Page 35 of Unlawful Lies

We sit together in the afterglow, a consensual and mutually enjoyed experience rather than the fight I’d been hoping for when he first crowded me.

“I am perfectly capable of being a partner and not just some little flower you have to protect from a storm,” I remind him.

Edward barks out a laugh. “I wouldn’t dare think about you that way. You’re not that kind of woman.”

I might have stayed in his arms for the rest of the day, finding safety and contentment there. When I’m with him, god, it’s insane. I am untouchable. I have never been more peaceful or joyful. And the way the man looks at me leaves me questioning reality because surely, the son of my enemy cannot look at me as though I am the queen of the universe.

It almost makes me believe he’s right. That I can meet the challenges thrown at me and figure out this mess. For my family, for my father, for me. There’s no hope of a future with blackmail hanging like a blade over the back of my neck.

Edward kisses me goodbye with a promise to check back in later. As hard as it is to let him go, I force myself to loosen my grip but stay in the shadow of the curtains and watch until his car disappears on the main road.

When I’m alone is when things start to fray and fragment.

I take dinner in the parlor after spending the rest of the afternoon checking in with the psychiatric facility and making calls. Mom is secured and medicated, which is exactly where she needs to be.

Her constitution is too delicate for her to handle these things.

Death is one of the most powerful motivators to send you into the tail end of a spiral if you’re already close. She’s spent years being too close and too fragile to even find her end in the bottom of a beer glass, like Dad.

And my brother? He’s nowhere to be found. Without a direction, I can’t contact him.

A knock sounds at the door, and half a second later, in the dying glow of evening light, the housekeeper pops her head around the corner. A pitcher of water and a dye-cut vase of fresh roses balance out the tray, with a plate of food in between.

“You have to eat,” she says by way of greeting.

“I’m really not hungry.” My stomach constricts. “But thank you for the thought.”

Louisa sets the tray down on the settee near the stained glass window and pauses with her knuckles rapping over the wood. “Honey, it’s been days. I know you’re not touching your food, and without your parents around…I’m worried about you.”

I automatically try to brush her off and stop, biting down on my tongue.

Louisa has worked for the family before we became a Family, capitalized. One of my mother’s childhood friends, she was more suited to spinsterhood and household organization than finding her way in the marriage market and seemed content to watch my mother’s kids instead.

More like an aunt than a housekeeper, although there were many times when Louisa was the one to bring down the punishment than my own mother. Too fragile, everyone always said, more of a shadow than an actually fully realized painting of a woman.

Slender, where Louisa was sturdy.

Mom’s delicate nature made her a perfect punching bag for Arden’s heavy-handed tactics.

“I know you’re worried, but I’m going to be fine.” I force myself to walk to her side and press a kiss to Louisa’s wrinkled cheek.

Her worry has always aged her faster than even childbirth would have.

“Death is a time for people to come together. That way, you can fall apart together, sweet pea.” Louisa pressed her hand to mine. “It’s not right for you to be here on your own.”

“I’m not on my own.”

“I don’t mean that devil-faced man,” she corrects.

“I was talking about you.” But it doesn’t bode well if she’s seen Edward around and made a mental note.

With one leg shorter than the other, Louisa limps over to the windows and draws the curtains closed to shut out the night. “And I’ll be here for you.” Her thin lips purse, and wrinkles fan outward. “I’ve been here long before your birth, and I will make sure to stick with you no matter what happens.”

She scoffs.

My lips press together and twist. “Why so glum tonight?”

“That man.”

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