Page 22 of The Villains We Make

We say goodbye and disconnect. I hand the phone back to Silas. We don’t speak for the remainder of the short flight and soon, the pilot announces our approach into Boston.

When we land, an SUV with a driver is waiting for us. Hamish takes the passenger seat as Silas, and I settle into the back. I’m very aware of how watchful both Hamish and Silas are.

“What happens now?” I ask Silas as we merge onto a highway.

“There’s a warrant out for my arrest, as we knew there would be.”

“For the fire?”

He scrutinizes a sedan with tinted windows and only once we pass it does he nod to answer my question.

“That and they want to talk to me about the accident and, of course, your whereabouts.”

I haven’t seen a single paper or even looked at the news since I woke up. “According to the Foxes, I tried to kill Ethan and kidnapped you. They’re looking for you as well.”

I wonder what Ethan told them. I can imagine what witnesses would have made of what they saw. Silas had rammed his SUV into our car before hauling Ethan out and beating him and then taking me. I get it that there’s a manhunt for him.

Silas takes a call, and I rest my head against the back of the seat. About twenty minutes later, we exit the highway and, ten minutes after that, we veer off onto a long driveway in a cul-de-sac.

“Whose house is this?” I ask as the house comes into view. A Bentley is parked out front.

“This is one of Nigella’s investment properties, apparently.”

“Who’s Nigella?”

“My lawyer.”

“Is she any good?”

He looks surprised by my question. “The best.”

The car comes to a stop at the front of the house. It’s a beautiful, large white stone house, not big but not small by any means. We all climb out, and I’m surprised to find Hamish unloading two suitcases from the trunk. Silas walks up the porch steps to the front door, which is opened before we reach it. Standing there is a woman in a dark pantsuit, her black hair cut sharply at her nape, her makeup perfectly applied, and her lips painted a deep, dark red.

She steps toward Silas and cocks her head to the side. “I expect a raise after all this,” she says to him.

He leans in to kiss her cheek. “Judging from the house, I already overpay you.”

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks at me.

“Nigella, this is my wife, Ophelia Cruz. Ophelia, this is my lawyer, Nigella Gibson.”

My attention is snagged by that one word—wife. We’re married. It’s done.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Nigella says.

“I guess that depends on your perspective. It’s Ophelia Hart, actually,” I say, extending my hand, and it’s not just the last name. I hear myself say Ophelia. Not Phee. My father had called me Phee when I was younger, and it’s just how I’ve always introduced myself. Using my full name now feels like a milestone, as strange as that sounds. Like I’m taking charge of it.

“Well, congratulations on marrying one of the most stubborn men I have ever met.”

I can’t help but smile.

“As nice as this is, it’s late and I’m sure Ophelia is tired,” Silas says, ushering us inside.

“Of course.” Nigella tells Hamish where to take the suitcases and grabs her purse.

“You’re not staying?” I ask. “It’s your house.”

“She’s fine,” Silas says. “She’s booked herself a suite at the Four Seasons.”

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