupied at the banquet.”

Elliot’s eyes met his in the mirror for half a second longer than necessary. He was sharp enough to catch what wasn’t being said — that Alastair didn’t want to be called boss in front of her, didn’t want her to know that The Eyrie was, in fact, one of the many properties he owned under a name that wasn’t his own, at least to the public.

“Yes, b—” Elliot caught himself just in time. “Alastair.”

The car pulled back into the storm. Silence settled over them, broken only by the woman’s quiet sniffling—which, mile by mile, softened into the slow, even rhythm of sleep.

Alastair studied her slouched form beside him, the overcoat pooled around her like something protective. He’d seen what happened to her tonight. The humiliation of it, the cruelty. No one deserved that. Especially not her.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Alastair’s phone lit up, the caller ID flashing Laird’s name. He answered, voice dropping to a hushed register he didn’t quite mean to use.

“Yes, hello.”

“Let me guess.” Hero’s voice, clipped with impatience, cut through before Laird could even speak. “You took Elliot and abandoned us.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Right. Of course. You and Elliot just happened to vanish at the exact same moment.”

Alastair said nothing for a beat, eyes drifting back to the sleeping woman. “I’ll send him back shortly. I had…” He paused. “Something to take care of.”

“Hurry up,” Laird drawled, bored. “I’m dying of tedium.”

“And I’m starving,” Hero added, practically whining.

“And I might actually kill him if he keeps whining,” Laird muttered.

“Children, children,” Alastair said. “We’ll be quick.”

“Why,” Hero asked, suspicious now, “are you whispering?”

“Goodbye.” He ended the call just as Elliot swung the car into the penthouse parking lot, headlights sweeping across rain-slick concrete.

“We’re here,” Elliot announced, killing the engine.

Alastair turned to the sleeping woman and reached out, shaking her shoulder with more care than the gesture strictly required.

“Hi there,” he said softly. “We’ve arrived.”