Page 103 of House of Lies

The boss, the jester, the accountant, and the muscle. That’s the only way I can think to describe them.

Ethan obviously knows them well, but from the slant of his mouth, he’s less than thrilled that they’re in his penthouse.

“Nice to meet you, Ethan’s friend,” Myles says, sounding faintly amused. Then he points out the men behind him. “Richmond, Smith, Troy.”

Ethan frowns at him, and then shifts his gaze over to where I’m standing. The frustration in his steel-gray eyes makes my stomach sink all the way to street level. He takes a quick step closer to me, grabbing me just above the elbow.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he whispers furiously.

“I couldn’t find my dress,” I hiss back, giving the men a quick, uneasy smile as they spread out in a semi-circle to study me like some exotic bird they thought extinct since the twenties.

“So you chose this?”

“Would a trash bag have been better, Sir?” I snap.

“Have we come at a bad time?” Smith asks dryly.

Myles waves at him, a warm smile spreading over his wide mouth. “Oh, leave them be. It’s always awkward meeting someone’s friends for the first time.” He finally takes his eyes off me, and it’s like I can breathe again. There’s a faint chime from the elevator, and Ethan throws Myles a look that screams, what fresh hell is this?

“Right on time.” Myles rubs his hands together, chuckling, but his face drops when he sees Ethan’s expression. “You know, that was a mean prank you pulled, pretending you’d already gotten your gift.”

There’s utter silence as two white-gloved porters wheel in an enormous crate on a dolly.

I glance over at Ethan, and he quickly looks away.

When I grilled Ethan about why he thought I’d been sent by Myles, he just mumbled something about a gift. I’m guessing this is what he was talking about, but how the hell my arrival at Glenmont could be confused with whatever’s inside that crate is a mystery.

The porters exchange a few quiet words with the muscle guy in Myles’s group, and then leave again.

Ethan is staring at the crate like he knows what’s inside, and he hasn’t quite decided whether he’s pissed or absolutely livid.

“Now, before the big unveiling,” Myles says, “Promise me one thing.”

Ethan glares at him.

“Don’t leave her to rot in your crypt, okay? She deserves better than that.”

My heart gives a terrified thump against my ribcage as my gaze flicks back to the massive crate.

Oh God.

Is there…is there someone inside that fucking crate?

I grab Ethan’s hand, gripping him for all I’m worth. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, but that does nothing to calm my nerves as the group’s muscle grabs the crowbar fastened to the side of the crate and starts easing it open.

“Jesus,” Ethan says, when a frame comes into view.

I must admit, I’m a little disappointed. Such a lot of fuss for what, a painting? But as Troy peels away the protective wrapping, it slowly becomes apparent—even to me—that this is more than just some random work of art.

Although the frame is elaborate and stunning, I barely notice it once the painting is revealed.

It’s a portrait of a dark-haired woman draped casually in a plush armchair. She’s wearing a white and lavender dress with puffy sleeves, a purple gemstone hanging around her neck.

But it’s her expression that draws me in.

She stares at me like she’s so done with being filthy rich and having to pose for days on end on the same chair, wearing the same dress, her face in the same resting-bitch-face expression.

Suppose I’d look like that too if I couldn’t just eat cake, read books, and take naps all day.

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